The Ground Rules (3 page)

“Nonsense,” she says. “You two really don’t strike me as sociopaths,” she adds with a laugh.

“Thank you,” I say and instantly feel like an idiot—this conversation is very odd.

“Well, sociopaths
do
come in many shapes and sizes,” her husband points out, his voice soft and languid. He’s looking at me. “But regardless…I think we’ll live dangerously and take our chances.”

And I can’t help but smile—a big genuine smile, and I instinctively bring my hand up to cover it. He smiles back, his gaze staying on me for what seems like the longest time, and I can’t seem to look away.

My heart does a little flip.

What the hell has gotten into me?

Yes…I believe that fits.

W
E
F
OLLOW
T
HE
H
OSTESS
to a table.

Barbie and I go first, followed by Gabe and Weston. I still don’t know Barbie’s name and they don’t know ours. I barely take in my surroundings—this seems like such a strange turn of events.

As we reach our table, Weston pulls Barbie’s chair back in a very gentlemanly way, and she gingerly perches her bottom on the seat.

I help Gabe with his jacket—he always runs hot.

“Why don’t you sit right there,” she suggests to Gabe, her eyes pointing to the chair facing her. “I love a good view with my meal,” she adds with a wink and a not-so-subtle flirty voice. My jaw practically falls to the floor. I can’t believe she’s flirting with my husband—the gall of this woman.

Gabe smiles and does as instructed—I think he’s a little stunned. And he doesn’t pay me any attention—no gentlemanly chair pulling for me. But I can’t blame the guy—a supermodel is flirting with him. That surely doesn’t happen every day…or week…or
ever
.

I look over at Weston as he takes a seat next to his wife. I’m curious to see what he thinks of all this. He doesn’t seem bothered one bit. I get the feeling this is not an unusual occurrence.

I take a seat opposite Weston and smile at the hostess as she leaves us.

“Where are my manners,” Barbie blurts out. “I’m Bridget,” she offers, extending her perfectly manicured hand to Gabe.

I suppose I can now stop referring to her as “Barbie.”

He quickly shakes her hand. “I’m Gabe,” he offers. “And this is my wife, Mirella.” I like how he sneaks the word “wife” in there, almost as if he’s reminding her he’s married.

She extends her hand to me, and I take it, surprised by how soft and delicate it feels. And as I smile at her, I am awestruck by her beauty.

I look over at Weston, who gives me a closed-lipped smile. I already know his name because I’ve been kind of spying on him.

“Weston Hanson,” he offers and shakes both our hands in a very business-like way—no smiles, no fanfare.

All the introductions have been made, and there’s a tense moment of silence. Weston rearranges his glassware and cutlery, moving it around ever so slightly and lining it up at perfect angles, into flawless symmetry. His behavior is a little odd.

Then I look over my own setting, and it does seem slightly off, and I find myself mirroring his actions and adjusting it. I look up at him, and he smiles at me. His smile is barely discernable—but it is an invitation, nevertheless, to look at him without inhibition.

The whimsical silver fish-shaped clip on his flashy purple tie draws my eye. He looks completely at ease in his dark sleek suit. I don’t know much about suits, but I bet his is expensive and custom tailored. His eyes are striking—light green speckled with gold, lined with long dark lashes, unlike anything I have ever seen. And my heart does another little flip. I immediately tell myself to settle down.

“Where are you wonderful people from?” Bridget asks.

“We’re from Naperville, born and raised,” Gabe explains. “Well, myself anyway…Mirella moved there from Michigan when she was seventeen.” Gabe has taken the conversation into his own hands, as he always does. And I’m just fine with that—I’m not much for small talk—I prefer listening.

“How ’bout you folks?” he asks.

Bridget laughs. “We live in Lake Bluff. But we also have a few properties here and there.”

Of course.

An almost invisible woman pours water, barely making a dent in our existence. Bridget and Gabe don’t see her at all. Weston gives her a warm, “Thank you,” as do I.

I find myself listening intently. For some reason, I want to know more about these people. Bridget does all the talking, and Weston listens, like I do, catching my eye every now and then.

And I try not to look at him too much.

I feel odd—part of me is exhilarated, and another part of me just wants to disappear.

Bridget tells Gabe she’s a criminal defense lawyer.
Damn, beautiful
and
smart.
I’m not surprised—a woman with that much class has to have some brains.

