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Maybe I really am my mother’s daughter after all.
One quick glance at Shaw tells me he’s having an orgasm over the chicken and my spirits lift. I’m thinking that should take the edge off of the grumps, until he opens his mouth.
“We have an event to go to on Saturday at team facilities.”
Not a question, not a, “Hey, how are you doing Sam?”
Nope. A command. A command that leaves no room for further discussion, given to a eight year old that’s already completely intimidated. What does he do for fun? Drown kittens? Now I’m fuming.
“What your uncle means, Sam, is that there’s a team event that he needs to attend and he would love for you to go with him. It helps kids that are sick. Would you like to go?”
In the periphery of my vision, I see the deep v etched on Shaw’s brow. All those warm fuzzies he’s usually oozing are directed at me over Sam’s head, which I do my best to ignore. In the mean time, I’m telepathically flipping him off. Without looking once at his uncle, and in a small voice that breaks my heart, Sam says, “Are you coming?”
“Sure. Where you go, I go.” His eyes brighten and he gives me a short nod. Shaw’s full lower lip looks tight with (surprise surprise) displeasure, although he wisely chooses to remain quiet. I return to my now cold lunch. The rest of the meal is painfully conducted in silence.
Chapter Nine
The event Saturday is to benefit a local children’s hospital. Children’s organizations are often the beneficiaries of the Davis’, the Titans owners, charity efforts, which I believe stem from the fact that, sadly, they lost their only son to cancer. Shaw informs me that there will be carnival-like games set up for the children and the players to compete in, therefore, to dress casual. Sam and I are waiting in the kitchen, me in my dark designer jeans and a black v neck wool sweater with a pair of black flats––my go-to outfit when I don’t know what to wear––and Sam is in a nice blue button down and khakis.
What I’m not prepared for is the sight walking down the stairs. He’s dressed in a pair of artfully distressed designer jeans, a blue and white checkered button down shirt, and Italian leather lace up boots that are pretending to look worn and used, though probably cost a small fortune. Seriously? It looks like he mugged a mannequin in a Barneys window. He also trimmed the beard. It’s super short and neat. Basically it looks like he spent more time on his appearance than I did. Not that that’s too difficult; I’m no fashionista, usually sticking to the classics. His pale eyes meet mine and for the life of me I can’t look away.
Pretty boys have never appealed to me. Ruggedly handsome is my preferred style. I’ve always had a private fetish for the working class hero. For guys who know how to use their hands and come home sweaty and a little bit grimy and say things like, “Let me wash up first.” Ironic since my husband was solidly white collar––a shrink would have a field day with that one but I digress. And now I remember why Shaw never did it for me. If he was any less of a brute, if his brow wasn’t plagued by a perpetual scowl, he would be prettier than most women.
Those large, gray eyes are framed by a crowded fan of lashes so thick and black it looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. And the slender nose coupled with those sensual lips? All I have to say about that is he’s lucky he has a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones otherwise he’d be a Disney character.
I must be glowering because he says, “What?”
“A haircut wouldn’t kill you.” It’s still in a man bun. This earns me a half- assed grunt. The unhygienic beard is gone––not the obnoxious personality. He does a quick sweep of my person and his mouth pinches.
If this peacock even thinks about criticizing my clothes…
“Let’s go.”
In the car I put on a video for Sam to watch in the backseat. Shaw remains quiet, his eyes on the road ahead. It doesn’t bother me as it once did. I know now that’s just him.
“Is there anything you expect Sam to participate in? Pictures? Anything I should know about?”
Okay, I’m babbling. I tend to do that when I’m nervous and it just dawned on me that we’ll be in public, most likely surrounded by reporters and someone might recognize me. Crap. Double crap. Shaw’s eyes flicker to my leg, which is beating nervously against the floor of the car.
“Didn’t you hit the can before we left?”
Charming. “Yes, I did.”
“Then what’s the deal? You nervous?”
How much do I explain? I have no frigging idea. “Yes,” I answer, going with the truth. He’s staring like he expects me to elaborate. I’m having a hard time with this clean shaven version of the Prince of Darkness who looks deceptively like Prince Charming.
