Page 8 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

“Apparently, I’ve got to go,” Rhoads says.

“Understood,” I say. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Especially at nine at night.”

He smirks. “Are you mocking me, Baker?”

“She’s serious, I’m afraid. Our friend here is a complete breakfast addict,” Anita says.

“She loves it almost as much as Anita loves sports-ball,” Charlotte says.

“It’s true. Breakfast is no joking matter. You’d better go before Dillon has a heart attack.” I point. Dillon hops up and down, sweeping his arms toward the parking lot, as if he can create a gust of wind strong enough to pick up Rhoads and transport him to the car. “Oh, and Peggy’s has the best hash browns. If you’re looking for an expert opinion.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Rhoads smiles and crumples the top of the paper sack, shoving it in his bag. “You all coming to our game tomorrow?”

“I have to work,” I answer. “But I’ll try.”

“Try really, really hard.” He winks and jogs away.

When he’s reached Dillon and is out of earshot, Anita grins. “Looks like this year is shaping up to be quite fascinating indeed.”

Charlotte wiggles her eyebrows at me.

“Oh, shut up, you two.”

Rhoads and Dillon saunter toward the parking lot while I savor the sweetness of the watermelon candy. “It’s not like he asked me to breakfast.”

Charlotte beams. “Not yet.”

Three

CHLOE

“Idon’t know how long it’s going to last.” Mom keeps her gaze on the ever-present checklist that has dictated every minute of my existence beginning at five-thirty p.m. today. She has a rundown for every event she plans. And she follows it to the letter, no exceptions.

White fairy lights twinkle along the ceiling of the Peachtree Inn’s ballroom. Guests mingle on the parquet dance floor. Their white ceramic plates of half-eaten lasagna and salad lay abandoned atop circular tables draped in midnight blue cloths.

“Well, what does the list say?” I rise on the toes of my sensible black flats to peek at the linen lieutenant.

Mom flips to the back page and sighs. “Seven. But then we have to tear down, and you know that’s always a variable.”

I do know that. But I also know my mom runs a well-oiled machine and the tear-down generally lasts less than half an hour. If we keep that pace, I can be out of here by seven thirty and in the stands by seven forty-five. I might get to see the second half of the boys’ first home soccer game.

I wouldn’t be going for Rhoads, of course.

His smooth voice tickles my mind. Try really, really hard.

Nope, I’m going to support the whole team. Plus, someone has to save Charlotte from Anita—the super fan’s—commentary.

Hope fuels me as I refill water glasses, bobbing my head to the eclectic playlist of ‘70s rock, ‘80s power ballads, and ‘90s hits with a few surprising swing numbers thrown in. Mr. Everett, the 60-year-old birthday man, insists I dance with him to the Electric Slide, and despite myself, I smile the whole time.

A red-headed waitress wheels in the cake at six-thirty on the dot. I can’t believe I’m actually going to get out of here on time.

Ten minutes into the buttercream frosting, Mr. Everett’s daughter stands up and clinks her glass with a spoon. I loosen the knot on my apron. Speeches always signal the end of the evening, and I want to be ready to whisk everyone out of there like a strong wind the moment they’ve finished. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming to celebrate my dad’s birthday. We’re so lucky to have such a supportive, loving family and group of friends. And we’re even luckier to have Dad.”

The room offers a collective “aww” and raises their glasses. “So lucky, in fact, that we wanted to do something extra special to show him how much we appreciate him.”

I glance at Mom, whose tight smile and rapid paper-flipping make me think she has no idea what’s going on. That can’t be good. Mom hates surprises.