Stevie sips her water and I take that moment to study her in the candlelight dancing across her face. She sure looks different from last night. Gone is the Harley tank top, and in its place is a black fuzzy sweater. Still wearing jeans, but these are dark and paired with high-heeled boots rather than her biker boots. The eye makeup isn’t as dark and dramatic, but her slate-colored eyes are just as mesmerizing.
In fact, it’s like a lighter version of the rocker chick, and I like it just as much.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, taking the folded linen napkin and placing it on her lap. Her fingernails still sport the black polish, but she’s wearing a delicate silver ring set with an amethyst stone on her middle right finger. It’s feminine and flirty.
“Just noticing the subtle changes between bar owner Stevie and date-night Stevie.”
“What can I say?” she quips, shifting in her chair to cross one leg over the other. “I’m multifaceted.”
“I could’ve told you that before I even picked you up tonight and first saw the changes, but moving along to my next observation… I wasn’t prepared for your bear of a dad to open the door when I picked you up.”
Stevie laughs, smoky and deep. “He was there installing a new ceiling fan in the bedroom, and it’s funny you call him a bear because that’s his nickname.”
“You’re kidding me. Bear?”
“He’ll answer to that or John,” she quips.
A waiter appears and we look his way. “Would you like to see a wine list?”
I glance at Stevie in question.
“I’d rather have a beer,” she says.
“Same,” I reply.
The waiter looks slightly offended since this is an upscale restaurant, but we put our order in for two IPAs and listen to the specials.
“Anyway,” I say, returning to my curiosity about her dad. “Why did he look like he wanted to pound me into the ground?”
Her shoulder lifts in a half shrug, but she smiles mischievously.
“If I don’t have you home at a reasonable hour, will I be killed or just my legs broken?”
Stevie chuckles. “I’m an adult, Hendrix. I’m even allowed to stay out all night if I want.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-five. You?”
“I’ll be twenty-six in a few months. But I also get the impression your dad doesn’t care that you’re an adult. He’s going to be overprotective no matter your age.”
Stevie’s smile softens, awash with tenderness. “He’s been that way my entire life and I wouldn’t change it for the world. But to ease your mind, pretty sure your life and bones are safe. He just looks tough.”
“What about your mom?”
Stevie’s tiny burst of laughter is mirthless. “That’s a completely complicated question and one that’s not worth our time discussing.”
“I think anything you want to discuss is worth my time.”
Those eyes focus intently on me as if she can’t quite figure out what the game is. “What is this?” she asks.
“What’s what?”
She motions with her hand. “What is this going on tonight? Is it a date, a hookup? I don’t get why you’d think what I have to say has any worth.”
I frown, leaning forward and crossing my arms on the table. “It’s a date. I don’t understand how you could even be perplexed.”
“Because this time twenty-four hours ago, you had a girlfriend. It seems weird that you’ve brought me to this expensive restaurant, and now you’re asking questions that make it seem like you’re genuinely interested in getting to know me.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning back from the table, creating space between us. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to make you think anything other than I just wanted to go out with you. Or why you can’t understand that I find you interesting and beautiful and would indeed like to know more about you.”
Stevie takes a breath and holds her hands out in a silent gesture that seems to say, Let’s stop a minute and back up.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “It’s just… I don’t want to be a rebound.”
“You’re not.” I don’t know how to say it any simpler or more assuredly than that. “I agree the timing isn’t the best, but honestly I checked out of that relationship—if you can even call it that—a long time ago. I’m more than happy to tell you anything you want to know about it.”
The waiter returns with our beers and frosted pilsner glasses. He pours and sets them before us and then asks, “Would you like to order?”
I shake my head. “Haven’t even cracked the menus open.”
He bends at the waist slightly. “Take your time. I’ll check back.”
When he’s gone, Stevie says, “I just want you to know, I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“Can’t say that I am either.”
“And not really looking for a hookup,” she says, a bit of challenge in her tone.
“Wasn’t on my agenda.”
“Although a hookup is preferable to a relationship,” she clarifies, which really muddies things.
“I have a really good idea,” I say, picking up my beer and lifting it toward her. “How about we just start off with a good meal and a few beers and reevaluate where we are at the end of the evening?”
And I’ll never forget this moment because if I thought Stevie was beautiful before, she knocks the breath out of me now. Her smile engages every bit of her face—full lips, gleaming teeth, glittering eyes that are both relieved and playful—and I am lost.
She lifts her beer, taps it against mine, and says, “I’ll drink to that.”
I don’t say it out loud, but the one thing I know with certainty is at the end of the evening, I won’t need to reevaluate anything. I know I’ll want to see her again.
