Judging by how his mouth opens and he sits back against the faux leather booth, he’s surprised.
“Do you hate the date yet?” he asks.
I look down at the packet and mumble, “Not yet.”
“Good.”
We start talking about easy things. Work. Football. Our schedules.
“You were locked in yesterday,” I say.
“Felt like it.”
“You weren’t overthinking.”
“That’s the goal right?”
“Not exactly. The goal is to trust yourself.”
Becky comes back with the juice and milk and asks, “How is it being compared to your brothers all the time? It must be awful. Judy Ann, my sister, she’s a big-time lawyer in the city and I always feel like a failure compared to her.”
He hesitates. “I grew up with them being football legends. I’m just happy to be able to play with Greyson his last year before he retires and for J.D.”
That answer is totally canned. Marketing and communications have told him exactly what to say when asked the loaded question.
“You know Becky. There’s value in every career. The fact that you’re raising your children and working a job is extraordinary. Don’t let anyone tell you differently,”I say.
“Thanks. Those Southwest eggs benedict will be ready shortly.”
Parker studies me. I study him.
Our food comes. He tears into it like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“What?” he asks.
“Do you always eat like someone’s going to take it from you?”
He smirks, “Only when it’s delicious and I jacked off three times last night thinking about you. So yes, I eat fast when I’m starving.”
He says it like it’s normal and maybe it is but, my face turns red as a beet. It feels like a sunburn. I shake my head but I’m smiling. Parker wants me and thinks of me.
I bite into Becky’s special and it’s off the charts delicious. Chorizo layered on top of sweet cornbread, a poached egg, hollandaise sauce sprinkled with pico de gallo and cilantro. “This… this is perfection,” I say with my mouth full.
I look at his plate, and he’s demolished his food, and I’ve only taken one bite. He calls Becky over and asks for another and tells her she’s the best waitress he’s ever had.
While his second helping is cooking, I don’t talk. I eat. And he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“How would you rate the date so far out of ten?” he asks.
“Eight.”
“Eight? I picked you up, held your hand, let you choose the booth and ordered you your favorite juice and the food… well, it speaks for itself.”
“I’m waiting until I get a kiss at the end of the date.”
“Well, then it will be a ten.”
“Cocky much?”