J. Fynn - The Long Game

“Couple broken bones, lots of cuts and scrapes.” She thought for a second. “Oh, maybe it’s not the worst, but this one is the grossest.” She held out her left hand to me, palm flat. She pointed to the silvery outline of a jagged circle.

“What’s it from?”

“I was eight, just learning to ride a bike on my own, and I was lucky enough to fall straight onto a bottle cap. It went so far in it had to be removed in the ER.”

I winced, imagining the metal cap where the scar now marked her palm. “Nasty.”

She smiled, probably glad her story had had the desired effect. “Yeah, but the worst part was the tetanus shot. Right in the ass, and those things hurt.”

“Aww, want me to kiss it?”

She smacked her scarred palm against my chest. “Shane!”

I laughed. “Oh, come on, you walked into that.” I caught her hand and kissed her palm as she’d done for me.

She didn’t pull her hand from mine. “Okay. Favorite book?”

“To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“I love that one. But my favorite is The Secret Garden.”

I laughed. “Really?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I love it, and true love lasts a lifetime.” She lifted her mug from the table and took a sip. Her eyes widened, and she flashed a delighted smile. “This is really amazing.”

“I told you.” I took a sip of my own tea. The sweet tang of citrus and mild spiciness warmed my throat. It made me miss home. “Any pets?”

“No, although I always wanted a dog. My dad said it was too much hassle since we moved so much.”

“I love my dogs.”

“What kind?”

“Irish Wolfhounds,” I said. “Yeats and Beckett.”

She smiled. “Figures.”

“I know. I’m such a stereotype.”

“So, we’ve established that you love your dogs and your mother’s tea. Oh, and you’re obnoxiously proud of your Irish heritage. How many girls have you been in love with?”

“None,” I answered right away.

“Is that ‘none’ as in, you’ve never really been in love, or ‘none’ as in you’ve never even felt like you were in love.”

“I’ve liked plenty of girls, but I’ve never been in love. Jimmy likes to joke that my dogs are the only living things I’ll ever say the word to. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not too far off, I guess. What about you?”

“Pass,” Spencer said with a shake of her head.

“No way. I told you about my deep and enduring love for the wolfhounds.”

“Right, and I told you about my love affair with The Secret Garden, so we’re even.”

“For now,” I said.

“Moving on then. Beatles or Stones?”

“Van Morrison,” I said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“What? That wasn’t even a choice.”

“It should’ve been considering that Astral Weeks is the greatest album of all time.”

“That’s high praise for an album I’ve never even heard of.”

“Agh.” I grimaced. “You’re killing me. You know who Van Morrison is, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’ It’s cute if you like that sort of thing.”

The dishes rattled as my head thunked against the tabletop. “Why is that the only song anyone knows? Are you seriously telling me you haven’t heard ‘Domino’? ‘Into the Mystic’? ‘Sweet Thing’?”

“I may have,” she said, lifting one shoulder.

I gave her a mock-stern look.

“To be honest, they don’t sound all that familiar.”

“All right,” I said, getting to my feet. I pulled her along with me. “We’re fixing this.”

She laughed, letting me drag her into the living room. “You can play them, but you’re not going to change my mind about the Stones. Exile on Main Street is clearly the best album ever.”

“Just wait,” I said. I flipped the cover of my laptop open and pushed some keys to wake it up. My music library was already open on the screen. I tapped the trackpad, and Van immediately started strumming the opening chords of “Sweet Thing.”

“It’s nice,” Spencer said, but I held up a finger to stop her.

“Shhh.” I sat on the sofa and pulled her down onto the cushion next to me. “Just close your eyes and listen.”

Spencer gave me a dubious look but leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes. Van continued to play, and chirping flutes joined in as he sang about a girl so sweet she made him feel like he’d never grow old. I watched a smile spread across Spencer’s face, hesitant at first, and then full of the same contented delight I always felt when I heard the song.

When he sang the last lyric, Spencer turned hers to me. “Okay, I admit that’s pretty damn good.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

“Although, now I have to admit,” I said, brushing my fingers against her cheek. “I’m starting to see the appeal of a song about falling in love with a brown-eyed girl.”

Spencer dropped her eyes, and the shy smile I was starting to grow fond of made a brief appearance. My hand still on her cheek, I leaned forward and kissed her. My skin jumped with electricity when she responded, deepening the kiss and pressing herself into my arms. My heart sped to a gallop as the blood left my head and filled the lower regions of my body. I told myself it was a simple physiological response, that it didn’t mean anything, but soon I wasn’t telling myself anything at all. My mind was filled with the sensation of her mouth against mine and the sweet honey-and-vanilla smell of her hair and skin. My tongue flicked against hers, and my jeans felt immediately and uncomfortably tight. I was also acutely aware of the feel of her breasts pressed against my chest.

I wanted her. And part of me had to admit that my longing had nothing at all to do with getting the book back from Tommy. I pushed any thought of the con from my mind, hoping the sourness that had crept into my stomach would go along with it. My hand slid to the button of her jeans, and I fumbled with it for a moment before she put her hand over mine. For a half a second, I thought she meant to help me and my excitement grew, but the blood rushed back to my head in a hurry when she gently pushed my hand away and took her lips away, too.

“Shane,” she breathed, leaning her forehead into mine. “I think maybe we should eat. You worked really hard to make a nice dinner and everything.”