We sip our beers, and then I suggest, “How about we figure out what we want to eat, even dessert, so we don’t have to interrupt conversation again except to give our orders?”
“That sounds good,” she says, and we take a few minutes to peruse the menus. The waiter must be watching us like a hawk because we no sooner close them than he’s there.
We both order rib eyes, finding our first thing in common, and once the waiter is gone, Stevie lifts her glass. “I still need a full beer in me to answer your question about my mom. Tell me about your family.”
So our date begins without any expectation other than agreeing to see how we feel at the evening’s end.
My family is great, so it’s no hardship to talk about my parents—Mick and Tonya—as well as my mom’s sister, Rory, who is like a second mom to me and dotes on all her nieces and nephews.
“Do you have any siblings?” Stevie asks.
“I had an older sister, Rachel. She died thirteen years ago from leukemia, but I’ve got lots of cousins I’m close to.”
“Oh my God,” Stevie says, reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”
I smile at her, taking note that time does indeed dull the pain, although it never quite leaves. “She was two years older than me.”
“I can’t even imagine how hard that was.”
I nod, remembering the weeks after Rachel died, losing not only a sister but my best friend. The days of uncertainty where I didn’t know if my mom would ever recover from the loss, but with a lot of support and therapy, she pulled herself out of a very dark place. “My mom took it really hard. I mean, it was hard for me—I was just a kid—and for my dad, but Mom and Rachel were really close. She was depressed for a long time.”
Something flickers over Stevie’s face, and I’m guessing it has to do with her own mother, who she said is complicated.
I don’t go there, though.
“Harlow said you two met in high school.” A subtle shift in conversation puts the spotlight on her.
She grins, shaking her head as she runs a black polished fingertip over the top of her glass, and in that fond smile, I see years of good memories. “I got redistricted into her school my freshman year and was like a fish out of water. Harlow took me under her wing, staved off a lot of bullying, and we became close.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit about Harlow. She’s good people.”
“The best,” Stevie agrees. “While she had good intentions with holding the charity toy drive at my bar, she did it to help me bring in customers. Things have been a bit slow lately.”
“I’ll definitely be coming back and I’ll bring more Titans too.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Hendrix. My bar—”
“Is an amazing place to hang out, and besides, I’ve kind of got the hots for the owner.”
And holy fuck… Stevie blushes, gaze dropping down to her beer. She’s a multifaceted woman, all right, but I didn’t think I’d ever say anything that would pinken that creamy skin.
I take advantage of her discombobulation. “This would be the part where you say you’ve got the hots for me.”
Her gaze snaps back up, and gone is the embarrassment. “You’re growing on me.”
I clutch my heart, pull my chin in, and look wounded. “That’s all you got?”
“I like to keep you wondering,” she says coolly, and I like she does that to me.
What I don’t like is that a thought about Tracy comes unbidden, that there wasn’t a bit of mystery about her. I had to guess at nothing, which should’ve been a comfort, but in hindsight was apparently a turnoff.
Laughing, I drum my fingers on the table. “I’ll give that to you. But tell me about your dad. He’s about as fascinating as you are.”
“He’s great. You might not see that because he’s overprotective, but he raised me all on his own. Was in the army, then helped my grandfather run the bar for a while before becoming a tattoo artist.”
“Jerry is your grandfather?”
“Yeah… it was his bar. My grandpap died when I was twenty and the bar passed to me.”
“How did your dad raise you on his own while he was in the military?” I ask, completely impressed. I’ve seen some single hockey dads over my career—like Drake—but they’ve always had a great support system.
“He found a way with the help of friends and other military families. For long deployments, I stayed with my grandparents. He got out when I was four. He couldn’t stand being away from me, even if I was happy, safe, and loved with his parents.”
“He’s a scary dude, but you’re making me like him,” I concede.
“He’s the absolute best person I know.”
I learn a lot more about her dad, including the fact he rides with and is the president of his motorcycle club. We discuss tattoos and she’s surprised I have a few of my own, but she’s got me far outnumbered.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask.
“On my eighteenth birthday. My dad’s name.” She holds out her wrist for me to see. “How about you?”
“Sixteen.” She raises her eyebrows. “Without my parents’ permission or knowledge.”
Her expression becomes knowing. “If your parents didn’t see it, I’m assuming you can’t show it to me.”
“Left hip. Maybe you’ll get to see it one day.”
“Maybe not,” she counters.
Our food comes and she asks me more about Tracy, which I answer with complete transparency.
Yes, she started out as a hookup.
Yes, she became a convenient hookup.
Yes, I liked her and we dated exclusively.
Yes, we had our problems and when they never got better, I broke it off.
We order our second beer near the end of our meal, before our waiter approaches about dessert, and I ask Stevie, “You going to tell me about your mom?”
