The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(2)
In that moment, Eloise was over it. Over the date. Over men. Over him.
“So you’ve been here with the guys have you?” she asked, forcing the conversation, sipping on her very ladylike glass of chardonnay. “I don’t see any TV’s in here.”
“They’re in the lounge,” he said, deflecting her obvious barb. He raised his whiskey and coke. “We’re not all sports, you know. I wear a suit now and again, Eloise, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered, feeling the tiniest bit guilty for being so hateful. “I didn’t mean any offense, Ryder. And call me El. Everyone does.”
But I did. I meant every offense. You’re just too thick headed to understand it.
“Okay, El. Here’s to a great season for the Riot,” he said, proceeding with his toast. They clinked glasses.
“To us,” she added. “The marketing genius behind the team.”
He nodded his agreement. “You’re not kidding.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked between mouthfuls of the calamari. “Playing hockey?”
He winced as if she’d dug her Jimmy Choo heel into that sore spot and twisted, but simply shrugged his broad shoulders, sculpted and hardened by years of training for the game he loved. A game that was now forever out of his reach. Ah, her heart pumped piss over his loss. Ryder sighed and leaned back, putting his fork down next to his appetizer plate.
Her arrow had hit a bullseye.
“Sure. But we can’t all be Connor McDavid, can we? I’m a corporate guy now.” He took a swallow from his glass. “I can be anything I choose, really. As long as the money’s good.”
“Hmm,” she acknowledged. “Maybe even a tradesman, like your dad.” A wry smile curved the corners of her mouth, tugging the corners upward in an arc of victory.
Ryder’s jaw worked a bit, probably chewing on the possible responses to that statement between his teeth instead of the food before him. “There’s good money in the trades,” he said. “Especially if the industry would stop supporting an antiquated, patriarchal, and secret-society system of labor. Then we’d actually have fair competition and pay-for-performance quality control.”
Eloise stared at him, cocktail fork suspended in mid-air. Her cool green gaze pierced the distance between them. She didn’t believe such complex words could come out of his mouth. Eloise vaguely remembered hearing that he’d graduated with honors. Perhaps she’d underestimated him.
“Good evening. Are we all ready to order?” the server said, appearing out of nowhere to clear the appetizer plates.
Eloise blinked and turned to face the waiter. “We need a few more minutes, thanks.”
“Certainly. I’ll be right back.”
Ryder polished off his drink. “Well, I know what I’m having. How about you?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered, allowing herself a precious second of bewilderment before the businesswoman returned full force. “That’s quite a bold stand, Ryder. Clearly, you have strong convictions.”
He nodded, considering her words. This man seemed to have strong convictions about everything. “You could say that, yeah.”
“I don’t mean to disagree with you, but I think you’re missing an important point.”
If Ryder wasn’t intimidated by Eloise before, he’d sure as hell get the message now. She wasn’t used to men not backing down when she poured on the frost. As usual, her manner was calm, pleasant. Cool as ice, every bit the public relations pro that she was. White hot rage started in her stomach and boiled upward, threatening to spoil her demeanor with a flush of angry red. She wanted to go schoolteacher all over him and start with a wooden ruler straight to his ass.
“Which is?”
“The only reason non-union tradespeople can earn the wages they do is because of the labor unions that fought to get them. Do you think private contractors would pay those kinds of rates if it were up to them? No. They’d be like the factory workers in the nineteenth century. Six-day work weeks. No benefits, no raises. Talk about antiquated.”
She sucked down the last dregs of her wine and set the empty glass aside. Inhaling. Attempting to keep her composure.
The waiter chose that moment to reappear. Ryder tore his gaze away from her. Two times in the space of a few minutes the floor had been taken away from him by the college aged server. How appropriate.
“I’ll have the ten-ounce New York Strip,” he said, jumping in, even though he should let a lady order first. Game on. If they made it to dessert, she’d cut off his nuts and shove them in his mouth.
Eloise appeared unconcerned, giving and Oscar worthy performance as she placed her order, then turned to face him. “Steak, huh? Why not wild boar, or rabbit, or something equally Neanderthal?”
“Because Humble Pie wasn’t on the menu.”
***
“Right here,” Eloise said as she pointed to the entrance of a high-rise condominium. Ryder slowed to a stop at the curb in front of the building. She inhaled the pleasant “new car” smell inside the cab of Ryder’s new Lexus RC coupe. She could never get enough of that scent, and it made an irresistible fragrance sensation when mixed with the regrettably sexy cologne he wore.
Sadly, the magic carpet ride had come to an end. Dinner with Ryder had been against her better judgment, and the events of the evening had proved her right. Despite her physical attraction to her handsome, muscled co-worker, he’d pissed her off before the first drink.