Texting With the Enemy (Digital Dating #1) - Marika Ray Page 0,39

head to the bar and play games. The place had skee-ball, darts, tons of pinball and video game machines, and pool.

Of course, I was equally on board if she wanted to head back to my house to play games, too. But I wasn’t going to pressure her. And I needed to come clean before I’d let things get that far.

“This is adorable,” she said, sitting across from me at the tiny table in the back of the bistro.

“I hoped you’d like it. You’ve never been here?”

“Only to the other side. I don’t, uh,” El cleared her throat, then looked up at me, her eyes shining and wide. “I’ll just be honest,” she said, seeming to have decided something. “Money’s tight, you know? My mom doesn’t have insurance and she has a lot of medical issues, so . . .”

I’d suspected as much. “I’m sorry. That’s really hard.”

A bright smile replaced the sadness I saw. “It’s not so bad,” she said. “I have a great new job that pays really well, and my boss promised we’d start making sales calls next week, so I’m going to be earning commission too.”

Pride washed through me. I was so happy I could help her. “That sounds great,” I said.

“Hey, by the way.” El frowned and put down her menu. “I tried texting you, but it said it was undeliverable.”

Argh. “That’s odd,” I tried.

“You sure you gave me the right number?”

“Um.” This was it. I needed to tell her. I’d hoped we might get through a glass of wine first, but here it was, the moment of truth. “So that’s the thing, El. I did give you the wrong number.”

“I figured,” she laughed, interrupting me. “I do that all the time—transpose numbers, you know? You would think it would make for a bad accountant, but I actually think knowing I do that makes me pay closer attention.”

“That makes sense,” I said, unsure whether to be relieved that she hadn’t picked up on the fact I had more to say or disappointed I hadn’t managed to get it out.

“In school it was a huge problem,” she went on. “I felt like a total pretender in college, like I was posing as someone who could be a good accountant, but I was really someone else entirely.”

I nodded, my stomach churning. I couldn’t sit here a second longer lying to her. “Well that’s the thing about pretending to be someone else, right?” I tried, hoping the segue worked.

“What do you mean?”

“So for instance, say you thought someone was one person, but really, they turned out to be someone else,” I said, words seeming to tumble from my mouth in no discernible order.

“Um, okay?” El sipped her water, but then put it down and smiled. “You mean you? How I kind of thought you were a total jerk and even told your mom that, but now I know better?”

“You did?” I asked, distracted for a moment. “Wait, you even told my mom?”

Our waitress returned then with the bottle of wine we’d ordered and poured. We each ordered an appetizer and she left again. I picked up my wine, toasted El and then drank half the glass in one gulp.

“I mean,” El said, dropping my eyes now. “Kind of? But I didn’t know you then. You just seemed . . .”

“From the sales interview?” I supplied.

She nodded, meeting my eyes again. But then her gaze swung over my shoulder, toward the entrance of the bistro. “Oh crap,” she whispered.

I turned to see what she was looking at. There, walking into the bistro like he owned the place, all-American grin and perfect blond locks firmly in place, was Chad. And it was too late to hide. He nodded to the guy he’d come in with and then boomed across the restaurant, “Boston Cunningham! How’s it hanging, bro?”

The wine I’d gulped threatened to eject itself forcefully from my mouth, but I swallowed hard and muttered a greeting.

“And hello there, Cunningham’s cute date,” he said, addressing El.

Oh, this was so much worse than I’d imagined it might be.

“Chad?” She managed, sounding hurt and surprised.

I didn’t know what would happen next, but I had a feeling it would not be good.

14

Isabel

* * *

I wanted the high back, that glow I’d felt after the winery opening when Boston had kissed me and when I felt like nothing could ever penetrate my happy bubble. I’d texted Boston last night and it hadn’t gone through, giving birth to more dragons in my stomach. I’d gone back and