I nodded, and it was impossible not to smile back as he ducked his head even closer to block some of the camera flashes and gave me a grin that felt like it was for me.
I was so happy when we got inside and away from the photographers, but the second we stepped into the quiet, dimly lit restaurant, I felt the eyes of everyone inside the place upon us. As we followed the maître d’ to our table, every single person we passed was watching us.
My face was on fire.
My heel caught in a floor seam and my ankle wobbled in the way that told the world I wasn’t good in heels,dammit, and I couldn’t stop thinking about stupid things like underwear lines and proper posture.
I knew I should’ve gone with flats.
“Wow,” I said when we finally got seated, happy to no longer be upright and on display. I put the linen napkin on my lap and prayed for sweat control. “Is it like this everywhere you go?”
“I think this has more to do with us—and our appearance on the show—than me alone,” he said with the calm of a man used to being watched. “I don’t usually get this kind of reception.”
“Well, lucky me,” I said under my breath. “I don’t even know how they knew we’d be here. Do you?”
Connor shook his head as he folded and refolded his napkin.
“Did you make the reservation under your name?” I asked, curious.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding and looking apologetic. “That’s got to be it.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing down at the menu. “It’s still weird, though, that so many people knew, don’t you think?”
“Who can figure out the press?” he said a bit sheepishly, giving me a small shrug.
How do you live like this?
I couldn’t imagine this being normal for a random weekday dinner. I looked at the menu again, stressed over what to order in a room full of observers. Could I even eat right now?Shut up, Duff, of course you can eat. You can always eat.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted loudly. I looked up at him in surprise. He cleared his throat and said more quietly, “About the photographers, I mean. They…they shouldn’t have been there like that. I know this isn’t what you envisioned.”
I cocked my head at him. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I don’t think I even know what I was envisioning, to be honest.”
It was true. What could one even begin to expect when asked out by a football star?
“Probably me dropping something…?” he suggested, the trademark teasing glint appearing in his eyes.
“I mean, probably,” I said with a shrug, which made him shake his head and mutter “Busting my ass again” under his breath.
Which made me giggle in spite of everything.
After they brought us wine and took our orders, Connor looked toward the entrance for a moment, frowned, and turned back to me with an expression that I could only describe as pure resolve. And then he proceeded to do the impossible.
He distracted me from the fact that we were the show.
I was all in my head with my neuroses until he leaned back inhis chair and said, “So I’m sure you’re sick of talking about it, but I have to ask about the whole Carl thing.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I loved every minute of it and was just being an attention whore when I kicked his ass.”
“Okay, I don’t think you can say you kicked his ass, so calm down,” he said with an easy grin. “But Idowant to hear your side. What happened after that moment? You know, when—”
Connor lifted a finger and whistled as he swung it down, as if replaying Carl’s fall.
I actually smiled at that, because he had a way of discussing the incident that felt safe, like he empathized with me. “First of all, don’t steal my thunder because the ass-kicking cred is the only good thing to come from the incident, and second of all, um…it hit me pretty quickly. I saw myself on the jumbotron, and before I even had a chance to register the moment, the guy to my left yelled, ‘Holy shit, that bitch just laid out Carl’ while the entire Coyote fandom started booing me.”
“Oh shit,” he said.
“Oh shit, indeed.”