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“How long for a table for two?” Why do I ask? We’ll wait, regardless.
“Two? You’re looking at thirty minutes,” she answers distractedly, and I give her my name. Like a flip of a switch, her dark head snaps up.
“Oh. Oh, Devin Hawthorne.” Smiling wide, she sets her pencil down. “Give me a minute, and I can seat you right away.”
“No, that won’t be necessary—”
“It’s not a problem. I’m such a fan. I saw the article in Miami Beat they did on you and the other Sharks.” Her gaze slides to Palmer, then back. “You’re staying in Miami, right? There’s no way the team won’t keep you.”
“Thank you for being a fan.” I look for a name tag, and finding none, I continue, “Please don’t give me special treatment. We’re happy to wait. These other people were here before us.”
“You’ll never live that stupid ‘Eligible Bachelors of Miami’ article down.” Palmer chuckles, hiding her laugh behind her hand.
Giving her side a squeeze, I turn away from the podium, and Nova’s eyes clash with mine.
Palmer’s laugh dies. “Isn’t that Nova?” She slips her arm through mine.
“Yeah. Looks like it.”
“Are we going to say hi or just stare awkwardly?”
I twist my head, popping my neck and swallowing hard as I note the scene I’m making. Eyes stare, and couples whisper and point. I didn’t expect people to recognize me. Maybe I should have taken the special treatment and allowed the hostess to seat us immediately.
“Dev?” Palmer hisses.
“Yeah. Yeah. C’mon.” We cross the tiled floor, forced smiles on our faces as we walk toward Nova.
Nova—whose jaw ticks and fists flex—turns to her date and speaks. Shaking his head, he bends lower, and she must repeat herself. Something evidently about my presence because the giant of a man straightens, a gleaming white smile breaking out before I’ve said a word.
“Nova.” I dip my head, my gaze holding hers before I offer her date my hand. “Hi. I’m Devin. Nova and I go way back.”
Palmer steps close to Nova greeting her with a faux cheek kiss like they’re old pals. Which is so damn weird.
“Yeah, I know who you are, man. I’m Benito.” He pumps my hand, dragging my gaze back. “You gave us Sharks fans something to root for after Stokard went down.”
Still unused to attention, I angle my back as a shield, protecting our conversation from the others waiting for their tables. “I did my best. Thanks.”
The women carry on a conversation as Nova’s date recites my stats and next season’s playoff chances. I feign stretches and idle glances around the foyer, tossing smiles at the people who catch my eye just so my gaze can touch Nova as much as possible. Her smile is hard, and I doubt Palmer or Benito notice, but I do. It’s the smile I saw the night I met Anders, and we fought. The smile I found her giving a tourist on Bourbon Street when he tried dancing with her before I returned from the restroom.
Nova is forcing herself to be cordial, whether to me or to Palmer, I’m unsure, but I can’t help smirking.Suck it up, buttercup. We’re in this boat together.
“I’m Palmer, by the way.” Palmer bumps my side as she extends a hand, and Benito returns her greeting.
“I’m sorry.” My hand returns to Palmer’s back.When did I stop touching her?And I can’t think of anything more to say.
Thankfully, I don’t have to. “Are you remaining in Miami?”
I’m stretched on a wire. “We are for now,” I answer Nova, my arm reaching further around Palmer until my hand curves against her hip. The whispers of my name grow louder.
“Word around TSG is you’re a lock for the 26-man roster.”
Maybe it’s because I long to see it so badly, but I swear there’s a touch of pride in Nova’s eyes. “I guess you may have to start looking for some underwear endorsements for me after all.”
Her glossed lips tug at the corner, her dimples making the shortest of guest appearances. “Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “You’re getting everything you dreamed of, Dev. Congratulations.”
Am I?
“Excuse me? Mr. Hawthorne?” A gentleman wearing an expensive navy suit materializes at my side. “I’m Antonio Ciprina, the restaurant’s manager. If you’ll follow me, we have a table set aside for you, sir.”
