“Okay,” I acknowledge. “I can do that.”
Lila picks up her coffee and holds the cup to her lips. “Oh, I know you can.”
12
Romancing I can do, especially for Claire, as my emotions demand it, but drawing the woman out is the challenge. For four days, the furthest she ventured out was the small grocery store on the corner of her block to buy fresh fruits, vegetables, and of all things, gin and black pepper. My opportunities to woo her are thereby ridiculously limited. Only after hours of pacing the penthouse am I able to come up with a plan which might work. The night at The Golden Rail when I was in her car, there was a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. I recall it vividly as the memorabilia held almost a place of reverence among the otherwise spotless interior. If she is a diehard fan of the team, I know I might have a chance. All I need to do is get her a ticket to the next game and bump into her at the stadium.
Securing the prime location of the seat was essential. I went with a good, but not great, seat on the home team’s side, field level. Next, to get the ticket into her possession. A quick discussion with the counter clerk at the little store she frequented, and a promise to change his life and that of his family’s forever, convinced him to present the baseball ticket to her as a favor. Watching the store’s video surveillance footage later, I realize how close he and I came to failing our mission. Claire simply could not believe the ticket was available and for free. The clerk begged her to believe he had an extra and because she was so nice to him all the time, she could have it if she wanted. In the end, Claire caved.
Which is why I am standing in one of the many venue halls of Wrigley Field in a Cubs hat of my own, with dark sunglasses, and praying the people milling by me don’t recognize me. Any minute now, Claire should be walking by on her way to the seat. My heart beats a million miles a second knowing I will see her again. She has consumed my thoughts and my dreams. I focus on nothing else but her since we met, and others are noticing. My business colleagues are starting to inquire as to my health, but how do I explain I am lovesick.
Then, there she is, and I freeze. The baseball hat tries but fails to contain her flowing blonde hair, while her faded Chicago Cubs T-shirt hugs her body perfectly. A small backpack hangs from her shoulder. Jeans with holes at the knee, sandals, and the round sunglasses, complete her outfit, and I am captivated. Taking a deep breath, I start walking, and it is easy to intercept her as she looks at her phone. Our shoulders bump.
“Oh God, I am so sorry,” she apologizes looking up to see who she has run into this time. I watch as the moment registers. “No. This is impossible.”
I smile as innocently as I can muster, which feels utterly alien on my face, but for her, I will try anything. “It was my fault. I wasn't looking.”
She shakes her head. “No, I mean impossible you are here. Right here.”
At this, I shrug. “I like baseball.” This is partially true. I strongly considered buying an MLB franchise in Tampa not long ago. Taking a deep breath, I forage on. “It’s good to see you.”
Her face softens. “You too,” she says. “I’m sorry about the other night.” My heart skips a beat at this confession. Perhaps she has thought of me after all and what we shared, the intensity of our touches. All of it.
“It's okay,” is all I think to mutter and am ready to kick myself for not handling this better. My empire requires me to interact with the most influential people on the planet, and yet I can't seem to have a normal conversation in this instance. We stand together, a bit awkward, as the silence lingers.
“Well, I think I better find my seat,” she says still not turning away and I nod, almost missing the fact this is my cue. The woman does something to my brain, I swear. Pulling my own ticket from the back pocket of my jeans, I make a show of checking my assigned location.
“Where are you sitting?” I ask. Claire mimics my movement, and in a second, we both consider where we will sit. My seat is purposefully an entire section over from hers, closer to the field, and a prime spot. In fact, I've purchased it as well as the whole row to ensure no distractions.
“Great spot.” She smiles. “Maybe catch a foul ball even.”
This is my chance, and my heart races like I'm a teenager about to ask my first girl to a high school dance. “I have an extra ticket. My friend canceled last minute. Sit with me?”
Watching her face, while holding my breath, Claire bites her lip, but only hesitates a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “It will be fun.” Before I say more, a cheer erupts from the crowd. The Cubs are taking the field. “We should go sit down.”
Claire smiles slipping her hand through my arm so we can walk together. I know it is meant to be casual and friendly, but the contact nearly freezes me on the spot, and I see her hesitate too. She feels the electricity running between us. Sitting beside her is going to be sweet torture, and I am pleased to think it will be that way for both of us. She wants me; I can feel it.
The seats are truly excellent, and if she notices we are basically alone, she doesn't mention it. In the past, I’ve attended professional baseball games, always from luxury boxes as a guest to the team’s owners or other influential people related to or fans of the sport. Generally, I disregard the actual events happening on the field. I’m not there for the game, but to do business. Make deals. Forward my agenda. Now though, as I sit beside a true fan, I am captivated by both the action unfolding as well as her enthusiasm. If I envisioned a quiet and tender romantic moment beside the woman I can’t stop fantasizing about, I was off the mark. Each play, whether the Cubs are in the field or batting, requires her opinion on its quality. Somehow, I find it charming to see her jump from her seat to cheer a particularly impressive feat of athleticism.
As the first inning ends, she plops back down, cheeks flushed, and I am captivated. “Did you see that?” she asks breathless, a light of fervor in her eyes. “I swear, if our shortstop doesn’t make the All-Star team, I’m going to be pissed.” Suddenly, she stops, her mouth in an O, as she seems to realize how she is acting and what she just said. I laugh because it’s so endearing on her beautiful face.
“I saw,” I reply not talking at all about the Cubs defense but rather her. The passion in her abounds, and I feel my body tighten as I look forward to channeling it. Perhaps sensing my distraction at her ardor, she catches me off-guard.
“You're not really a Cubs fan, are you,” she states.
It is not a question, and I swallow to buy a second, but in the end, I fess up. “I am now.”
She tilts her head, blonde hair cascading over her shoulder, and I force myself not to reach for it—to run my hand through it, clasp it and pull her into me. Her next question snaps me back to the moment. “How do I know this mysterious ticket Rashid magically had for me has something to do with you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” is the best I can come up with under this sudden scrutiny. I am a fool to think she would not see through my weak attempt to meet her again. “Who’s Rashid?”
“A good friend at the counter of the store I go to a lot. He gave me the ticket.”