“Yeah, sure… why not,” she says as she pushes her plate away. She left a few bites of steak behind and I’m an opportunist, so I reach over and stab a piece with my fork.
Stevie smiles at the intimate gesture. “It’s not all that long of a story. She left me and my dad when I was two. Said it was too difficult to be a mom.”
“She said that to you?” I ask, horrified.
“Well, not when I was two. She told me later when I got older and asked.”
“You continued a relationship with her?”
“Not at first. She left and didn’t look back and for a long time, it was just me and my dad. She ended up getting married a few years later to a guy who had loads of money, and they had two daughters.”
“Two half sisters,” I muse.
“Liza and Maggie. They’re now twenty and twenty-one, respectively.”
“Are you close?”
Stevie’s nose wrinkles slightly. “No. A relationship was never encouraged.”
I frown at that phrasing. “What does that even mean?”
“It means my father tried… he invited the girls over, but there was always some excuse why they couldn’t come. And I was never invited over to their house.”
“What the fuck?” I growl, because despite her solid backbone, I hear the vulnerability in her tone. “You were never invited over to your own mother’s house?”
“My mom’s an odd duck. She married Cameron for his money and gave him two daughters. But she once again discovered she wasn’t mother material and left them. She ended up divorcing Cameron and he remarried. His new wife is a good mom to the girls… supposedly.”
“Do you have any relationship with your sisters?”
“Not really. It’s all very fractured and honestly… they’re a bit spoiled by their dad, and we don’t have anything in common but a deadbeat mom. We follow each other on IG and text once in a blue moon, but they have their lives and I have mine.”
“And your mom?”
Stevie doesn’t mask emotion, and I see the disappointment in her eyes. “She’s not a mom. She just couldn’t do it. She found the responsibility to be too much. It was too hard.”
“That doesn’t sound like supposition.”
“We’ve had conversations about it. She’s at least honest in her inabilities.”
“So you do have a relationship with her?”
Stevie shrugs. “I’m not sure what we have. We talk. We have lunch sometimes. She has moments when she tries to act like a mom, but that doesn’t really work for me at this stage of the game.”
“I imagine not,” I murmur.
Stevie’s smile is quick and easy. “I’ve got a healthy enough ego to acknowledge her weaknesses and know they didn’t have anything to do with me. I had a father who built me up to be the best version of myself, and while it hurt for a long time when I was younger not to be worth her effort, I made my peace with it. But still… I give her my time not because she needs it, but because I do.”
I study her a moment, focusing on her wistful words. “You want to have a mom in your life.”
Stevie laughs, clearly at herself. “I’m a glutton, right?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. You’re aiming for something you want.”
“My father says I’m destined for heartbreak with my mom. That she’s only using me.”
“Maybe,” I muse, reaching across the table to take her hand. I study the delicate bones, soft skin, and midnight polish on her nails. “But you’re ready for it. You’re older and wiser since the last time she broke your heart. You’re a tough woman with a strong parent at your back if she fails you again. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t try to make something with her.”
Stevie blinks at me in surprise, mouth parted slightly. I’m thinking she needed someone to give her permission to go for it, knowing it might be a flop.
And without questioning the sanity of her wanting something from a woman who hurt her.
“You’re definitely not what I expected,” she says, her eyes dropping to where I’m holding her hand.
“What did you expect?”
Her eyes lift to mine. “That you just wanted to get in my pants.”
“I totally want to get in your pants,” I tell her truthfully, because I’m insanely attracted to her. “But that’s not the primary agenda.”
“What is, then?”
I consider the question and admit a truth I’ve never told any of my teammates, especially since they all rode my ass to dump Tracy. “I think there’s this sort of image professional athletes portray, at least around each other. That we’re hot shit and can have any woman we want in our bed.”
“Like berries for the picking,” she muses.
“Exactly. And yeah, I was that way. Many of my teammates are. But I guess I want something more.”
“Ready to settle down?” she asks.
“I don’t know if that’s what you’d call it. Maybe not quite, but definitely something more solid. That’s what I was trying to attempt with Tracy.”
I almost expect her to pull her hand away, because the reasonable implication would be that I want the same with her. Stevie was hesitant to go out with me, and I don’t want her to think I’m rebounding.
I definitely don’t want her to think I’m looking for something deep.
I don’t know that I am.
I don’t know that I’m not.
I just know that I like her, and I want to see her again after tonight. “Just a heads-up, I know the night isn’t over yet, but I’ll be asking for a second date.”
Stevie pulls her hand from mine, but only to take her pilsner. She holds it up, prompting me to do the same.
As our glasses tap against each other, she says, “I’ll drink to that.”
