Rewind It Back (Windy City, #5)
Liz Tomford
Chapter 1
Rio
“I prefer an emerald cut.”
With my fork and knife in hand, I slice my steak. “I don’t know. This porterhouse cut is cooked to perfection.”
“Diamonds, Rio.” Chelsea’s tone holds no patience. “Not meat.”
No shit, she’s referring to diamonds, but I’m trying my best to play dumb because preferred ring style is the last thing I want to talk about on a second date. I’d like to know if she’s a kind person. If she and her mom are close. If she enjoys traveling. Shit, I don’t even know if she has any allergies.
“I’m lactose intolerant.”
Her face morphs into confusion at my sudden change in subject. “What?”
“Dairy.” I take another bite of my steak. “It fucks me right up. Sometimes I take a pill beforehand and sometimes I just raw-dog it and deal with the consequences.”
“Did you just say you raw-dog it when referring to your dairy intake?”
“Yeah. If there’s ice cream and I don’t have a pill on me, I’m not going to not eat it, you know? Are you one of the lucky ones with a stomach that can handle dairy?”
“I was asking what kind of rings the wives from the team have.” She swerves the conversation right back to where I don’t want it to be, but I keep eating and refuse to answer. “Do any of them have to work?” she tries instead. “Probably not.”
“Some of them work, yeah. One of my closest friends is married to my teammate and she works for a senior dog rescue.”
Chelsea’s nose scrunches up before she schools it and forces a smile back on her face. “Well, that’s nice. I guess.”
“What do you do for work?”
A quick moment of worry passes through me that maybe she’s already told me before and I’d forgotten.
We had gone to dinner shortly before I left for the summer, but it had been so long ago, I couldn’t remember anything bad about the date. So when she asked if I was interested in going out again, I figured why not give it another go?
Well, it wasn’t exactly an ask. The text read, “When are you taking me out again? I’m free on Friday.” But same thing, I suppose.
“I create content,” she answers without missing a beat. “Influencer-type stuff. Mostly fashion and lifestyle.”
“Very cool. So you work for yourself. Do you like it?”
She shrugs before polishing off her glass of chardonnay and waving it in the air to silently ask our server for another one, lifted brow and expectant stare included.
Don’t like that, I think to myself.
Maybe she doesn’t realize it’s rude, I try to justify.
“I like the perks of it,” she continues. “I make my own schedule. I’m given free products. That kind of thing.”
I almost expect her to ask what I do for work, but she knew before we ever went on our first date.
“Do you have any pets?” I ask.
“No. Too much responsibility.”
“Are you close with your family?”
“Not particularly.”
Are you close with your family, Rio? Why yes, I am. I just got back from three months in Boston, spending quality time with my ma during the off-season. Thank you so much for asking.
Her chardonnay is set on the table before our server clears our now empty plates and I’m that much closer to this being over.
I scold myself for feeling that way.
For always feeling that way.
I can’t remember the last time I even made it to a second date, so I should focus on that small victory I suppose. But this is what tends to happen. I’m eager to meet someone, desperate, you could say. We go on a first date, I don’t feel that spark, and that’s where the connection dies.
Try harder.
“What do you do for fun?” I continue.
“I’m almost always out with my friends. I get invited to a lot of events, so that keeps me busy. I enjoy working out. I like trying new restaurants—”
“I love trying new restaurants!” I sit up, way too stoked about finally finding some common ground.
Chelsea eyes me, thoroughly unimpressed by my excitement. “Cool.”
Shit.
“Do you like music?” I try again.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“We should pick a song.” Pulling out my phone, I begin to scroll through my music library.
“Pick a song?”
“Yeah, you know, since it’s our second date. We should pick a song to remember it by. That way, when we hear it, it’ll remind us . . .” My words die when I see her face.
Her eyes go wide, practically screaming how fucking weird she finds me, and when she opens her mouth to respond, it quickly closes without anything to say.
Because she’s not her. No one else has been.
“Or not,” I decide.
That forced smile is back. “Let’s not.”
Chelsea looks around the restaurant, for the exit I would presume, and I don’t blame her.
“Do you want to get dessert?” I ask.
It takes a moment for her to decide until eventually she surprises me by leaning over the table and slipping her hand over mine. “Actually.” Her tone has gone all soft. “I was thinking we could do dessert back at your place.”