“Nope.”
“Are we walking?”
If we are, I’m going to be really pissed. I’m not wearing my running shoes.
“Nope.”
“Then how are we getting there?”
He stops and stares down at the two-wheel vehicle parked under the train line.
My eyes widen, and I look over at him. “I’m going to look like shit when we get there.”
“No, you won’t. Come on.”
I stare down at the motorcycle while Dean bends down, grabbing the two helmets out of the side compartments.
“You do remember how to ride, right?”
I snatch the helmet from his grasp. “Of course, I do.” I place it over my head cringing to myself over the amount of time I spent on my hair this morning. “You’re buying me a hat when we get there.”
“Done.” He puts on his helmet which feels odd to see on him. He never wore one in college and his bike was nothing like this one. Obviously, tax attorneys do well for themselves.
He hops on first, kicking up the stand and straightening it out for me. I get on and straddle him, my arms locked around his middle until we get started.
He eases out into Chicago traffic and I assume this is going to be a nightmare of a ride because traffic on the weekend is a constant stop and go. But I should’ve known better.
The true Dean comes out a minute into the ride. He doesn’t wait behind the cars stopped in front of him. Instead, he zooms ahead and beats the next car off the line and veers into that lane before almost running into the back of the bus.
“I’m not interested in dying today,” I say loud enough for him to hear. My hands are wrapped tightly around his middle and my helmet is pressed against his back for fear of watching what is surely going to be a crazy ride.
“You’re always safe with me.”
He stops at a light, his feet landing on the cement, and my body relaxes a little. We’re only blocks away from the field and as much as I shouldn’t, I’m hoping he brought the bike so that we can go somewhere after. Like an open road like we used to do.
Just as I’m adjusting to his way of riding, Wrigley comes into view. He stops at the curb of the place where we head up to the rooftops. Lifting up the flap of his helmet, him and the valet guy talk—Dean not about to let him ride the bike, so the guy directs him to an alley.
“You get off here,” Dean says, and I ease myself away from his body which is like prying a baby from their mama. I might act like I’m okay with it, but every part of me wants to wrap itself back around him.
Dean’s forearms flex as he roars the bike back to life and speeds down an alley.
“Nice bike,” the valet guy says.
I nod.
“This ain’t Comiskey.” He eyes my shirt and since he uses the original name for the White Sox Park, I’m guessing he must be in his thirties.
“It’s crosstown.” I shrug.
“You should save that for your side of town.”
He’s joking, I see it in his smirk, but still, how Dean convinced me to go to Wrigley is beyond me.
“You’ll be first in line once we win the World Series this year.”
The guy exaggerates a laugh. “First, if the White Sox reach the playoffs I’d be looking for hundred dollar bills falling from the sky. Second, I’m not a fair-weather fan.”
At that same time, we see a group of women all decked out in their Cubs gear. One of them even has shoes with baseballs and Rizzo’s face painted on one and Bryant’s face on the other. Total fair-weather fans.
“Wish I could say the same for all of us,” he says.
I giggle, watching the ladies glance around wondering where they’re supposed to go.
“Wrigley is that way ladies.” He points to the gigantic metal structure and we share a look of annoyance.
“At least we don’t have that where I’m from,” I say.
“Because you guys can’t win.”
The razzing is fun and takes up the time while I’m waiting for Dean who finally rounds the corner.
“See your boyfriend, he’s a good guy.” He points in Dean’s direction.
“Let me guess he got the special parking spot because he’s a Cubs fan?”
“You should be happy you came with him. I sent a Sox guy a mile down.”
Dean wraps his arm around my shoulders as soon as he reaches us.
Protective much?
“Thanks a lot.” He slips the valet guy some cash.
“No problem.” The professional he is, he tucks it into his pocket without ever looking. “Go Cubbies.” The guy winks at me.
“Yeah.” Dean’s tone holds not even half the enthusiasm as the valet guys.
Once we’re inside and climbing the stairs, Dean shakes his head and says, “I leave you alone for a few minutes.”
“He was innocent.”
I shouldn’t like the protectiveness, but I do. Maybe it’s the schoolgirl inside of me, but the fact he’s scared to lose me says something. Of course, does he even really have me is the question?
No, I have to be firm on that. This is a work thing. That’s all it can be. Right?
“Dean!” A half-lit man yells, followed by everyone’s heads turning in our direction.
Are we back in college again where the party doesn’t start until Dean arrives?
The man approaches us the minute we walk into the bar area. I look at the sun shining down on Wrigley ahead and my attention wants to veer that way.
“Mr. Heiberman.” Dean’s hand extends immediately.
The man glances my way, shakes Dean’s hand and then places his large and hairy-knuckled hand in front of me.
“This is my girlfriend, Chelsea Walsh,” Dean says.
I shake his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Heiberman.”
“Gary, please.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “We didn’t even know Dean had someone until he asked for a plus one.” He leans in. “Good for you to show all the women he’s taken.”
“Um. Women?” I plaster a fake smile on my face.
“Dean is quite the catch. From what my daughter tells me, a lot of the women have been scoping him out for some time. Makes sense why he showed them no interest now.”
Stop stomach, just because he wasn’t interested in the advances of women in his office doesn’t mean jack. They may not be his type.
“Oh, Mr. Heiberman.” Dean looks over at me. “He’s being kind.”
Gary smacks Dean in the stomach. “He’s being modest. But now that we’ve met you, we know why. You two make a stunning couple.”
Instinctively my hands go to my hair wondering how bad it looks after the helmet.
“Well, enjoy yourself. God knows Dean doesn’t get out of the office enough. Then again, that’s why we love him so much.”
The whole exchange is odd and if he wasn’t wearing a triple XL Sox jersey, I’m not sure I’d care for the man. I mean who tells someone there’s a long line of women waiting for the man you showed up with. What the hell is wrong with people?
“Come on, I’ll grab you a beer,” Dean says, pulling me from my thoughts.
We head to the bar, Dean’s hand on the small of my back, but we’re quickly stopped by a brunette who wants to say hi, openly eye fucking Dean right in front of me.