Intercepting Daisy (5 page)

Grant followed Daisy into the restaurant's dining room. The space was dominated by dark wood, large windows that let in the fading light of an evening in fall, and soaring ceilings. A floor-to-ceiling open wine cellar featured hundreds of bottles. Overhead penlights offered sufficient illumination but still encouraged intimacy. Tables for two and four dominated the space. The hostess stopped in front of a table for two, indicating they should be seated as she handed them each a menu.

“Your server will be here in a moment for your drinks order. Enjoy your dinner,” she said.

“Thank you,” Grant said as he pulled his chair a bit closer to the table. He leaned forward. “Have you been here before?”

He saw Daisy's mouth twitch a little, as if she were stifling laughter. “I thought there was some kind of law that every single person in Bellevue had to go to Purple at least once.”

“I've been here a lot too,” he said. He didn't mention that the restaurant delivered to those who lived in the condos. He'd discovered this when a few of his teammates (who also lived in the same building) had invited themselves over to play video games a few weeks ago. It had been an easy way to feed four ravenous men.

Purple was upscale enough that people would pretend not to stare at him, but it didn't have a dress code. He wanted to impress her, but he didn't want to scare her off.

Daisy laid her menu down on the table. “So, I'm a bit mystified. When did coffee or a glass of wine turn into dinner?” She grinned, but he saw one of her eyebrows arch.

“I don't get much of a chance to talk with you when we're flying to a game,” he said. “I'd like to.”

She sat back in her chair. He wasn't a body language expert, but he watched her crossed arms relax as she laid her hands in her lap. She bit her lower lip. He had to smile when she reached up to smooth her now-marred lip gloss with one finger. He was willing to bet that the normally never-at-a-loss-for-words Daisy was having a tough time coming up with something to talk about.

“Do you know what you'd like to eat?” he asked.

She picked up her menu and opened it again. “I think I'd like the chicken Marsala. What are you going to eat?”

“I think I'll have that as well. How about a bottle of the wine they're recommending?”

“Sure,” she said. “I'd enjoy that.”

She was giving all of the classic symptoms of nerves—not knowing what to do with her hands, playing with her silverware, not looking into his eyes unless she had no other choice. She looked like she wanted to jump up from the chair and run out of the restaurant.

“I have an idea,” he said. Her head jerked up. She'd stopped running her fingers through the horizontal fabric tucks in the waist of her dress. “Maybe we should pretend that we've never met before, that I'm Grant, who works in a cubicle somewhere, and you're Daisy, who works for the business next door. What do you think?”

“I'd like that,” she said. “I wasn't sure if you wanted to talk about your job or not. You probably get sick of people asking you about it.”

“I don't mind so much,” he said. “There's other stuff to talk about, though, and I'd like to get to know you. What do you like to do when you're not flying?” He leaned forward a bit more. A few seconds later, he saw her lean forward too.

“I enjoy a lot of different things, but I have to be able to schedule around being here or not do them. I'm in a women's soccer league. I try to get a certain schedule so I can play in games, but sometimes I can't. My teammates are understanding about it. I worry they're not happy I can't be at every game.” She shrugged a little. “I run. I tried rock climbing a couple of months ago. I'm still not sure about that one.”

“What didn't you like about it?”

“I'm afraid of heights.”

“But you fly for a living.”

“I don't really think about being up that high when I'm flying,” she said. “It doesn't seem to bother me as much. I'm not staring out the window or anything.” She took a sip of water. “I work with a guy who became a flight attendant because he was scared to fly.”

“You're kidding me,” he said.

“No. It took him a few flights, but now he's the guy helping the passengers calm down when things get bumpy.” She smiled at what must have been a private memory. “Most passengers hold it together, but I've worked flights before when someone had a real meltdown.”

“How do you all handle it?” he said.

“The bumpy stuff?” she said. “The flight I was on with you guys—that was scary. The only reason I wasn't freaking out right along with you was I've flown with that pilot a hundred times before. He started out flying in the military, and then he flew bush planes in Alaska. He's seen every situation that can happen with a plane, up to and including losing more than one engine.” She let out a sigh. “Turbulence is like hitting a bad patch of road in the car. It's a case of taking a deep breath and remembering that the pilots know what they're doing, they have the guys in the tower and the weather stuff right in front of them, and they'll divert to another airport if there's really a problem.” She glanced at him again. “See? I'm talking about work. Maybe we should talk about what you like to do when you're not working in that cubicle you mentioned earlier.”

The server arrived at the table and took their order. Mostly, Grant wanted the guy to walk away so he could chat with Daisy some more.

“Are you as hungry as I am?” she said to him.

“Absolutely,” he told her. “Speaking of things I like to do, I've always been fond of eating.”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“Oh, hell no,” he said, and he was rewarded with the sweet sound of her laughter. “Well, I really can't say that. I can cook enough to feed myself, but anything more involved doesn't happen. I get some of those pre-made meals delivered each week. The rest of the time, I go out.”

“Would you like to learn to cook?”

“Are you offering, Daisy?”

“I'm not an expert, but I can teach you to boil water and make toast,” she said.

“Sounds like fun. If we burn everything, we can go out again.”

“Perfect,” she said. “What else do you like to do?”

“I like the outdoors too. I tried rock climbing for the first time during the off-season last year. It's fun, but I had to stop.”

“How come?”

“There's a clause in my contract that I can't participate in any activity that might injure me before training camp. It's part of dealing with my job, but it can get old.”

“So no race-car driving,” she said.

“No race cars, no motocross, no shooting myself out of a cannon. I'll have to come up with something quieter, like knitting.”

“Knitting needles can be dangerous,” she teased.

