I can see the brownie points racking up. I might need a wheelbarrow to help me carry them out of here at the end of this conversation.
“Well.” Mr. Carlton leans back and strokes his goatee. “You sure have given us a lot to think about. Four years with a long-distance relationship in the midst of a hectic profession. Looks like you’ve grown a very strong bond.”
“We have. I’m truly blessed.”
Did you just hear that? It was the devil punching my ticket straight to hell.
After we talk more business, we shake hands again and send the Carltons on their way, promising to be in touch. Once they’re out of earshot, my dad turns to me, arms crossed over his brawny chest and stares me down with those intimidating eyebrows of his.
“For the love of God, Dorothy, please tell me you know Jason Orson.”
“Come on, Dad, do you really think—?”
“Yes, I do. I think you’re like me and would say anything to make a deal. But please don’t tell me you just pulled a rookie mistake and said something you can’t follow through on.”
“Pshh, what little you trust me.” I walk back to my office, my dad at my side. “I’m seeing him tonight. Don’t worry, Dad.” I swallow hard, my nerves finally appearing. “I got this in the bag.” Shit. Shit. Shit. I got nothing in no bag . . .
Looks like I’ll be going to dinner tonight.
What kind of wine should I bring that says, hey, I just lied about us dating for four years and said we’re madly in love, you on board?
Merlot . . . definitely a merlot.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
JASON
Dinner in the oven, check.
Apartment cleaned, check.
Apartment decorated, check.
Hair styled, smelling good, looking dapper, wearing a thong, check, check, check . . . check.
I’m ready for tonight.
I debated on whether I should wear a thong because I have jeans on, and we all know how I feel about that combo, but I couldn’t get past the idea of snapping my thong strap at her for pure reaction.
While making my homemade enchiladas with green chili sauce, I went back and forth between wearing it and not wearing it. I finally decided on my lime-green thong. It looks great against my tan and is just bright enough for an impact.
Dottie. This girl invented the word challenge. I’d like to get through that tough shell and have her open up more, but she constantly surprises me, so only time will tell. But I’m up for the challenge, because it’s not like me to back away from one.
I rub my hands together, giving my apartment one last once-over as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
There are two text messages: one from the doorman advising Dottie just arrived at the building—those guys are awesome. And a text from Carson, checking in.
Carson: Have you fallen into an ice cream-induced coma from depression?
I text back as I wait for Dottie to arrive.
Jason: I’ve only had two pints since you left.
Carson: I expected more, so that’s good. Still going on your runs?
Jason: Six miles this morning.
Carson: Only six? I guess that’s all your body can handle, carrying around that giant ass.
Jason: First of all, six is really good, you run shamer. Second of all, baseball players aren’t marathon runners. Third of all, it is a challenge carrying around such a fine butt, as people stop me all over just so they can stare at it.
Carson: ^^^ reasons why I’m glad you’re still in Chicago.
Jason: You don’t mean that. You wish I was in the Bahamas with you and the wifey so I could bother you with annoying questions and gush over the fine cuisine.
Carson: I have to admit, I do miss your orgasm face when you eat something so good, you get happy in your pants.
Jason: Pervert.
Carson: LOL. But you’re good?
Jason: Yup, I have company tonight . . . lady company.
Carson: Oh yeah? Who is it? Dottie? LOL
Jason: Why did you LOL at that?
Carson: Because she’s the last person I’d expect you to have dinner with.
I’m about to tell him like it is but there’s a knock at the door. Stuffing my phone back in my pocket, I try to contain my excitement that she decided to show up. I was ready to tear her door down and extract her from Knox and Emory’s apartment. I had no issues with it.
But she’s here . . . willingly. Looks like my “chat” this morning got through to her.
On a deep breath, I open the door to find Dottie with a smile on her face, a wine bottle in her hand, and a pretty red dress draped over her body. Did I mention a smile?
Like . . . a real smile.
Something’s not right.
I take a step back.
Confusion crosses her brow.
I point at her, taking another step back.
Her confusion increases.
“You look . . . weird.”
Her eyes widen. Blink. “Uh, wow. That’s one way to greet someone.”
“It’s the smile. Why are you smiling? You don’t smile at me.”
“Well, I never will again,” she says, charging into the apartment, bumping my shoulder in the process. “Did you decorate?”
I shut the door and ignore her question. “Why were you smiling? Did you just fart or something? Was that really a smile or a side effect from releasing wind?”
“Do I look like someone who would ‘release wind’ right before the door is answered?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe. Could be a party trick.”
She presses her hand to her forehead. “I don’t know why I came here. I knew I should have stayed home. You tell me I look weird and blame me for farting the first ten seconds of being here. You act like a twenty-two-year-old boy at times. How is that a wise way to spend my night?”
“Uh, what about me? You smiled at me. Talk about throwing the entire night into a tailspin.”
Expressionless, she asks, “And how did you want me to greet you?”
“A scowl, like the one you have right now.” I sigh in relief. “There, that’s better. Just keep scowling like that, then we’ll be okay.”
“Keep acting like a moron and I will.”
“Oh, an insult, now we’re getting warmed up.” I rub my hands together. “By the way, you do look nice, sexy as shit actually. I like that dress on you.”
The smallest of smiles peeks past her lips before she turns around to survey my apartment. I took down the pictures of baseball bats and gloves and replaced them with some tasteful art. I put up some curtains, even ironed the wrinkles out. Got a few throw pillows and bought a coffee table book of all the ballparks in the United States. It’s not much, but the place does look better.
“I like what you’ve done with your place.”
“Thanks. Feels more like a sex den, right?”
She shakes her head and walks to the kitchen where she sets the wine down. “I’m going to need you to open this so I can get through the night.”
“Fair enough.” I join her in the kitchen and retrieve my corkscrew. “How was your day, sweet cheeks?”
She leans her hip against the counter, her demeanor different. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s changed, but there’s an air about her that doesn’t give me the get away from me vibe. Like right now, we’re a good distance away, but she’s leaning in toward me. And when I pour us both a glass and hand her one, her fingers brush mine.