Stupid, catty girl stuff, which I liked to consider myself well above. Apparently not in this situation though. When I realized why I’d transformed into a mean girl nightmare, I squirmed in my chair. Soren might have been an annoying, loud, brother type, but he was also insanely nice to look at and had boyfriend potential slapped all over him; loyal, generous, fun, attentive, killer smile. He was pretty much everything a girl looked for in a guy, save for perhaps a few annoying flaws, but I was trying to convince myself I saw nothing appealing when I looked at him.
I really needed to hone my ability to lie to myself.
A few minutes later, Soren appeared at my table and slid a plate of food in front of me.
“I didn’t think the French fries would be enough, so I had them fry up some fish for you too. See if we can put a little meat on those arms of yours.” Soren’s fingers wrapped around my bicep. “I asked Tommy to fry up whatever else he can back there for you too, so if a plate of fruit salad with an oily, golden crust arrives next, you’ll know why.”
“You know, body-shaming applies to all types of bodies.” I put on a straight face as I glanced at him, determined to maintain it. “Do you think I felt any better about myself because kids were snickering and calling me different names than the other girls? Do you think my self-esteem took less of a hit because a person called me concave?”
The easy smile Soren lived with dwindled. “Shit. I’m a prick.”
I nodded solemnly.
“For the record, I don’t think you’re too skinny or that your arms are scrawny or anything like that.” As he said scrawny, his face drew up. “I mean, you’ve got a great body. A really great body.” He winced again, his processing a moment behind his words. “And I’m going to do what we men should do more of and just shut up and walk away.” He flashed a wave at me, backing away from the table while shaking his head.
“You’re kinda cute when you’re self-deprecating.” I grabbed a fry and twirled in the direction of the group of girls. “Might want to play to your strong points.”
Soren glanced over where I’d indicated at the front of the restaurant. “Oh, them. The Thursday night fan club.” His brows bounced.
“You have a fan club for certain nights?”
He dusted off his arms theatrically. “I have a fan club for every hour of the day.”
My face went flat. “You’re not so cute when you’re full of yourself.”
“I’m cute because my boyish charm still radiates through my rugged manliness.” He circled his face as he backed into the kitchen. “Irresistible.”
When I got back to my meal, I realized I was being stared at. By the Thursday night fan club. They didn’t seem to be fans of me. More whatever the opposite was. When I waved, all of their heads turned. Look who was playing the catty card now?
I’d barely finished my second fry before Soren appeared at my table again. “Pick a condiment.” He was holding a tray with an assortment of different sauces. When I moved to reach for one, he pulled the tray back. “But pick carefully.”
“I’m not picking what I want to put on my tombstone. I’m picking the kind of sauce I want to dip my fries in.”
“What kind of condiment a girl likes says a lot about the kind of guy she’s into.”
“What? Where did you read that? Moron’s Illustrated?”
He slid the tray in front of me again. “Oh, just the small print on The Holy Grail.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to reach for the same condiment. What did it say about my taste in men? What would I be giving away about myself if I choose it?
Why was I actually sweating what kind of condiment to pick? Nothing like a reality check to clear the crazy.
“Hmm.” Soren nodded. “Interesting choice.”
“How is hot sauce an interesting choice?” I did my best to ignore him as I shook the bottle of hot sauce over my fries.
“Because now I know.”
“Now you know what? I like spicy French fries?” I kept shaking the bottle as a distraction.
“That you’re looking for a good guy, but one who isn’t so good he’s boring. You want a little danger. You crave some crazy in your life.” When I groaned, it only seemed to encourage him. “You want someone who will stay hopelessly devoted to you, the kind of guy you can imagine sharing a glass of Metamucil with in the mornings when you’re old, but the type who lives in the moment. You want someone who isn’t perfect and doesn’t pretend to be, a guy who might have some irritating quirks but has enough redeeming qualities to make them easy to overlook.” He shifted like he was trying to get comfortable. Once he got going, it could be a while before he finished. “You’re looking for a guy who’s close to your age, someone who’s six one’ish, one-ninety, blond hair, blue eyes—” When I realized what he was doing, I looked at him. He was grinning. “Nice face, smokin’ bod”—he gave a bodybuilder pose—“he loves baseball, pizza, and his family. The All-American boy.”
I continued to stare at him, blinking as I finished a few more fries. “You just summed up exactly what I’m not looking for in a guy. I think you got your hot sauce mixed up with your mayonnaise.”
When he made a face, I cleared my throat to keep the laugh down. Soren hated mayonnaise. So did I. To us, mayonnaise was root evil in gelatinous form.
Swiping the bottle of hot sauce, he carried it toward the kitchen with the rest. “Side of mayo coming right up.”
The next couple of hours passed in pretty much the same fashion. Soren buzzed by regularly to tease, talk, or mention something, and even though I’d finished the fish and chips a while ago, I lingered because . . .
I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like I was sitting with anyone else like everyone in the bar was. It wasn’t like I wasn’t tired and should probably get some rest for another harrowing day tomorrow. Sullivan’s was the first place I’d been to in New York where it felt like I was surrounded by friends—or the illusion of them. I felt like I fit in with this rowdy bunch because everyone seemed to be accepted. I knew that feeling was because of him. Soren was fast becoming what home felt like here in New York.
