Since I was standing, she took the opportunity to hug me for the first time. Standing up was a good call. I pulled her into me. She was so damn soft that she was almost . . . cushy. Mostwomen were soft—particularly in contrast to me because my job required me to be hard and muscular. But she was softer than that, and I knew the second that she melted into me that the way she felt was going to cause a problem for me. It would make it hard for me to keep my hands to myself . . . respectfully, of course.
“Good morning.” She took a deep breath.
“Did you just sniff me?” I released her from the embrace to look down at her.
She grinned, giving me an up-close-and-personal encounter with her dimples. “Nah, I just breathed in, you know? Inhaled. But you do smell good.” She dropped down into the seat across from mine and set her purse in her lap.
“Thanks,” I responded to her compliment. “You look good.”
“Thank you. How do we order? Is it a buffet or something? I’m starving.”
Before I could tell her that somebody would come by to take our orders, a waitress appeared. During the off-season, I wasn’t as strict with my diet as I was during the season. Still, I never went buckwild. I always tried to pair good carbs with protein. The waitress actually turned to me first, but I gestured toward Soleil.
“Um, I’ll have the egg white scramble with bell pepper, cheese, and onions. I’ll have the fruit parfait with Greek yogurt and berries, and I’ll have the Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries. Please put extra butter on the side.”
I remembered that she told me, the night before, that she and food had a compatible relationship. I wasn’t even surprised that she ordered her waffle with whipped cream and extra butter. It only struck me because the last few women I dated would’ve never let whipped cream or butter anywhere near their mouths. They counted calories. They prioritized a high-protein intake and minimized carbs as much as possible.
Soleil ordered like the girls I knew back home in Michigan, the ones who piled their plates with whatever they wanted when we had pancake breakfast fundraisers in the high school’s gymnasium. Thinking about those times made me smile on the inside. Life was simple as hell back then. Life was still much simpler in Jackson Bluff, Michigan, than it was in most places.
I placed my order with the waitress—medium steak, egg white scramble, melon fruit bowl (which was half of a cantaloupe scooped out and filled with cantaloupe, honeydew, and watermelon balls), and breakfast potatoes. Once the waitress walked away, I turned my gaze on my companion. “You remind me of the crib.”
“Of Chicago?” She grinned big.
I had to laugh because they obviously pumped something into the air in the Windy City to ensure that Chicagoans loved Chicago. You couldn’t tell them shit about it, and they loved any similarity between themselves and the city. “Nah. I meant my hometown, Jackson Bluff, Michigan. It’s real . . . real there. It’s just normal. Nobody flexing. Nobody trying to be . . . I don’t know, bigger than the program. You’re that vibe. Normal. Just yourself.”
She smirked. “I remind you of home, Mr. Charles?”
She was teasing, but her question rang true. She actually did remind me of home. “In the best way,” I told her, starting to understand the pull I had toward her. It was the familiarity of something, someone genuine.
“Thanks.”
It was my turn to smile big at her. “You’re welcome.”
“Spencer?”
“What up?” I glanced across the table at her since she called me by my government.
“Are you single? I mean, not just on this work trip. Are you single in your real life? I don’t?—”
I stopped her. “I’m not seein’ anybody.”
“Okay. I just wouldn’t want pictures of us together to get out if you’re not. I don’t need the internet investigators digging into my background or dragging me.”
“Is there something in your background they could find and run with?”
She barked out a laugh. “You tryna trick me into tellin’ you something, sir?”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Ay, I’m just asking.”
We talked some more about her favorite aspects of her job, and my favorite aspects of mine. I learned that she was an only child who was raised by her father. I shared that I was the middle of three kids. My older brother still lived in Jackson Bluff, married to his high-school sweetheart, and raising four kids. My younger brother lived in Chicago and worked as an attorney. I was his biggest client.
The servers brought our food as we talked.
“So—” she spread butter on her waffle—“do you have team obligations today?”
“I do. This morning, we’re playing a round of golf on the resort’s exclusive course.” I held out my hands so she would take them. When she did, I prayed. “Thank you, Lord, for this food we are about to receive. We ask that you bless the hands that prepared it. May you bless it for the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.”
“Amen.” She eyed me suspiciously. “Why didn’t you bless the tacos yesterday.”