Gabe tells her about his business, and she seems genuinely interested. Gabe has worked in his family business for almost twenty years, since he was sixteen. His family name is synonymous with quality handcrafted furniture—they’ve been doing it for over fifty years.

“Do you build the furniture yourself?” Bridget asks.

Gabe laughs. “Oh no. If I built you a chair, it’d probably be missing a leg, and you’d fall off and break your neck.”

Bridget laughs heartily.

“We actually work in collaboration with the Mennonite community,” he tells her. “They do fantastic work.”

“Too bad,” she says, giggling a little. “I was kind of picturing you with a circular saw and a sexy tool belt.”

Really? This again?

Gabe laughs. “Sorry to disappoint, Bridget.”

Yep, these two seem to be getting along very well—famously, in fact. They’re completely ignoring us—it seems as if Weston and I are not even in the room.

I’m mildly irked.

Weston smiles, seemingly amused. This doesn’t seem to bother him at all.

“What about yourself, Mirella?” he asks—my name flows slowly off his tongue. “What do you do?”

He speaks!

I’m taken aback, and it takes me a second or two to answer him. “Well, I teach kindergarten actually,” I say proudly. I may not make as much money as Bridget, but my work is very rewarding.

He smiles and is silent again.

And after what seems like an eternity, he speaks again. “Yes…I believe that fits.”

I’m surprised by his words. There’s a certain level of intimacy in them. He doesn’t know me—we’ve barely spoken, but he apparently has an opinion on what “fits me.”

I’m curious.

I must get to the bottom of it.

I smile. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates a little. “You seem patient, and also kind and young at heart. A fitting personality for a kindergarten teacher.”

He doesn’t elaborate further.

I’m flattered by his words, but I can’t let this go.

“And what makes you say that?” I ask with a smile. “You barely know me.”

He clears his throat, not quite looking at me. “I study people,” he explains as he fiddles with his sparkling, fish-shaped silver cufflinks. “You can learn a lot from simply observing.”

He’s so cryptic…it’s driving me insane.

“Well, what exactly have you observed?” I ask with determination.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Oh…it’s nothing. I apologize for my presumption.”

But I can’t let this go.

“Enlighten me, please.”

He bites his bottom lip, his gaze glued to the wine glass in his hand. “Well…first off,” he starts, hesitating a little, “when the maître d’ didn’t have a table for you, you didn’t seem too upset. You seemed content, sitting there with your husband, which makes me think you’re pretty easygoing. You didn’t lose your composure or scowl in any way, like your husband did, which tells me you’re patient. Even when the maître d’ told you there was no table, you seemed concerned but not necessarily angry.”

It’s true. I
am
rather easygoing.

He ventures a look up at me and goes on, “When we sat down at the table, you doted on your husband and helped him with his jacket, and didn’t seem to mind he wasn’t paying attention to you. You like to take care of people, not be taken care of.”

At this point, I am completely transfixed. This guy’s better than that weird palm reader at the renaissance fair I went to last year.

He shifts in his seat and leans in a bit, the intensity not leaving his eyes for a moment. “You let your husband take over the conversation, so you don’t like to be the center of attention. It’s not about you, it’s about others.”

I am speechless at this point. Utterly speechless.

“When the server poured our water, you thanked her and acknowledged her. You don’t consider yourself superior to her, or anyone else for that matter, merely of different life circumstances.”

And suddenly, it’s just the two of us in the room—his amazing green eyes boring into mine, my attention completely on him, and it shames me to admit, my panties are a little moist.

“And that quirky, rather interesting brooch you’re wearing…it’s very whimsical,” he says, a hint of playfulness in his voice. “It tells me you love color. You love beautiful things, and you’re young at heart. I’d wager you love to do crafts with your kids—you love to color and get silly with them. Am I right?”

Good God.

This guy
must
have a PhD in behavioral psychology. He’s got me down pat.
I do
love to do crafts with the kids, and
I do
love to color. Everything he’s said about me is spot on. I feel almost naked—like he can read my mind or something.

Oh shit! I hope he can’t read the fact that I think he’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Damn.

I laugh a little nervously. “Wow…uh…you’re good. You got me spot on.”

He smiles without a word. I want to ask about him, but the waitress comes over and interrupts us.

