I’m trying to impress Amanda by bringing her here, to the place where I live, to one of my favorite restaurants. Santana Row has a small, hip downtown neighborhood vibe, with plenty of shops and restaurants and bars. I’ve hung out here plenty of times, mainly with my teammates, sometimes out for a drink or a quick dinner with Mia, though I honestly can’t remember the last time I took her out. Most everyone leaves us athletes alone when we mingle here, because they know more than a few of us live here too.
I like my house in Sonoma better. It’s huge and private, but I don’t spend much time there during football season. So my townhouse in the city will have to do.
Amanda and I walk to the restaurant side by side, making idle chitchat. I’m tempted to grab hold of her hand, but I don’t. Probably moving too soon. She looks adorable in that floral print dress with the denim jacket over it, and those stiletto sandals make her legs look impossibly long.
Impossibly sexy.
She oohs and aahs over the stores as we pass them by, slowing her pace when we walk by Sephora or one of the many clothing stores. She practically presses her face against the window of the bakery, her eyes wide as she takes in the colorful rows of cupcakes.
“I want one of those,” she tells me after I drag her away from the window. “Maybe after dinner?”
“Sure,” I say easily. She’s the only woman I know who’ll readily indulge her love of sweets—of food in general. Every other woman I’ve been with watched their weight, watched what they ate carefully. Almost like they didn’t want to slip in front of me, or somehow make a mistake.
Amanda’s always just been real. Something I’ve always appreciated.
We arrive at the steakhouse and it’s packed, even for a Tuesday night. I place my hand at the small of Amanda’s back as we make our way to the hostess stand, my fingers tightening ever so slightly on the fabric of her dress. She glances over her shoulder and smiles at me, and seeing that smile is like getting a direct shock to my heart, making it pump wildly.
Not over her. That’s the thought that keeps running through my head at having her so close, having her with me, going out with her like we do this sort of thing all the time. Like we’re still an actual couple.
I’m not over her.
The woman working behind the hostess stand blinks up at me in recognition, but she plays it cool as she leads us to our table, seating us in the more private area of the restaurant. Amanda is practically bouncing in her seat as she flips the pages of the menu, and I finally have to ask her why she seems so excited.
“I haven’t had steak in forever.” She sends me an almost resigned look. “I go on dates, and they all want to feed me exotic food.”
I hate hearing her talk about going on dates with other men, but I do my best to stuff my possessive feelings down deep. “What do you mean, exotic?”
“Himalayan, Vietnamese, Brazilian, Ethiopian. One guy took me to a place that specializes in Russian cuisine.” She wrinkles her nose. “I think they’re trying to impress me, when really I’d rather have a steak. Or even pizza.”
“Pizza?” I fucking love pizza. Who doesn’t?
“Yeah, but I get enough of that because it’s cheap, you know? I don’t indulge in steak dinners much.” She scans the menu, her expression giving me hungry vibes. Not of the food kind either. “Oh my God, it all sounds amazing. Look at the sauce options. And oh, they have lobster too!”
Her excitement over the menu is cute. She’s cute. So damn cute. “Get whatever you want.”
“Anything I want?” She raises her delicate brows, her tone, her entire being, flirtatious. “You sure about that, Tuttle?”
She hasn’t called me Tuttle to my face yet—or via text, FaceTime, whatever. It feels…weird. I used to tell her to call me Jordan since no one else did. Only Amanda. “What exactly do you want?” I ask her, my question like a dare.
“Whatever you’re willing to give me,” she answers, her voice soft.
Damn. She keeps this up and I’ll give her the whole damn world. Anything she wants. Everything I have.
Will be hers.