Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Other couples are scattered at tables around the dining room—men and men, women and women, men and women. Groups too. But it’s less than half full as the night unwinds.
Gunnar glances around, taking it all in, then he pats me on the shoulder. “Well done, Rafe. Not too shabby.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” I say drily. But I am happy he likes this escape. Am I showing off to him? Perhaps I am.
A redhead in skinny jeans and a black polo strides over to us. “Your regular table is ready, Mr. Rodman,” she says.
“Thank you, Bethany,” I say.
As we follow her through the room, Gunnar mouths your regular table?
I don’t respond to him, since Bethany asks a question: “And how is your evening so far?”
“Not too shabby,” I say.
Gunnar snorts.
Bethany leads us to a booth in the corner, the cushions a lush shade of sapphire.
“Let me know when you’re ready to order,” she says, gesturing to the menus on the table.
“Of course.”
“And in the meantime, can I get you drinks?”
Gunnar jumps in. “He’ll have a scotch, I suspect.”
Bethany smiles, then turns to me. “Your regular?”
I nod, amused by Gunnar and feeling understood by him too. Well, when it comes to drinks. “Macallan would be great. And you?” I ask, turning to Gunnar.
“Bourbon. Maker’s Mark. Neat.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be back soon,” Bethany says.
When she leaves, I turn my attention to my . . . companion.
Yes, that works. Date feels all wrong, not in the least because it requires so much negotiation.
My companion watches me with questions in his eyes and drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Your regular table? Do you come here often then? And take a whole team, Rafe? Or just a starting lineup?”
Anger ignites like dry kindling and burns hot and red in my chest. “Don’t,” I say sternly. “Don’t even go there.”
He gulps. “Shit, sorry,” he says, lifting his hands in apology. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” The insinuation is a sharp knife. I look away, a tic in my jaw, and take a moment to let the anger run its course. But I relent sooner than I expect. I should reassure him. Gunnar might be a rising star on the ballfield, but the world I inhabit is still new to him—private clubs, after-hours parties, the world of the rich.
He might well suspect I have a revolving door for young, handsome men who are at my disposal. I am nearly a decade older than he is.
With that, I let go of my anger and turn to Gunnar. His blue eyes are wide, guileless, and contrite. He’s realized his misstep.
“There’s no one else,” I say crisply.
“Same. Same here.” He answers immediately, like he wants to reassure me too.
“Good.” I set a hand possessively on his thigh, squeezing the muscle. “There better not be.” Then I let go, grab his face, and slide my thumb along his jawline, just hard enough to make my point. “If we’re going to do anything else, you need to know something about me.”
“Tell me,” he says. I like his desperation.
Holding his gaze, I take my time, making sure I have his undivided attention. “I don’t share.”
He tries to rein in a smile. “You better not,” he says, lips twitching.
I let go of his jaw. With that rule established, I gesture to the club that’s a second home for me. I want Gunnar to like it as much as I do. “What do you think of The West House?”
Stroking his chin, he gives the room another appraisal, eyes roaming to the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Pacific Ocean then coming back to me. “I can tell you like it here,” he says.
“I do,” I say emphatically.
“Why?” he presses. “It must mean something to you.”
There’s so much I keep private, but this is something I can share with him. It’s key to who I am. “I’ve struck friendships here, forged business deals, but most importantly, found a place that embraces all humans.” I gesture to the dining room. “The only membership requirement is the one anyone can attain—money. Nothing else matters. You can be they, he, she. Queer, straight, non-binary. Black, Asian, Jewish. Throughout history, private clubs have excluded people based on who they love or who they are. I don’t believe in that and don’t want to support that ideology with my membership or my business. Here, anyone is welcome as long as they can turn green into more green.”
Gunnar hums as he takes in my explanation, then he smiles, seeming very satisfied. “The Rafe file just got a little thicker.”
“You have a file on me?” I ask with a laugh.
“Hell yeah,” he says with a full-on smirk. “I’ve been adding details since we met. This latest detail may be my favorite so far. In fact, that gave me a boner.”