“It wasn’t that hard, I swear,” I said, moving to kiss her again.

She dodged me with a giggle. “I just think maybe we should move a little slower. You’re not mad, are you?”

Sighing quietly, I stood and offered a smile and my hand. “Of course not. But I am starving.”

Spencer’s grin was full of gratitude and relief. “Me, too. Even if you’re making me eat an adorable little lamb.”

She popped off the couch to stand in front of me, and I kissed her nose. “I promise you’ll love it.”

“We’ll see.” She smiled and stepped around me to head back to the kitchen.

I stood, staring down at the spot on the couch we’d been occupying a moment before. I wasn’t lying when I’d told her I wasn’t mad, but the thought of eating was the furthest thing from my mind despite my rumbling stomach. Something else gnawed at me, but it wasn’t until I turned and caught her shy smile that I could name the feeling. It wasn’t frustration or even disappointment. It was relief.

“WHAT DO YOU mean you didn’t make a reservation?” Spencer pulled me to a stop in the middle of a tree-lined path in Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square. “You can’t just walk into Jardin and ask for a table.”

“Spence, it’ll be fine.” I started down the path again, but she yanked her hand from mine.

“Shane, this is ridiculous. We’re not getting in, and even if we could, it’s a terrible idea. That place is crazy expensive. There are tons of other great restaurants within walking distance. We can go to one of those.”

“I thought you said you’ve been wanting to try it.”

“I have, but—”

“And that you like French food.”

“Yeah, but, Shane—”

“Then we’re going. Come on.” I held my hand out to her. “It’ll be fun.”

She scrunched her mouth to one side, fighting a smile. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“I do,” I said with a proud grin. “Now let’s go.”

She smiled and took my hand. “Why, because we’re going to be late for our nonexistent reservation?”

We crossed 18th Street and walked to a brown brick building with red awnings. Yellow Art Deco lettering on gray slate spelled out the restaurant’s name.

I pulled open one of the doors and held it for Spencer. She hesitated but finally relented with a shake of her head and stepped inside.

The interior of the restaurant was decorated like a 19th century Paris bistro, complete with Lautrec lithographs and colorful Tiffany light fixtures. A bar dominated one side of the lower level, and a long, mahogany leather banquette lined with tables occupied the other. Nearly every seat in the house was filled, but a quick look around revealed a handful of two-tops still sitting empty. A podium at the front of the room served as the hostess station, and a girl with a bored expression and jet black hair cut in a sharp angle from her ears to her chin stood behind it.

I glanced down at Spencer who stood beside me, clinging to my arm. “Okay. So, whatever I say, just go along with it.”

Spencer’s amber eyes went wide, but she didn’t have a chance to argue before I strode toward the podium, her arm still wrapped in mine.

“Can I help you?” the hostess asked.

“Yeah, I have an eight o’clock reservation for two. I know we’re a little early, but that table over there in the corner would be just fine if it’s open.”

The girl turned to look where I’d pointed, and I leaned over her podium to quickly scan the book open on its surface. Her attention returned to me, and I tipped back from her stand again.

“Name?”

“Utley,” I said, hoping I’d deciphered her loopy scrawl correctly.

Spencer’s nails dug into my arm, but I ignored it and met the hostess’s skeptical expression with a calm smile.

“Utley?” she repeated.

“Yep.” I nodded. “Table for two, eight o’clock.”

One of her penciled-in eyebrows arched dramatically. “Chase Utley?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Chase Utley. The second baseman for the Phillies?”

Fuck. “Well.” I laughed, buying for time. “I mean, of course I’m not Chase Utley.” I put my arm around Spencer’s shoulder. “He couldn’t make it, so he offered us his table.”

Her expression changed from skeptical to one of outright disbelief. “Because you’re such good friends?”

I opened my mouth, but Spencer piped up before I had a chance to speak. “We live in the same building over in Washington Square,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. She nestled closer under my arm.

“We’re new in the building,” I added, squaring my shoulders in an effort to look like someone who owned a million-dollar apartment in the city instead of someone who rented an efficiency for $150 a week. “They’re probably our friendliest neighbors, which is surprising given how famous he is.”

Although, apparently not so famous I wasn’t smart enough not to use his name. Still, Spencer had done a good job of making my mistake work to our advantage. Playing off her reminded me a lot of running cons with my brother. We didn’t even need to talk to each other to make it work.

“You expect me to give you their table just because you say so? Why didn’t they call to change the reservation?”

I started to speak, but Spencer cut me off. I felt her body tense and had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when I realized it wasn’t nerves but actual annoyance that had her so on edge. “Probably because they didn’t think you’d make a federal case out of it. This is a restaurant, not the U.S. Mint.”

“I know.” The hostess narrowed her dark eyes at Spencer. “It would be easier for you to get a table there.”

Spencer made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. “Forget it.” She looked up at me. “Come on. Let’s just go to that Turkish place we actually wanted to try tonight.” She put her arm across my back and steered me away from the podium, then said in a volume meant to be overheard, “I guess this answers Jenn’s question about whether this place is worth checking out.”

I didn’t have a clue who “Jenn” was, but apparently the hostess did.

“Wait,” she called, and we both turned to look at her. Her disbelief had melted into nervous uncertainty. Earning a bad reputation with one of the highest profile residents of Philadelphia certainly wouldn’t be good for business. “You swear they gave you their table?”