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“It’s not real food.”
She takes a small, neat bite. “How did you learn to cook this well?”
“My mother, a bit. And Sandra.”
“If you weren’t a baseball player, you could be a chef.” She takes a careful sip of wine. “I could see it. The white jacket thing would look acceptable on you.”
If I announced that I wanted to work in a restaurant instead of play baseball, I might give Richard a heart attack. My father would certainly roll over in his grave. Yet part of me, a tiny secret part of me, wishes that I could graduate early and use my inheritance—the money my parents left me, which I’ll have access to when I finish college—to travel. Maybe work my way through kitchens, learning different cuisines and deciding whether it could become a career. One conversation with Zoe Anders and I already feel drained. The thought of playing televised games nearly every day of the week for most of the year has started to sound like torture, no matter how much I love the game itself. In a kitchen, I’d be a member of a different kind of team, and no one would compare me to my father every time I seared a steak.
It’s easier not to think about it. I can’t blow up my life; it’s not a real option. It’s not something people like me actuallydo. Once the draft happens and I have a sense of where I’ll be going after next year, I’ll settle down.
I just need to get through the end of the season first.
Mia is still checking me out, so I smirk. “Did you just call me hot?”
“Since when does acceptable equate to hot?”
“You totally just called me hot.”
She primly spears a potato and pops it in her mouth. “I did no such thing.”
I lean back, glass in hand. I know I need to eat too, but it’s more fun to watch her enjoy the meal. I wish it wasn’t the first real food she’s had since the morning, but I can work on that. “I was hoping you’d come home wearing the boots.”
She arches an eyebrow. “How did you find the exact same ones? I got those a few years ago.”
“You think I don’t pay attention?”
“Not to that.”
“Izzy might’ve helped a little.”
“Ah, there we go.”
“But for the record, I remembered. I just needed her to source them.” I knock my foot into hers underneath the table.
She kicks me in the shin.
I hold back my smile with a sip of wine. “I distinctly remember, for example, you telling me that if I broke the zipper while undressing you, you wouldn’t let me eat you out. I took them off like they were made of glass.”
She just cuts through a piece of chicken, seemingly unaffected by my words. “You did say that you have a long memory.”
“I remember this morning, too.”
“Which part? The one where you forgot how knocking works, or the one where you nearly killed me?”
“I am sorry for both.”
“So, the boots were an apology.”
“No. The boots were a gift.”
She shakes her head. “You’re so weird.”
“So are you.” Not my best comeback, but I’m distracted by her pouty lips. Jesus, her mouth is sinful. I take another gulp of wine. Work is always a safe topic, right? “Tell me about what you’re working on.”
She raises a single eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah. You’re working with your advisor, right? Professor Santoro?”
