I nod. “Got it. I’m at the plate. I need to swing for the fences.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry, man. You don’t even have a ticket to the game now. You’re wandering around the parking lot, begging scalpers, and even they won’t sell to you. You need a grand gesture just to get into the ballpark. Something to get her to notice you. Something to remind her why she once loved you.”
I flash back to the phone call from earlier. To what Delaney might want from me.
I grab my beer, knock back a thirsty gulp, and slap the glass onto the bar. “You’re right. Go big or go home.”
And in an instant, I know what to do.
5
Delaney
* * *
Nicole was right.
Trevor is a hottie.
And a smartypants.
And he’s interesting to talk to.
After work on Wednesday evening, we meet outside Central Park, grab some kabobs at a food truck called Skewered just inside the park entrance, then stroll and chat.
Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about beer, mostly the craft kind. He travels around the country, visits different breweries, and taste tests the beer.
“Toughest part of the job?” I ask.
He takes a bite of a chicken kabab then answers. “The spitting. Honestly, I’d have to say it’s the constant spitting after the tasting.”
I laugh. “Do you have to carry a bucket with you? Or do you prefer an old-fashioned spittoon?”
He holds up a finger. “Actually, I’m quite advanced. I have a custom mug that says ‘When in doubt, spit it out.’” His smile lights up his handsome face and his light blue eyes.
I arch an eyebrow. “Do you really have a mug?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. The truth is far less glamorous. I just spit into a glass.”
“Ever wish you could swallow?” I ask, then nibble on the grilled eggplant on a stick that I ordered.
He cracks up. “I can say with confidence that I do not want to swallow. Or spit. If you know what I mean,” he says, and I nod playfully, letting him know I sure do. “When the brew is delicious, I’ve been known to go into mourning over not being able to consume it. But I can’t spend every day drunk, so spitting it is.” He finishes his chicken and tosses the stick into a trashcan. “What about you, Delaney? What do you like most about your work in massage?”
He meets my eyes, and everything about Trevor seems earnest, upfront, and truthful. I can honestly say this is one of the better dates I’ve been on in a long time. Usually, I can pick up in the first hour the warning signs that the guy will lie, sleep around, or bug the ever-loving hell out of me. Trevor seems like . . . the real deal. And he’s easy on the eyes, too, with his dark blond hair, his lean frame, and his baby blues.
Which means he’s got to be hiding one hell of a skeleton in his closet. Surely something will go wrong any second. I’ve never had a date this comfortable.
“What I like most is that I can effect change, often immediately. Someone comes into the massage room, puts their stress, or pain, or discomfort in my hands, and I’m able to help heal them.”
He nods. “I like that answer. You’re something of a fix-it woman.”
“Maybe in some ways I am,” I say as we reach the edge of the path.
Then we both stop at the same moment and bend down at the same time. We’ve got the same damn target in our crosshairs. “You want to call dibs on the plastic bag pickup or should I?”
His smile spreads across his face. “I’ll do it. You get the next one. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, and Trevor doubles back to toss the plastic bag in the trash can.
A burst of excitement spreads inside me. Nicole called it at the café. She said we had a lot in common, and I rarely meet guys who pick up trash in the park, like I do. It’s a little thing, but it’s part of my contribution to the planet.
We wander through the paths some more, enjoying the warm summer air, chatting about work and friends, and when we leave the oasis in the middle of Manhattan, Trevor tells me he wants to see me again.
“I’d love to see you, too,” I say.
He strokes his chin. “The thing is,” he says, and I tense, figuring this is when I learn he has a secret meth lab in his apartment or an estranged wife who’s hunting him down. “I have to go out of town for a week. I’m leaving Sunday.”
And the answer is none of the above. Which means Trevor might live a skeleton-free existence.
I shrug happily. “Just let me know when you want to get together again. Text me when you return?” I’m all about no pressure at this stage of the game.
He taps his finger to his lips. “I’d love to see you before I go. I have a business dinner on Friday. Any chance you’re free tomorrow or Saturday?”
Well, we’ve got an eager beaver here. “I work late on Thursday, and Saturday night is Girls’ Night Out.”
“Girls’ Night Out is a holy day,” he says, and I smile since he totally gets it.
“It’s sacred. It’s protected in the Constitutional Girl Code.” I don’t miss Girls’ Night Out for anyone. My friends are my rock, my family away from home.
“Then let’s get together when I return from the beer festival. I’m the emcee and a judge.”
“Sounds like fun. Just don’t make the contestants cry with your withering commentary,” I tease.