“Absolutely. I could jab myself in the finger or strangle myself with one of those circular needles I've seen my mom knit with,” he said.

“I read a few months ago that your parents are pastors. Is that true?”

“Yes,” he said. He needed to change the subject as quickly as possible. He didn't want to spend the evening answering questions about his parents. He loved them, but he wanted to find out about her more. “Their church is in Texas.” He took a sip of water. “Do your parents live here?” he blurted out. “What do they do?”

“My parents live in Redmond. My dad works for Bank of America, and my mom just retired from teaching high school English.”

She picked up her water glass and took a sip. She didn't seem any more willing to answer questions about them than he was about his own family, but he wanted to hear more about her.

“Were they surprised when you became a flight attendant, or was it something you'd been planning for a while?”

This all sounded like a job interview to him—general questions about their backgrounds and interests, nothing about what he'd like to discuss. He was having a great time with her, but he wished he could think of something more original to talk to her about. If he was planning on making a move, he usually didn't bother with dinner. He'd meet up with a woman at the bar; a few drinks would be consumed, and he'd call an Uber to get to her place. It occurred to him that he'd been on so many dates during which there was little to no conversation involved that he had no idea what to do next.

Actually, that wasn't accurate. He knew what to do next. But for once in his life, he knew it wasn't the right move. He wanted to get to know Daisy before they went to bed for the first time. That realization sent a cold shiver up his spine. Getting to know her meant that they would have to talk, and that meant that he'd be revealing himself to someone else.

Her lips curved into a smile. “Welcome back,” she said. “You were a little lost in thought there.”

The server chose that moment to arrive at the table with their bottle of wine, a basket of bread, and a small container of whipped butter. He poured a half an inch or so in the bottom of Grant's glass. “Try that and let me know what you think of it,” he said.

Grant swirled the glass and sipped the wine. The tastes of black cherry and oak burst over his tongue, accompanied by a pleasant fullness. Hopefully, Daisy would enjoy it too.

“It's good.”

The server filled their wineglasses and put the bottle back down on the table. “I'll be back shortly with your entrées,” he said.

She took a sip of wine and put her glass back down on the table.

“Do your parents come to your games?” she asked.

“Nope. Sundays are for church,” he said.

“They've never been to a game?”

“They show up when we're playing on Monday night or Thursday.”

“What happens when you become the starting quarterback? Won't they take a week off to see you?” She swirled the stemless wineglass in her fingertips. “My parents and I have had our disagreements over the years, but they'd show up at something like that if they had to walk to the stadium.”

He picked up the wine bottle and poured a bit more into his glass and took another sip. The wine was really good, and he was hoping it would help him calm down.

“They really don't like going to the games. The noise gives my mom a headache, and they're offended by the cheerleaders. It's a good thing they can't come in the locker room, or they'd be upset over the language too. They're not bad people. It's just the difference between my world and theirs, I guess.”

“That's awful,” Daisy said. “I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do it,” he said.

“I know, but I really am sorry. I've been reading the sports news since I started working on the team's charter flights. You're at the top of your profession. I can't believe they're not more interested in that.”

“They're proud of me, but if I wasn't playing on Sundays, I could be at church with them,” he said.

“You wouldn't have the platform to speak to people and make appearances you have now if you didn't play football,” she said. “Have they considered this?”

He picked up his glass and took another sip. They'd almost killed the bottle, and their entrées hadn't shown up yet.

“I don't think it's on their radar yet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“So we've established that you enjoy the outdoors instead of binge-watching Netflix or playing video games around the clock,” she said.

“Don't get me wrong. I enjoy video games. Every time I leave my place, I'm signing autographs and posing for pictures. Some days I'm fine with it. Other days I'd like to spend some time hiking or whatever, get some time on my own. Once in a while, I get a break, but there's nothing like being out in the middle of the woods, enjoying the quiet and not hearing, ‘Hey, I know you. Aren't you that guy from the Sharks?' ” He aligned the silverware next to his plate. “Do you have days when you're really not in the mood to deal with the flying public?”

“Everyone has days they don't want to deal with the flying public, let alone other people. Mine don't seem to happen that often.” He watched her relax farther into her chair. “I always feel energized after talking with people. Most people are interesting, and I love finding out what makes them tick. Ninety-nine percent of the passengers on my flights are nice people. The one percent are the ones you have to watch out for.” One side of her mouth curved into a smile. “They'll wreck your whole week.”

“Want me to tell you about the people who come up to me who are still mad the team I played for in college lost the Sugar Bowl my sophomore year?”

“What? That's crazy.”

“Oh, it happens,” he said. He reached out for his glass and extended it to her in a toast. “Let's drink to the nice people.”

“To the nice people,” she said as they touched glasses. The server arrived with their entrées.

“Would you like another bottle of wine?” he asked.

Grant glanced at Daisy, who shrugged her shoulders. “I drove here,” she said.

He was pretty sure she'd navigated the
I drank too much and need to get home
challenge before, but he was surprised that she'd made it clear she didn't intend on ending her evening at his place. Of course, this made him want her there all the more.

“How about a bottle of sparkling water instead?” the server said.

“Yes, please,” Grant said.

A
N HOUR OR
so later, Daisy grabbed her bag off of the restaurant floor to pull it onto her lap. She'd been on more than a few first dates in her life, but this was the most interesting one yet. She hadn't been sure what he would be like when he wasn't on the team plane. She'd expected Grant to be a player—spouting lines, trying to get her drunk so she'd go home with him, or acting like a conceited ass. He was a little quiet, but she was charmed by his sense of humor and admission that he had a tough time coming up with things to talk about on a date.