The Ground Rules Part 2

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. d.a.m.n, beautiful and smart. I'm not surprised-a woman with that much cla.s.s 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 s.e.xy 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 gla.s.s in his hand. "Well...first off," he starts, hesitating a little, "when the matre 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 matre 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 circ.u.mstances."

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 G.o.d.

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 s.h.i.t! I hope he can't read the fact that I think he's the most gorgeous creature I've ever laid eyes on.

d.a.m.n.

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 gla.s.s 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 t.i.tle 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 gla.s.s, 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.

He laughs a little. "Everywhere. I work everywhere."

Another cryptic answer. I hope he knows I'm not planning to stalk him anytime soon. Although it would be completely understandable if a woman were inclined to do so-he is totally stalk-worthy.

"You don't like to divulge much about yourself, do you?"

"You got me."

I will definitely need to check him out-a man like him must be all over Google.

We find ourselves listening to Bridget and Gabe who are going on about their college escapades. Gabe majored in business-his father wanted him to take over the family business management, but Gabe was never a paper-pusher. He wanted to get his hands dirty, work on the ground floor. We both went to Chicago State. I commuted, and I would often stay over at his dorm, even if it was against the rules-Gabe has always been a rule breaker.

Now those days seem so far away.

The waitress comes over with our meals. I'm always amazed how restaurants can coordinate completely different meals to arrive at almost the exact same moment. "Enjoy," she offers as she leaves us.

Weston pulls out a small plastic bottle from his jacket pocket, drops a dollop of clear liquid on his palm and rubs his hands.

I smile. This is exactly what I do, but I haven't brought my bottle because my fancy clutch is only big enough for my wallet and lipstick-and of course, lipstick takes precedence over hand disinfectant.

I extend my hand to him. "Can I have some?"

He smiles as he plops a drop on my palm. I catch Gabe's eye-he's looking at us like we're the two biggest nerds on the planet. Well, let's see how he feels when he gets the flu.

We enjoy our meal mostly in silence, with the exception of Bridget who manages a few words between every bite. I can't completely enjoy my pasta because I'm simply too worked up.

Worked up about what?

I'm not sure. I just feel this intense electricity in the air.

Gabe and I tell them we have to rush because we have a show to catch. Of course they've seen it-they've seen them all, Bridget informs us.