The last few guys were sitting at the bar, finishing their dark beers, when Soren slid into the chair across from me with a tray of salt and pepper shakers. He started unscrewing the lids, topping them off as he went. “You’ve been busy lately. Booked the cover of Maxim yet?”
I made a face. “My goal isn’t to book the cover of Maxim. At all.”
His forehead creased.
“Try Vogue. When I book the cover for them, that’s when I will freak the heck out.”
“Vogue. Maxim. What’s the difference?” One of his shoulders lifted.
I tried not to look too insulted. “Only that one’s a fashion magazine for women, and the other’s a spank bank for guys.”
Soren paused in the middle of marrying two pepper shakers. “Fair assessment.” He got back to working on the peppers, so I decided to help with the salts. He slid the pitcher of salt toward me. “Okay, so this is probably one of those times I should keep this thought to myself—”
“Uh-oh,” I interjected.
“But modeling? You?” He was searching for words, at least trying to say whatever it was with some degree of sensitivity. Last week, he’d been about as sensitive as a rhino’s hide. He was making progress in the Neanderthal department. “I don’t know. Isn’t it maybe just a little . . . shallow?”
When he chanced a glance across the table at me, I was already looking at him. He exhaled when he realized I wasn’t about to throw a shaker of pepper in his face.
“More or less shallow than a bunch of guys playing with bats and balls into their adulthood?”
His mouth fought a smile. “Point taken.”
“I get it. I understand what you’re saying. It’s not curing cancer or building houses in Third World countries. The clothes, pictures, poses. It’s what I love. That fire inside, you know?” I didn’t need a confirmation from him because I knew he felt the sam
e thing about baseball. “If more people listened to that, the world would be a better place.”
Soren lifted a full pepper shaker. He waited for me to lift one of my salt ones. “From one person chasing their dream to another, cheers.” He clinked the shakers together.
“Cheers.” I checked the time on my phone, my eyes going round when I saw it was almost midnight. “I better get going. I’ve got to be up in six hours.” When I got up to pull on my coat, I felt Soren giving me a look. I zipped my jacket all the way up. It would only be colder out there than it had been a few hours ago. “What?”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
He shook his head like I hadn’t understood his question. “Where do you think you’re going alone?”
“Home,” I repeated.
Another head shake. “The answer would be ‘nowhere.’”
“What do you mean nowhere? I have to get back so I can get some sleep.”
He finished screwing on the rest of the shaker lids. “And you will get back once I finish up here and can go with you.”
“Soren, please. I’m a big girl perfectly capable of making it home by myself.”
His eyes lifted. “At midnight in one of the biggest cities in the country?”
“In one of the safest big cities in the country.”
He started moving around to the empty tables, sliding the full shakers into place. “Doesn’t change that you’re a pretty young woman walking by herself in the kind of shoes that were not designed for running in the event she needs to.” His gaze dropped to where I’d kicked off my heels under the table.
“You’re being crazy,” I said, sliding back into my heels.
“No, you’re being crazy. This isn’t small town Nebraska where everybody looks after everybody.” The more he talked, the more upset he seemed to get. “I mean, come on. Did they teach you anything about safety and common sense back there?”
Grabbing some of the salts, I followed behind him to help. “Let’s see. I was taught not to run with scissors, not to talk to strangers, not to put my drink down at a party.”
Soren sighed. “Child’s play. That might have gotten you through adolescence back there, but it’s not enough for you to safely navigate your twenties in New York.”
“So I need a reeducation on safety?”
“A total rehaul from the sounds of it.”
I followed him to a back station, where he grabbed a towel and some cleaner. “And who do you have in mind to be my teacher?”
Sticking his thumb in his chest, he winked. “This hunk of hardened, big-city meat.”
Grabbing another towel and bottle of cleaner, I moved to the table beside the one he was cleaning. “What’s your first lesson then, Professor Decker?”
He grinned when I called him that. “First lesson is—you don’t walk anywhere alone at night.”
“Define night?”
“If the sidewalks are mostly empty, that’s night.” His arm motioned out the windows at the quiet streets. “Otherwise it’s just dark, and then it’s okay for you to be out walking by yourself.”
“You’ve actually put some thought into this, haven’t you?” I said as we moved to the next couple of tables.
“And while I’m on the topic of important life lessons, here’s another one.” He turned to face me, pointing the spray bottle of cleaner at my chest. “If some guy you don’t know comes up and offers to buy you a drink, what he’s really saying is, ‘I don’t have enough money for a hooker, so I’m hoping this twelve-dollar cosmo will serve the same purpose.’”
My hand moved to my hip. “Oh, well we had guys like that where I’m from. Except we didn’t have drinks that expensive. They were like five dollars, or half price on Ladies’ Night. Or so I heard from older friends because, yeah, I never would have snuck into a bar.” When I bit my lip, that’s what gave me away.
