"I am." Pride creeps into my voice despite my attempt at nonchalance. "I design and sell clothing. Some handmade, some modified. Mainly sweaters and accessories."
"That sounds really cool." His interest seems genuine as he leans forward. "How did you get started?"
Before I know it, I'm telling him about my journey from designing costumes for community theater to launching my online store. He asks smart questions about manufacturing and design processes, listens intently to my answers, and shares his own insights.
"The early days are the hardest," he says, nodding as I describe working through the night to fill unexpected orders. "Everyone sees the success, not the grind that got you there."
"Exactly!" I'm surprised by how well he gets it. "People think I just woke up one day with a running business, but it's been years of fourteen-hour days and ramen noodle dinners."
Darren looks slightly green. "Tell me about it. I ate so much of that shit during college, I couldn't pass it in the grocery aisle for years without gagging."
"You still look a little queasy," I admit with a giggle.
By the time our entrees arrive, I've nearly forgotten we're supposed to be meeting his pack. The conversation flows so easily between us that it feels like we've known each other for years rather than an hour. He's funny without trying too hard, thoughtful without being pretentious, and he looks at me when I speak like he's actually listening instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.
It's downright unnerving how much I like him already.
The waiter refills our wine glasses, and I realize we've been so engrossed in conversation that I haven't seen him check his phone once.
"Should we be worried about your packmates?" I ask.
A flash of annoyance crosses his face. "Honestly? I'm starting to think we've been stood up."
Wouldn't be the first time in my case, but I decide not to admit that.
"Let me guess. Cold feet about the whole online dating thing?"
"Something like that." He takes a sip of wine. "Their loss, honestly."
I'm surprisingly okay with this development. One-on-one is much less intimidating than meeting an entire pack all at once.
"So," I venture, "what do you do? When you're not being stood up by your own pack, I mean."
Now he definitely looks uncomfortable. "I, uh, I play hockey. Professionally."
"Oh." That explains the build. And the way he carries himself with that quiet athleticism. "Wow, that's impressive. What team?" When I realize that might be insulting, I quickly add, "I don't really follow sports."
He chuckles, relief evident in his expression. "I didn't think so."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good. Definitely good." He smiles, and my stomach does a little flip. "It's refreshing to talk to someone who doesn't already have opinions about me based on stats or highlight reels."
I try to imagine what that would be like, being known by strangers, having your performance publicly dissected. "That sounds exhausting."
"It can be." He shrugs those massive shoulders. "But I've been lucky. I play for the Grizzlies, which is?—"
"The Grizzlies?" I interrupt, a frog in my throat. "Wait, that's the team my brother-in-law is obsessed with. He's always trying to get tickets."
Darren's smile widens. "I can help with that. Would be happy to, actually."
"Oh, God, no," I say, remembering what he said earlier about the woman who only wanted tickets. Although I have a hard time imagining anyone looking at Darren and not seeing him as a better prize. "That's not?—"
"It would be my pleasure," he insists, grinning. "And if you're into it, I'd love for you to come to our next home game. I can set you up with VIP box seats. Bring whoever you want."
I blink, trying to process this unexpected offer. "That's incredibly generous."
"It's nothing." He waves it off, but I can tell my reaction pleases him. "Just perks of the job."
