Dater's Handbook. Cara Lockwood

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СКАЧАТЬ that’s probably because even he had no idea how close he’d come to not marrying my sister that day. Nadia, the girl who’d dreamed of her wedding day her whole life, had suddenly gotten a horrible case of cold feet the very night before. I’d had to talk her out of running for the hills. Michael was a goofball, but he was a stand-up guy, and he loved my sister. And now look at her, happy—mostly—with baby number two on the way.

      I’d done my good deed that day.

      I glanced at the empty seat next to me and again wondered where Peter was. I knew he oversaw the bar and couldn’t spend the whole evening chatting with us, but he’d almost entirely ignored us since we came in. I’d gotten a quick wave and a hold-on-a-minute sign. That had been twenty minutes ago. I guessed they might be understaffed tonight. I didn’t see the usual number of waitresses. Peter always seemed to lose employees. People quit or just didn’t show up—one of the dangers of running a sports bar. I liked that Peter owned his own business. We bonded over being entrepreneurs. He understood the stress of meeting payroll and trying to find good employees. Besides, I thought he’d been smart to roll over his money from playing baseball for the Rockies into a place that could build him a stable financial future.

      I had to admit I liked telling people I was dating a semi-famous person, even if “dating” might not have been the right word for it. Peter seemed fine with hanging with my sister and Michael—usually because they picked up the tab when they took us out to eat—but he’d yet to go deeper and meet my mom or my friends. Even after two years, I honestly couldn’t say if I was his standing Saturday night date or not. But I decided not to push it. I hated relationship talks.

      I saw Peter near the kitchen doors now, holding a platter of wings and talking to a group of girls wearing Rockies shirts. I told myself he was only being a good bar owner, making sure his customers were having a good time. Yet, why did he linger so long at their table, near the girl with the low-cut shirt who seemed to be flipping her blonde hair constantly? Why didn’t he give any love to the high top of dudes right nearby? Peter must have felt me looking, because he eventually dragged himself away from the pretty blonde. He grinned as he headed to our table, carrying an oversized platter of wings.

      “Oh, look. Here’s your boyfriend, bearing gifts,” Michael said, perking up at the sight of food.

      Peter looked like the professional baseball player he used to be: tall and broad, with a killer smile and amazing blue eyes. He was part overgrown frat boy, part jock, and all confidence. Everything about Peter seemed beefy, from his thick, muscled shoulders to his extensively worked calves. I had to admit that watching him cross the bar wasn’t a bad way to spend the night.

      “You guys have to try these,” Peter said, placing the tray on our high-top table. “Cilantro Sesame-Honey wings.”

      I glanced at the sauce-covered chicken and frowned. I was allergic to honey. Peter knew this. I’d told him many times. Like when he tried to feed me honey-mustard sauce. That time he drizzled honey on my waffles. That other time he dumped honey in my chamomile tea when I was sick and I got, well…even sicker. Honey causes my tongue to swell and my throat to close up, and if I don’t get an EpiPen shot, then it’s a trip to the emergency room.

      Nadia looked at the plate in front of us as if it was full of live bees.

      Peter grinned at me, still not getting the message I was trying to silently drill into his brain. “And since I can’t hang with you because we’re shorthanded, they’re on the house.”

      Michael grabbed one. “Well, you know I love free,” he said. Nadia, meanwhile, swiped the food from his hand.

      I cleared my throat, but Peter just looked at me blankly. He seriously did not remember.

      “You know I love wings,” I said and clutched his arm—his big, bulky, muscular arm. “But I can’t have them because…” I paused to give him time to catch up. I really didn’t want to have to finish my sentence and remind him of the honey allergy—again. Especially not in front of Nadia. She was already not all that impressed with Peter. She’d told me so.

      But Peter just stared at me, blue eyes vacant. He wasn’t getting it. I continued. “Because of the…” Another pause, another blank stare from him. “The honey?”

      I expected a burst of recognition, a sheepish apology. Yet still, he seemed befuddled. Okay, so I got that Peter wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but did he really not remember?

      “Duh,” Nadia piped in, glaring as only my sister can. “She’s allergic?”

      Michael took a second bite of his wing, happy to stay out of this awkward moment.

      I studied Peter, who somehow still managed to look blank. Maybe blank was his resting face. Maybe blank was just what he was all the time. He really hadn’t remembered, not even after two years, not even after Nadia had flat out reminded him. And even now, as he glanced at the table, I knew he probably would forget again, too.

      Normally, I liked the fact that Peter wasn’t too into my business, wasn’t too clingy or needy, but in this very moment, when he nearly fed me a food that could kill me, I thought maybe I needed to rethink that. If he couldn’t recall basic details about me—life-saving details—then did he really care about me at all?

      We had a no-fuss, no-muss kind of relationship, but shouldn’t he know me well enough by now to avoid a trip to the ER?

      Michael took a third bite of chicken wing then and coughed, his excitement about finishing the wing suddenly abating as the seasoning finally hit him. “Interesting…” he murmured, frowning. “Uh, yeah… They’re interesting.” Clearly, the cilantro-honey failed to impress. Peter, however, missed the tepid compliment and just beamed with pride.

      “Yeah…interesting.” Nadia frowned at the wing in her hand and then dropped it, clearly uninterested in finishing.

      “Tangy?” Michael offered, but also slowly set the food back on his plate. That meant the things had to be darn near inedible. Michael ate nearly everything.

      Peter was always trying weird recipes he found online. He believed he might really have a knack for cooking, and I never had the heart to tell him that wasn’t his strong suit. Come to think of it, what was his strong suit? Having a strong jaw? A killer smile?

      “So, here’s what I’m thinking about tomorrow, guys,” Peter said, clapping his hands in boyish excitement. “The college game starts at eleven tomorrow. We get some subs, gather round the big screen and—boom!—football marathon.”

      “We are so in!” Michael declared, grinning. Nadia glared at him, giving his shin a nudge under the table.

      “We have two birthday parties tomorrow,” she reminded him.

      “We are so out,” Michael said, crestfallen.

      I had to bite my tongue. I’d told Peter about Dana’s wedding tomorrow. Yes, he’d said he hated weddings, but I thought I’d maneuvered him to more of a “maybe, we’ll see” kind of place. But now it seemed as if he didn’t remember having a conversation about it at all. First, the honey, then totally spacing on Dana’s wedding?

      “So?” Peter asked me.

      “And…we have Dana’s wedding?” I quirked an eyebrow. Remember? That wedding you said, “maybe” you’d “think about”?

      “You know how I feel about СКАЧАТЬ