She takes our order for drinks. Weston orders a bottle for the table—a red, something French and expensive sounding—it seems to be the usual. The waitress obviously knows him well, often addressing him as “Mr. Hanson.”

Gabe, who usually drinks beer, doesn’t order a drink—he never drinks and drives. But he’ll probably have a small glass of wine. Bridget and I order martinis.

I’m glad when the waitress leaves us. I want to know everything about this man. Gabe and Bridget are still deep in conversation. She’s talking about her alma-matter—Harvard…figures.

“So, how about you?” I ask. “Are you a psychologist? Let me guess…criminal psychology? You seem to be able to read people’s minds.”

He laughs. “No…I’m a developer,” he says simply, without elaboration.

Then he’s quiet again. There’s such an intense look about him, like he’s simultaneously having a conversation with me
and
trying to figure out how to solve global warming. There seems to be so much going on in his mind.

“Um…” I hesitate. I want to know more but don’t want to appear too nosy. He’s not giving me much to work with. I’ll probably have to Google him. “What kind of development do you do?”

“Sustainable loft condos and housing. Sustainable energy is the way of the future. We’re now building homes which create more energy than they use.”

“That’s great,” I tell him, truly impressed. “Fascinating.”

And we find ourselves in silence again. It seems he knows me down to my essence, yet I don’t know a thing about him.

“How many children do you and your husband have?” he asks. How does he know I have children? I haven’t mentioned it.

“Two. Two girls…Chloe and Claire.”

“How old are they?”

“Eight and six,” I wonder if he has children. I have no clue. “How ’bout you…do you have kids?”

He looks off into the distance and doesn’t answer me. There’s something odd in his expression—he seems to be working out his answer—which seems strange to me, since it’s a pretty simple question. “We have two fantastic kids,” he finally offers. “Ashton and Elizabeth. Ashton is ten and Elizabeth is eight.”

I picture his children—they’re perfect…of course. He has dark hair like his father, and she has her mother’s light blond curls and blue eyes. And it goes without saying, they’re both perfectly dressed—a picture straight out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. They’re not mismatched and disheveled like my girls—not in a million years would they ever have gum in their hair.

“Your daughter is the same age as my oldest,” I point out. And before I can think, I add playfully, “We should have a play date.”

And as soon as I say it, I regret it.

How foolish of me. We hardly know these people.

“I…I’m just joking, of course.”

“Not a horrible idea,” he says, his voice as soft as ever.

And I almost melt.

No, it
is
a horrible idea. We should definitely
not
have a play date—not with the feelings I’ve got going on inside me at the moment.

I stammer a little. “Well…you know…I’m sure we’re all very busy.”

And just then, the waitress comes back to save the day and take our orders. I’ve barely had a chance to look at the menu—much too preoccupied with the gorgeous man sitting across me.

I’m such a little tramp.

But then I notice Gabe hasn’t figured out what he wants either—so it’s not just me—he’s guilty too.

Weston and Bridget haven’t even peeked at the menu and have already made their choices.

I suddenly feel rushed. The waitress tells us she’ll give us a moment. Gabe and I peruse the menu, quickly selecting our dinner choices. I realize that as much fun as we’re having, we do have a show to catch.

Bridget orders a seafood salad, and I find myself wanting to emulate her. Maybe if I start ordering a few salads, I too, can squeeze into a size two.

The “wine guy” (I’m really not sure what his official title is—though surely this is the kind of thing Weston and Bridget know) holds up the bottle for Weston, who nods. He proceeds to pour him a sample. Weston tastes and nods again. There is a lot of nodding going on, and I find myself watching him curiously. I would have no clue if a wine was acceptable or not, but Weston seems to be an expert. My favorite wines can be found in eight dollar bottles.

“Wine guy” pours us all a glass, and I can’t wait to have a taste—I need to take the edge off. Generally, the more expensive a wine, the more I hate it.

I wince as I take a sip.
Yep, this wine must be crazy expensive
. I do a rather monumental job at hiding my displeasure.

Bridget and Gabe are still immersed in conversation, laughing here and then.

“Where do you teach, Mirella?” Weston asks, my name rolling off his tongue so deliciously.

“I teach at Heron Heights. I like it. And where do you work?” I ask, curious. The more I know, the better.