Page 175 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Let’s get the filet,” he says.

“To share?” I ask, looking at the price.

Declan just laughs, setting his menu down and looking me in the eyes.

“You’re breathtaking.”

“We’ve established that Ann did her job,” I say.

“You. Not Ann. You’re gorgeous.”

“Declan,” I say, feeling my blush rise.

When the waitress arrives, Declan orders for both of us. I get the spinach walnut salad and Declan gets a Caesar. He insists that we have to try the lobster dip. Apparently they're famous for it. I can see why. We each get the filet mignon with tobacco onion and truffle hash cake.

When the food comes, it literally melts in my mouth. We laugh over our meal, sharing stories about our childhoods in Waterford. That leads to Declan telling me some funny stories about traveling with the guys on his team. He ends up talking about their away game last Thanksgiving. Marcus got the bright idea of having Thanksgiving dinner catered to the hotel rooms after the game.

“By the time we played, finished up in the locker room, got our treatments, and did press, the bus rolled up to the hotel at ten p.m.” He shakes his head, smiling at the memory. “Thing was, the caterers had dropped the feast to Delaney’s room at eight. He got up to his room and found a meal that was already fit to be leftovers.”

“Oh no!” I say.

“You know what he did?”

“No. Tell me.”

“He DoorDashed five loaves of sourdough and some mayo and we made turkey sandwiches. Best hotel picnic I’ve had in years.”

“That sounds awesome,” I say.

“It really was,” he says. “And the best part was that everyone called Delaney Cold Turkey for weeks.”

Declan smiles at me over the candlelight. “We don’t have a game this Thanksgiving. Can you believe it’s the first year we aren’t playing a Thanksgiving or Black Friday game since I started with the Thunder and I’m not even on the roster?”

“So, you’re free on Thanksgiving?” I ask while the busboy clears our dinner plates.

“I am.” He pauses. “My parents asked me to come here, to Nashville.”

“Does your mom do a traditional Thanksgiving?” I ask.

“Usually she has it catered and invites a group of their friends over now that we’re all grown. Maeve hosts something in Waterford. Patrick and Daisy will be at her house this year.”

He smiles at me, setting his hand on the table, palm up. I rest my hand in his.

“How about you?” he asks, staring into my eyes and smiling.

The couple from the table next to us stands, smiling over at us before they walk out. I turn my attention back to Declan.

“Mom and Dad do a traditional meal. Cass and I make a few of the side dishes and bring them over.”

“Sounds nice,” he says.

I’m not sure if I’m imagining the wistful tone in his voice.

“You could come,” I say.

“To your parents’?”

“Not in a meet-the-parents way,” I assure him. “Just … come. Unless you need to be at your parents’?”