Page 27 of Bluffed By the Offense

More silence.

He stares at me.

I stare at him.

Neither of us tries to make small talk.

Well, this went swimmingly.

If this were an actual first date, I’d be texting one of my friends from the bathroom with an SOS. They’d call a few minutes later to tell me there’s an emergency. I’d apologize to my date and split the check. Then I’d leave and breathe out a long sigh filled with relief and regret. But I promised Winona an hour. I look at the clock on my phone. Twenty-three minutes to go.

Two couples arrive and take the table next to us. They glance over and then they do a double take. My burger is poised right in front of my mouth and my lips are spread wider than a bass on a hook over the Cumberland River. One of the guys snaps a picture—without even asking. He waves, smiles, and takes a seat.

I hope and pray he didn’t get me in the picture.

The memes that could be made of me in that pose. I shudder thinking of them.

The couples start talking amongst themselves, so I turn my attention back to Marcus. He’s still sitting there, quietly staring at me.

“Are you usually this talkative on dates?” I ask Marcus between bites.

“I don’t date much,” he says. “And no.”

“No you’re quieter, or no, you’re more talkative.”

He runs his hand down his jawline. “I’m probably more talkative—on a real date.”

So, he’s just biding his time too. Not that I wanted him to drop to one knee. But … I don’t know what I want. Just not this. When fans show up, he’s all smiles. When it’s just the two of us, the charm turns off like a light switch and he’s counting the grains of sand in the hourglass until he can break free.

I finish most of my burger. Marcus clears his plate. The waiter comes by and asks us if we want dessert.

We both practically shout over one another to say, “No.”

The waiter leaves the check. I grab for it.

“Oh, no,” Marcus says. “I’m paying.”

“We’re splitting,” I tell him. “This wasn’t a date. We’re splitting.”

“Let me pay, Cass.”

Again with my name.

“I’m paying half,” I tell him, sounding obstinate, even to my own ears. But I couldn’t care less. I am not letting him pay to sit here against his will, enduring a night out with me.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a little stubborn?” he asks.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have control issues?” I retort.

“Only you.”

“Shocking.”

I stand with the check. He stands to follow me. Our waiter is coming out from the kitchen. I practically speed walk toward him with my card and the check outstretched in his direction. Marcus is at my side, coming from out of nowhere. He extends his arm over mine, pushing my hand down and giving the waiter his card instead.

He attempts to wrest the bill from my hand, but I’ve got a grip on it. I tug back just as he yanks forward. The bill slips out of my grasp and I go flying backward, knocking the table of a couple sitting just behind us. Waters and artichoke dip go flying. I wobble, but it’s no use. I’m going down with the table.

“Sorry!” I shout to the couple, who are jumping out of their chairs to avoid dog piling with me.