Soren grinned. “Wait. You, Naïve in Nebraska, used to sneak into bars?”
“If that’s some epic surprise, I think it’s you, Naïve in New York, who has a few things to learn.”
Soren moved beside me, cleaning off the chairs as I wiped the tables. “You really used to sneak into bars?”
“It was either that or go cow-tipping. Both involved figuring out how to handle large masses of meat, but usually the guys in the bars smelled better than the cows in the pastures.”
Soren was looking at me with a new set of lenses. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to teach me a few lessons.”
“My home opener is tomorrow night. You’re going to be there, right?” Soren hollered from the bathroom after turning off the shower.
Finally. He’d been in there forever and I needed to pee. Sharing a bathroom with a member of the opposite sex provided its challenges. If I had a girl for a roommate, I would have just walked in and peed, but that wasn’t exactly appropriate with a male roommate.
Especially the one who’d been in my deliciously filthy dream that might have involved the bathroom counter last night.
“For the thousandth time, yes, I’m going to be there.” I turned off the kitchen sink once it was full. The dishes would need to soak for a while before I could even attempt scrubbing them. Someone had been slacking on cleaning up after themselves lately, but I tried to be more chill about it. With the season getting underway, Soren had been crazy busy. I saw him in ten- and twenty-minutes chunks most days.
“Good, because I got you front-row seats.”
“I didn’t know I needed to have tickets for the game.”
“You don’t. But I taped a big sheet of paper that says reserved on the front row bench.”
“And you ‘reserved’ enough space for me and a couple of friends?” I added another squirt of dish soap to the sink.
“I reserved one spot.”
“Soren, I told you I was bringing Ariel and Jane.”
His head peaked out from behind the door. “You told me you were bringing a couple of model friends, so between the three of you, one spot should be plenty of space.”
“The model jokes were old two weeks ago. Time to move on to something else.” Pulling the fridge open, I looked for my Bing cherry yogurt. I was craving something sweet before bed and I’d finished the last of my dark chocolate squares last night. There wasn’t a lot in the fridge, but I scooted stuff around to make sure my yogurt wasn’t hiding behind the tub of margarine or the bottle of lemon juice. No luck. “Did you eat my last cherry yogurt?”
He was quiet just long enough for me to have my answer.
“Did I?” His tone gave it away too.
“Soren, come on. I don’t want to have to label every little thing I bring into this kitchen.” My stomach growled, making me crankier than I normally would have been over a missing yogurt. I had some money coming in now, so I could afford to feed myself, but time was my problem. I didn’t have much extra to swing by a grocery store every few days.
“I was planning on making it to the store tonight to replace it for you, but life didn’t go as planned.” He walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but that same small, white towel cinched around his waist. It was practically a singlet for all the coverage it provided.
I looked away from his wet, nearly naked body, focusing on the empty fridge again. “Well, because your life didn’t go as planned, now I have to decide between chemically engineered butter or fake lemon juice to satisfy my sweet craving.”
“You can have some of my Nutter Butters,” he suggested, pausing in the doorway of the kitchen. “Actually, no, you can’t. I ate the last of those earlier too. Dipped in the cherry yogurt.”
When I groaned and shut the fridge, I waited for him to move out of the way. I didn’t want to have to rub against him to pass. My feelings circling Soren were complicated enough without adding the knowledge of what his wet skin felt like against mine.
“But I did do the laundry.”
“How does you doing your laundry help me feel better about stolen cherry y
ogurt?” Since he wasn’t stepping aside to let me move by, I slid past him as quickly as I could, smashing myself into the doorframe so my skin came in as little contact with his skin as possible.
“Because I did yours at the same time. Your laundry basket was overflowing worse than mine, so I just did them both.” He sounded proud of himself, but I froze.
“You did my laundry?” My stomach swirled as I tried to recall what had been in that basket. “You went through my dirty clothes?”
“Well, yeah, I had to sort the lights from the darks from the delicates. I might be a caveman, but I don’t want my loincloth dyed pink on accident.” He motioned at his white towel which was slipping lower down his hips. Low enough I could just make out . . .
Giving my head a shake, I looked away. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I know, right? Who would have thought I’d willingly do laundry that wasn’t my own?” Soren’s footsteps padded behind me. He clearly wasn’t getting the clue that I was pissed at him for going through my laundry. “By the way, in case you want a dude’s opinion on the matter, your underwear is smokin’ hot. Like seriously, the things wet dreams are made of.”
“Soren!” I didn’t realize I was pitching my jacket that was draped over the sofa at him until it hit his face.
“I didn’t know they allowed that kind of underwear to be bought, sold, or worn in the Bible Belt. How are the guys going to spend all day working those fields when all that’s on their mind is plowing something else?”
“You are . . .” I grumbled, so flustered I couldn’t think of the right word to sum up exactly what he was.
“Cool down, Hayden. I’m paying you a compliment. You have nice underwear. It wasn’t like I was trying them on or sniffing them or anything creeper’ish like that.”
My face was red, I could feel it, so I kept my back to him. “You just used my underwear in reference to wet dreams. That’s full-on creeper.”