When I open my front door, standing on my stoop is a very dapper Jack Pride. He looks delicious. Which is something I’d never think, let alone say, if that means anything as to how handsome he is tonight.
He’s wearing jeans and a polo, but something about the way he carries himself makes it obvious he’s a coach. Like he commands respect, even if he’s not on the field. I like it.
He lets out a low whistle as he takes me in. “You look amazing.”
I feel the blush heat up my cheeks. “Thank you.” I didn’t pick out anything special. Just a nice pair of skinny jeans with a white, flowy top that makes me feel like the baby gut I’ve had for twenty years is concealed. “Do you want to come in? Or . . . I mean, do we have a reservation?”
He laughs, a slow chuckle rumbling out from him. “No, we don’t have a reservation. But I don’t need to come inside. I’m a growing boy, so I’m ready to eat.”
Oh yeah. I like this guy. I like his sense of humor and his wit. I like the way he watches me like I’m beautiful. I like that he says it out loud. And I kind of like that he doesn’t want to come in.
I know, I know. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. But I’ve always subscribed to the belief that I’m worth waiting for. If you don’t want to build a solid relationship with me first, I’m not important enough to you. And that means you don’t deserve these goods. The fact that Jack doesn’t try to come in means a lot. Like he might be on the same page as me. Which would be one more thing to like about him.
“Okay.” I turn, flashing him a smile over my shoulder. “Let me grab my purse.”
It’s hanging on the hook right next to the door, so it takes me no time at all to snag it, pull my keys out, and lock up behind me. I’m strangely nervous and hyper-aware that Jack is walking really close to me, so I don’t notice his ride until we’re right up on it.
I stop and my eyes go wide. “That is a giant truck.”
Jack chuckles and pulls the passenger door open for me. “I live in Flinton, Texas. Are you really that surprised?”
I shrug in agreement because he has a point. Five-passenger, extended cab, extended bed, extended everything isn’t really uncommon around here. I just can’t figure out why they’re necessary unless the owner works in construction or on a ranch.
After climbing into the cab, and I do mean climbing, I take a few seconds to regard my surroundings. The front is clean. The back? Not so much. There are dozens of empty water bottles littering the floorboard. A few fast food bags, too. It’s like he transported half the team home in this thing. Which may not be completely off-base. He is the assistant coach. I’m sure that kind of stuff happens all the time.
Before I can think any more about it, Jack jumps into the driver’s side and cranks the ignition. He glances over at me with a smile. “Got your seatbelt on?”
I nod and off we go.
“Where are you taking me, anyway?”
He glances at me and smiles before focusing on the road. “I figured I’d run with the pizza idea. There’s a little place about fifteen minutes from here. DiPashi’s Cuicino. I hope you like authentic Italian.”
“I do. But how in the world did you find a place like that around here? You live in Flinton. That’s forty-five minutes away from here.”
“Sheila, my late wife”—I nod in recognition of her name—“used to hate going out to dinner anywhere near Flinton.” He chuckles, a soft look on his face and I know he’s remembering her fondly. “She hated the notoriety of my job. Hated it. So it became our thing to find hole-in-the-wall restaurants.”
“And what did she think of DiPashi’s Cuicino?”
“Didn’t like it.”
His unexpected answer makes me laugh out loud. “But you’re taking me there to eat?”
A wide grin lights up his face. It should be weird talking about the woman he was married to for so many years, especially since he clearly still thinks the world of her, but it’s not. It’s almost comforting to know there must be something special about me for him to think I might be the same caliber as she was.
“She didn’t hate it because the food is bad,” he clarifies. “She hated it because she’s not a fan of authentic Italian. It’s owned and operated by this couple who moved here from Sicily. Sheila was fine with Americanized Italian, but she wasn’t a fan of all the basil and olive oil.”
“Well, no disrespect to Sheila, but she’s wrong,” I joke.
“You like that kind of food?”
“I like any kind of food, but authentic is right up my alley. Italian made by someone from Sicily? Yep. Greek made my someone from the island of Lefkas. Let’s do it. Mexican made by someone from Guadalajara? Bring it. I’m a foodie with that stuff.”
“Well, good. It’ll be nice to eat with someone who appreciates good cuisine.” Suddenly he grimaces and shakes his head. “Ah shit, I’m sorry. I guess it’s not really good dating etiquette to talk about your wife with the woman you’re taking to dinner.”
