waitress in a short black skirt placed a tall
beer in front of each of them. Tom was looking at the girl’s butt, but Sam had
his eyes on the big screen television in the corner of the bar.
Maddie grabbed for her jacket.
“We’re leaving,” she said. She put her hand under her mother’s elbow and
attempted to push her toward the door.
Her mother shrugged her off.
“Darling, stop it. We can’t leave. I’m on Travis’s team.”
She said it like she’d just
qualified for the Olympics. It was the second time that day that Maddie had
seen that same look. She’d been outside in the sandbox with the small kids when
she’d seen Sam organizing a game of after-school kickball. He’d picked Libby,
the sweet, skinny nine-year-old who inevitably got picked last when it came
time to choose up teams, to be the team captain. She’d lit up like a Christmas
tree and none of the boys had wanted to argue with Sam.
“Oh, fine,” Maddie said and sank
down on her chair. “Would somebody just bring me a drink?”
*
Sam had finished his
double-bacon-cheeseburger and fries and washed it down with a beer when he
looked across the bowling alley and saw the back of Maddie Sinclair’s head. He
closed his eyes for a couple seconds and then looked again. Could that really
be her? He leaned to the side to get a better look.
It was Maddie, all right. She was
sitting by herself, in one of the ugly green booths, with her elbow on the
table, and her chin propped in her open palm. She had three, no make that four,
empty glasses sitting in front of her.
He pushed his chair away from the
table. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Tom.
Tom didn’t answer. The Chicago
Blackhawks were on the ice and overtime had just started.
When Sam reached the table, Maddie
didn’t bother to move. She just lifted an eyebrow. “Fancy meeting you here,”
she said.
He slid in next to her. He leaned
close so that she could hear him. “Drinking alone?” he asked, nodding in the
direction of the glasses.
She shook her head and gave him a
silly smile. “My mother’s bowling.”
He turned and looked. Just in
time to see Mrs. Sinclair loft her ball halfway down the lane. It hit the floor
with a thud and rolled ten more feet before veering off into the gutter. “She
does shot-put in the Junior League, doesn’t she?” he asked.
Maddie blinked her pretty blue
eyes, and Sam, although he knew it was physically impossible, felt his heart do
a little flip. Lord, she was pretty. And she smelled good. Like raspberries. Her
skirt, probably a nice respectable length when she was standing, had hiked up
and now showed off a fair amount of smooth leg. He scooted an inch closer,
almost close enough to rub his leg against her.
The waitress, a tray of dirty
dishes in one hand, stopped in front of the table. “You want another?” she
said.
Sam shook his head, but Maddie
pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her shirt pocket. “Sure,” she said. “With
whipped cream.”
Whipped Cream? Smooth, naked
skin?
She’d be a sweet sin.
“Maybe you should call it a
night?” he asked, after the waitress had walked away.
“I have to wait for my mother.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Do you want to know something?” she asked,
her voice full of wonder.
“Sure.”
“Strawberry Daiquiri’s are almost
better than cheesecake.”
She was so serious it made him
smile. “Good to know,” he said. “Are you taking any pain pills still?”
She shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “Wouldn’t want
to mix those with alcohol. Even so, I think you’ve probably had enough tonight.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think I’ve had
nearly enough.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
She was close enough to kiss. Her
face was literally just inches away from his mouth. He could see the freckles
on her cheeks and the gentle sweep of her thick lashes against her fair
skin. Her lips, make-up free, were parted just slightly. She was
beer in front of each of them. Tom was looking at the girl’s butt, but Sam had
his eyes on the big screen television in the corner of the bar.
Maddie grabbed for her jacket.
“We’re leaving,” she said. She put her hand under her mother’s elbow and
attempted to push her toward the door.
Her mother shrugged her off.
“Darling, stop it. We can’t leave. I’m on Travis’s team.”
She said it like she’d just
qualified for the Olympics. It was the second time that day that Maddie had
seen that same look. She’d been outside in the sandbox with the small kids when
she’d seen Sam organizing a game of after-school kickball. He’d picked Libby,
the sweet, skinny nine-year-old who inevitably got picked last when it came
time to choose up teams, to be the team captain. She’d lit up like a Christmas
tree and none of the boys had wanted to argue with Sam.
“Oh, fine,” Maddie said and sank
down on her chair. “Would somebody just bring me a drink?”
*
Sam had finished his
double-bacon-cheeseburger and fries and washed it down with a beer when he
looked across the bowling alley and saw the back of Maddie Sinclair’s head. He
closed his eyes for a couple seconds and then looked again. Could that really
be her? He leaned to the side to get a better look.
It was Maddie, all right. She was
sitting by herself, in one of the ugly green booths, with her elbow on the
table, and her chin propped in her open palm. She had three, no make that four,
empty glasses sitting in front of her.
He pushed his chair away from the
table. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Tom.
Tom didn’t answer. The Chicago
Blackhawks were on the ice and overtime had just started.
When Sam reached the table, Maddie
didn’t bother to move. She just lifted an eyebrow. “Fancy meeting you here,”
she said.
He slid in next to her. He leaned
close so that she could hear him. “Drinking alone?” he asked, nodding in the
direction of the glasses.
She shook her head and gave him a
silly smile. “My mother’s bowling.”
He turned and looked. Just in
time to see Mrs. Sinclair loft her ball halfway down the lane. It hit the floor
with a thud and rolled ten more feet before veering off into the gutter. “She
does shot-put in the Junior League, doesn’t she?” he asked.
Maddie blinked her pretty blue
eyes, and Sam, although he knew it was physically impossible, felt his heart do
a little flip. Lord, she was pretty. And she smelled good. Like raspberries. Her
skirt, probably a nice respectable length when she was standing, had hiked up
and now showed off a fair amount of smooth leg. He scooted an inch closer,
almost close enough to rub his leg against her.
The waitress, a tray of dirty
dishes in one hand, stopped in front of the table. “You want another?” she
said.
Sam shook his head, but Maddie
pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her shirt pocket. “Sure,” she said. “With
whipped cream.”
Whipped Cream? Smooth, naked
skin?
She’d be a sweet sin.
“Maybe you should call it a
night?” he asked, after the waitress had walked away.
“I have to wait for my mother.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Do you want to know something?” she asked,
her voice full of wonder.
“Sure.”
“Strawberry Daiquiri’s are almost
better than cheesecake.”
She was so serious it made him
smile. “Good to know,” he said. “Are you taking any pain pills still?”
She shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “Wouldn’t want
to mix those with alcohol. Even so, I think you’ve probably had enough tonight.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think I’ve had
nearly enough.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
She was close enough to kiss. Her
face was literally just inches away from his mouth. He could see the freckles
on her cheeks and the gentle sweep of her thick lashes against her fair
skin. Her lips, make-up free, were parted just slightly. She was
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