Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Anna

Shit shit shit shit shit!

I'm completely ruining this by being myself.

This is the perfect example of why I need to change. How am I ever going to connect to anyone if I can't even carry a conversation with an attractive man who's clearly interested in me?

How did I manage to talk to Jared enough that we ended up dating?

I think back to when he and I first got together. But that was easier because we had a class together, he invited me to study together, and one thing led to another. The truth is, though, I honestly didn't realize he was interested in me until he walked me back to my room and kissed me goodnight after our second study session. Well, study date as it turns out.

Troy, though …

I know enough now to realize he wouldn't be here if he just wanted to be friends. And the way he was looking at me last night …

I can tell Troy is interested, which is part of the reason I'm acting like such a weirdo right now. I'm so flustered that I'm clamming up and can't think of anything to say at all!

Common ground , I think. I need to find common ground. What do we have in common?

He's a newly retired professional hockey player, and I manage a dental office. Nothing there. Umm …

He's looking around, rubbing his thighs, and I'm worried he's going to decide this is too awkward. That I'm too awkward. He wouldn't be the first, and I'm sure he won't be the last, but after just deciding I'm going to stop pushing people away with my awkwardness, it's too much. I have to do something!

Say something! I command myself. Anything!

"So, uh … brunch." Oh. My. God. I can't.

My hand finds my face, covering it as I shake my head in disgust at my inability to behave like a sociable adult.

What is wrong with me? Why am I like this?

I have no problem with people I know. Last night with Brit wasn't bad, even before I got drinks.

The difference is that there were more people, so my being quiet wasn't such a big deal. I wasn't responsible for helping carry the conversation. There were plenty of people able—and more suited—to do that.

Troy chuckles, but his body relaxes, leaning fractionally closer to me. "Are you a frequent brunch eater?"

I shake my head, forcing myself to open my mouth and say more words. "No. I eat breakfast, but not usually in restaurants."

He stretches his arm out along the bench behind me. "Same. I do like a good restaurant breakfast, though. Or brunch. But it's an infrequent treat for me. This place is known for their stuffed French toast, you said?"

I nod, risking a glance in his direction. His blue eyes sparkle with mirth, but not in a mean way. Like he's enjoying finding out my breakfast habits and doesn't think this topic of conversation is too weird. Or weird at all. Or if he does, he's happy to roll with it.

That realization helps me relax, some of the tension leaving my shoulders, and I'm able to stop clutching the strap of my purse. The door to the restaurant opens, and I glance at it hopefully, but it's just someone leaving—a family with two elementary-aged kids. Though that's possibly a good sign. If they've freed up a table, maybe the next time the door opens, it'll be the hostess calling my name.

"Yes," I murmur absently. Then I blink, turning to face him again. Smile , I command myself. Like you're enjoying his company. My lips manage a slight curve, and he returns the expression with a generous smile of his own. "I hear there are a couple options. You can have the more savory one where it's stuffed with eggs and sausage, though I'm pretty sure it's still topped with maple syrup. Or they have a mixed berry option covered in berry syrup and whipped cream."

"Oooh, that's going to be a tough choice," he says, squinting at me. "Of course, if they go that nuts with just their French toast, who knows what other delights their menu holds?"

That makes me chuckle. "I'm a French toast girl, myself. That's what I always get on the rare occasions I eat breakfast at a restaurant."

"Ah, but this is brunch," he points out, holding up a finger. "Does that mean you can break with your usual habits?"

Screwing up my face like I'm deep in thought, I shake my head. "I mean, I suppose I could . But the real question is"—I spread my hands, palms up—"why would I want to?"

That makes him laugh, and the sound undoes a few more knots of tension coiling my muscles tight. I made him laugh. Like a normal human woman on a date with an attractive man.

Maybe I can do this after all.

"Good point," he murmurs. "So which do you think you'll choose? Sausage or berries?"

My eyes widen, because the tone of his voice is overtly suggestive.

He splutters a laugh, pulling his arm from behind me so he can wave both hands in a negative gesture. "Wait, wait, wait. No. I didn't mean it like that ." He points at me. "No. I swear to god. That wasn't what I was getting at."

I grin at his spluttering protests, his clear dismay making me feel even more at ease.

"Suuuure," I draw out. "Likely story. Toss out a double entendre, see what kind of reaction you get, huh?"

"No!" he protests again, and I'm grinning, doing my best to hold back my laughter. "I swear!" He holds up his right hand. "I know plenty of guys who are that douchey, but I'm not one of them."

"Uh-huh." I lick my finger and pretend I'm marking a column in the air in front of me. "We'll just keep track of how many of these pop up."

He groans. "Pop up? Are you serious? Does that mean I get to keep score on you too?"

I look at him blankly for a second, and then the penny drops. I whack him on the arm. "Gross! That's not what I meant at all!"

He catches my hand, and his grip feels a little rough, like his hands are calloused—probably from years of playing hockey—but it's warm and comforting too.

My laughter dries up from the contact, and we're caught like that for a moment. But the moment is broken by the hostess. "Anna! Table for two!"

At my gentle tug, Troy releases my hand. "That's us," I murmur unnecessarily, flustered and prickly with heat from my chest to my hairline, the feeling too familiar to blame on the summer sun.

We follow the hostess to a table inside the crowded restaurant, but thankfully the one we get is nestled in the corner next to a window, giving us a view of the street and the corner of the central downtown park with the gazebo that's the heart of our summertime festivals. There's an art show there this weekend, which I hadn't thought about when I invited Troy for brunch, nor the ensuing parking nightmare that would cause.