I smile, partially as reassurance. Partially because I like his slight Texas drawl. It’s kind of sexy. “I don’t mind. It’s nice knowing those kinds of relationships still exist. There are so many horror stories out there, I like hearing about the good ones.”
He glances my way a few times, still trying to keep his eyes on the road. “I take it you had one of the horror stories?”
Crinkling my nose, I think about my answer. It’s been so long that I really am over it. But that doesn’t mean the memories are happy.
“I was a bit of a wild child for a few years,” I begin.
“Really? You seem pretty stable to me.”
“Having a baby when you’re practically a baby yourself forces you to grow up pretty fast.”
“I take it Isaac’s dad didn’t stick around?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the p for effect. “Years ago, I was really angry that Isaac’s dad left. How could he leave me on my own with a two-year-old? We both had this baby, ya know? We were both responsible.” I sigh as I put my thoughts in order. “But now that Isaac is the same age I was when he was born, my perspective has changed a bit. I understand how it happens.”
“You don’t mind so much that he left anymore.”
“Oh no,” I correct him. “It was still the wrong thing to do. If Isaac ended up in the same position, you better believe I would beat his little butt if he responded the same way.” Jack chuckles, which makes me laugh. “It’s true! I’m not one of those moms who think my child can do no wrong. I know he can. And I’ll be damned if he grows up to treat his own child the way he was treated.”
I glance over at Jack, who is staring at me. Thankfully we’re at a stoplight.
“What?” I ask, beginning to feel self-conscious about his eyes on me.
Jack turns to face ahead as the light turns green and presses his foot to the gas. “You don’t know how rare that is these days.”
“What? Holding my kid responsible for his actions?” He nods. “Really? I thought that was just decent parenting.”
“I’ve been coaching for a long time, and I’ll tell ya, there’s been a shift in recent years.” Jack shakes his head like he’s trying to rid himself of some bad memories. “The guys still respond to us because we run a tight ship, but the trust we used to have isn’t there as easily anymore. It’s like the minute we turn our backs, they forget everything this team is supposed to stand for.”
“I wish you were exaggerating, but I sit next to a chatty Cathy in my lit class. I hear way too much.”
“I wish I could say what you’ve heard is wrong. But I doubt it strays far from the truth.”
I keep watch out the passenger window as we drive. I probably should tell Jack he knows Isaac, but we’ve been on one date. Even if we decide to see each other again, it doesn’t mean it’ll happen. If it does, though, I’ll fess up. It shouldn’t make a difference since he’s dating me, not my child. But at some point, I guess it’s only right that they both are aware of the connection.
A familiar building goes by and I recognize exactly where we are. “Oh look! That’s the Carnival Station I’m working at now.”
Jack leans forward to see where I’m pointing. “At that clown job?”
A giggle escapes me. “It’s not a clown job. I don’t wear a red nose. I just make balloon animals and do some face painting.”
He quirks an eyebrow at me in disbelief, so I cave.
“Okay, fine. I put on the clown shoes and wig for a few annual events.”
We both laugh as we continue our conversation. We talk about my parents who still live in the area, and his parents, who are both unfortunately deceased. We talk about my brother Greg and his ridiculous idea of buying a house sight unseen, specifically so he could live next door to his girlfriend.
Jack is fun and funny. And before I know it, we’re seated inside the restaurant, perusing the menu. We haven’t been here five minutes and I already love it. It’s a tiny place, maybe a dozen or two tables situated around the single room, white tablecloths and folded fabric napkins on top of all the tables. The silverware is polished and shiny and mirrors on all the walls give the room the illusion that it’s bigger than it is. Quiet music is piping through the speakers. And the faint smell of basil and cheese wafts through the air, making my mouth water.
“I can’t believe this place is here,” I remark as I continue to take in my surroundings. “It’s so quaint. I love it.”
Jack eyes don’t flicker up from his menu. “You’re gonna love the food even more. What are you in the mood for?”
I smirk. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was hungry. “It all looks really good. Do you have a favorite?”
He folds his menu and places it down in front of him. “I know it doesn’t sound like anything special, but the pizza is unreal. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like an easy decision.” I slap my own menu on the table with a grin in his direction. “I’m sold. You decide the toppings because I’m game for anything.”
As if she’s been listening for her cue, our waitress immediately approaches. Since I haven’t been here before, I let Jack do all the talking. I’m not terribly picky, and I was being truthful when I said anything was fine. I like trying new foods and new flavor combinations. When she’s done taking our order and making sure our drinks don’t need to be refilled, she leaves us to our conversation.