“Sorry about that.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket . . . again . . . and declines the call . . . again.
“Who is it?” I ask, my nosiness superseding all thoughts of being polite.
He shows me the screen as he says, “No caller ID.”
“That’s annoying.” And odd. Who gets back-to-back no-caller-ID calls? Sketch. “Why don’t you just answer? They obviously want to talk to you. Then maybe they’ll stop calling.”
“Maybe.” His shoulders tense up and the smile on his face dims. “Hey, what do you think about this chair?”
He points to the Meltdown Chair, which looks as dangerous as it does cool, but he’s also very clearly trying to move the subject away from his phone.
“Did they melt poles together?” I lean in closer, still afraid to get too close and set off alarms. “I feel like this is from a cut scene in Final Destination. I think I’m too clumsy for this one to be a favorite.”
“Then it will be my new favorite, I don’t want it to feel left out,” he says and I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because the phone goes off again.
“Maxwell, I swear to God, if you don’t answer the phone, I will throw this chair at your head.”
A little too violent? Possibly. But I can’t deal with this shit anymore.
“Fine, I’ll be right back.” His jaw locks and his hands fidget for a moment before he swipes to answer the phone. “Hello?” I hear him say, but that’s all I hear before he hurries out of earshot.
The optimistic side of me thought it was probably just a relentless telemarketer, but I’ve never met anyone who wants privacy talking to one. So the realist side of me knows two things. Not only is the person on the other end of the line not selling something, Maxwell knew exactly who he’d be talking to the moment that phone rang.
And now I feel awkward AF standing in the museum staring at chairs during my lunch break. I check my phone and startle when I see the time. Almost two o’clock. My hour lunch break has turned into two. There’s no way I’m going to avoid questions. I need to head back.
I look longingly at the remaining three chairs, one of which is so shiny, it calls to the very core of who I am as a person, and go to track down Maxwell.
When I find him, his back is to me as he looks over the railing to the bottom floor.
“Saturday night I’ll be at the hotel with the team, I’ll text you the address and you can meet me there.” His hushed tone perks up my ears. “I gotta go. Bye.”
The taquitos I scarfed down in a very unladylike manner suddenly feel like bricks. The vibrant art scattered strategically all around me seems dull and colorless as what he said processes in my mind. No wonder he didn’t want to answer the phone in front of me—nothing kills the mood like the other women you’re talking to. And I want to get mad. I want to stomp away and tell him to go screw himself, but I have no reason to. He owes me nothing. We are friends and he’s never hinted at wanting more. Me getting ahead of myself and letting his full lips and beautiful eyes get my hopes up is on nobody except me. I’ve just never met anyone who is as thoughtful and attentive as he is, and I guess I read more into things than I should have.
This was not a date. This was lunch with a friend.
A friend I really wanted to kiss.
He slides his phone back into his pants without turning around.
“There you are!” I say way too loud, and garner dirty looks from a guy in a very official headset. “I just realized what time it is, and I really need to head back if you don’t mind.”
“Oh.” He looks disappointed for a second. But then his eyes turn up at the corners and he smiles. It’s a smile that, even though I’m mad disappointed, I still can’t deny will probably make people come over and stare, thinking he is a thing of art. “I guess I can’t keep you to myself all day. Let’s get you back to HERS.”
If only he knew how much I wouldn’t mind if he kept me to himself.
Eleven
If there is one thing that can take my mind off the crushing disappoint of my non-date with Maxwell yesterday, it’s Wednesday meetings.
Once a month, every month during the football season, I close HERS to the public and open it up to the Lady Mustangs to have their Wednesday meeting.
The first Wednesday meeting we unofficially hosted was a sneak attack to basically piss off Marlee while she was working here.
It was a shit storm that ended up becoming a viral video that has since been remixed and turned into quite the catchy tune. It was insane and I ended up passed-out drunk in my childhood home that night. However, the bill was large enough for me to offer up a space for them to hold future meetings.
I just got smarter and closed them to the public.
I love hearing the ridiculousness that occurs and not feeling left out of the drama. Plus, these women drink like fish, especially considering that their meetings take place in the middle of the afternoon.
“So, is everything in place for the auction next week?” Vonnie, who happens to be the new president of the Lady Mustangs, asks me.
“Pretty much.” I tell her what she already knows, since we talked on the phone for at least an hour last night. “I just need the final okay on the menu and three names for the specialty cocktails we’ll be having. I’ll close up after the lunch rush and you guys can come and set up.”
The Mustangs Player Auction is the first big event that HERS will be hosting, and I’m freaking out. When the Lady Mustangs came up with the idea of a player auction to raise money and wanted to use HERS as the venue, I tried my hardest not to get my hopes up. Sure, they have their meetings here, but as much as I love it, I know there are bigger and fancier venues for them to use. And also, I had no idea if the Mustangs organization would go for an auction.
The whole thing sounded doubtful.
So when Jane Hart, the Lady Mustangs liaison, came to me with an offer of ten thousand dollars to hold the inaugural Mustangs auction, I damn near passed out.
Instead, remembering how women don’t ask for enough money and knowing that the first offer is always the lowest, I countered for fourteen thousand.
Jane agreed.
Then she told me they would’ve gone to seventeen.
I would’ve done it for four.
So clearly, I was the winner here.
And then the panic set in.
I’ve been going over every detail with Vonnie for the last four months. We’ve done everything from meeting with event coordinators, to bringing in a new chef to help spruce up my existing menu and come up with new things just for this event, to even taking a few bartending classes to help spark some cocktail creativity.