Once we're seated, menus in front of us, I glance up at him. "Sorry about the parking situation. I forgot about the art festival going on this weekend."

He flashes me an easy grin. "No apologies necessary. I'm sorry I was late."

Shrugging, I dismiss his apology. "It just meant you didn't have to wait as long for our table."

"True," he says thoughtfully. "But it also meant less time sitting on that bench with you."

Another wave of heat washes over me, but I can't help feeling pleased at the comment. Still, I don't have anything good to say. He glosses over my silence, flipping his menu over then setting it on the table in front of him and meeting my eyes. "I'm not sure why we're bothering with the menu when we know what we're getting, don't we?"

My eyebrows raise. "We do?"

"Stuffed French toast, right? That's what they're known for. That means we're duty-bound to try it."

"And do you always do what duty dictates?"

He tips his head to the side, his lips compressing as he studies me, thinking over my question. "Usually, yeah."

"Interesting," I muse quietly, and his eyebrows jump.

"Is that surprising?"

I shake my head. "I can't say I know enough about you for it to be surprising or not. But I think people are endlessly fascinating. I enjoy getting to know what makes people tick. And so I find it interesting that you adhere to a sense of duty." Despite being awkward with new people, it's the truth. Or maybe that's the heart of my awkwardness—I know that asking probing questions is weird and uncomfortable, so I tend to not say anything rather than do that. Both options tend to result in conversations going nowhere, though. But Troy doesn't seem to mind. I rest my chin on my hand. "Why is that, do you think?"

He chuckles and shakes his head, glancing down at the menu. "I was brought up to do the right thing. Never let your teammates down, show up when you say you're going to, that sort of thing. It's ingrained at this point. I don't think I could change it even if I wanted to." Setting the menu back on the table, he mimics my pose, resting his chin on his fist. "You never told me if you prefer the berries or the sausage in your stuffed French toast."

I roll my lips between my teeth at the memory of that unintentional double entendre. "Berries," I manage to get out, my cheeks hurting from my attempt—a spectacularly failed attempt, I might add—to control my smile.

Eyes narrowed, Troy shakes his head at me, but he's making no effort to conceal his wide grin. "You're bad," he whispers, and that makes me laugh because I'm just about the farthest from bad anyone could hope to be.

"Wanna know a secret?" I ask, pitching my voice low and leaning across the table.

His eyes dip to my chest, where I'm now ultra-aware that a bit of cleavage is exposed above the scoop neck of my tank top, then rise back to mine as he nods once, leaning in too.

"You're the first person who's ever thought that about me."

His laughter lights up his face, and he sits back in his chair, eyes scanning me. "Somehow I find that difficult to believe."

I shrug, looking at the menu again, though he was right earlier that I already know what I'm ordering. "Believe what you like."

Some part of me is amazed at my ability to banter with this man. Am I … is this how people flirt?

He was checking me out, and while that normally makes me blush, at this point my blush is semipermanent with him, so that's starting to feel almost normal. But I'm not used to attractive men checking me out. And he's not pervy about it, so it feels … good.

"Can I get you two some coffee?" asks a perky voice. I look up to see a teenage waitress dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail.

"Yes, please," Troy and I chorus together, and I giggle at the fact that we both spoke in unison.

The waitress seems amused, rather than annoyed, so that's something. "Coming right up."

Once she leaves, my giggle turns into a laugh, and Troy joins me. "I feel like that's a good sign," he says.

"That I drink coffee?"

He grins. "That too. But I meant about us answering at the same time."

"And the same way. You're very polite, Mr. Ex-Hockey Player." His smile dims, and I sit forward. "I'm so sorry," I rush out. "I didn't mean?—"

He waves away my apology. "No, it's fine. Don't apologize. The ex -hockey player part is still really new. I still think of Nick and Dozer as my teammates, not my former teammates. It's weird to think that I won't be reporting to training camp at the end of the summer."

"Again, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rub salt in the wound."

Once again, he dismisses my apology. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. Like I said, I'm still adjusting to the idea."

The waitress returns with our coffee, and we both place our orders—berry stuffed French toast for me, and the sausage and egg stuffed French toast for him.

"Will you let me share a bite of yours?" he asks, eyes twinkling, once the waitress leaves.

I arch an eyebrow. "That depends. Will you let me have a bite of yours?"

He gives me a faux affronted look. "Of course!"

Smiling, I nod. "Then sure."

His look turns assessing. "All about fair play, I see."

I shrug one shoulder. "It seems best, don't you think?" I'm not going to get into the fact that everything in my last relationship felt painfully unbalanced. Jared was always the most important, even though he acted like everything he was doing was for my benefit, somehow it always circled back to him in the end. What he wanted. What was best for his career. Adding people to our wedding guest list because it would help him impress some business contacts. Don't ask me how that worked, because it didn't make sense to me even at the time. And I can't imagine that his not showing up at all impressed anyone, but that's certainly not my problem anymore.

"Hey," Troy says softly, bringing me back to the present. "Are you okay?"

Forcing a smile, I nod, blinking and sucking in a deep breath. I reach for the sugar packets, focusing on doctoring my coffee.

"A cream and sugar woman, I see." Pausing in the middle of ripping open the sugar packets, I raise my eyes to his, arching an eyebrow in an attempt to recapture the playfulness we had earlier.

But my tone comes out sharp—far sharper than I intend—when I ask, "Is that a problem?"