“Like what?” I ask cautiously. Spending the day with Jake is A Very Bad Idea, but still, I can’t help feeling better at the thought.
“You really don’t get the whole surprise thing, do you?” he says, and I can almost hear him grinning through the phone. My heart tumbles over itself in my chest, and I know I shouldn’t even be considering going—it’s playing with fire. Hell, it’s pouring gasoline on an already steady blaze, but before I can second-guess myself or change my mind, I agree. “Sure, why not?”
“If I pick you up in an hour, will that give you enough time to scrub vomit off your face?” he asks, teasing.
“Just for that, you’re bringing coffee.”
I hang up and go fall into the shower, and by the time he picks me up outside my building an hour later, I’m feeling almost like my old self again.
“You look better,” he says when I climb into the passenger seat.
“It’s amazing what power jets and some dry toast can do for a girl.” I grin, and my smile only widens when I spy a venti coffee cup waiting in the cupholder. “Is this for me?” I scoop it up greedily and take a sip. “Vanilla latte!” I exclaim, surprised he got my order right.
“I’m good for something.” Jake pulls out into traffic.
“You’re really not telling me where we’re going?” I ask, trying not to notice how his casual blue T-shirt brings out his eyes . . . and hugs his shoulders with touchably soft fabric. He’s dressed down for the day, in dark wash jeans, and I have to admit, he looks good out of a suit. “You make it hard for a girl to dress for the occasion.”
“You’ll do just fine.” Jake winks, and after a twenty-minute car ride where he refuses to tell me anything at all about what we’re doing, we pull up in front of a pretty little park on the Upper West Side. He turns off the engine. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” I ask, so curious that I can barely stand it. I get out, and look dubiously around.
“Why the scared face?” he laughs.
“I don’t have a good history with parks. Between the food poisoning and the hot air balloon ride, I feel like I’m taking my life in my hands by just walking in there.”
“I promise I’ll protect you,” Jake says, grabbing my hand and leading the way. When we enter through the wrought-iron gates, I see a small crowd of people at the far end of the lawn, playing what looks like bocce ball. The only reason I even know this is that my grandparents were Italian, and bocce is HUGE in Italy. Until he passed away a few years ago, my grandfather played with all of his old crony friends from his senior center every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine. All you need to know about bocce is that it’s right up there with watching paint dry, and that being said, it’s probably the most boring game in the universe. Worse yet, it looks like Jake is leading me right to it.
“Wait,” I say, stopping and looking at him in confusion. “Is this some new and terrible hipster thing? Is bocce in again or something? Am I going to have to keep a straight face while you introduce me to men with terrible moustaches and un-ironic suspenders?”
“Would I do that to you?” he laughs, steering me towards the crowd. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s a birthday gathering, for my grandpa.”
“You have a grandpa?” I blink in surprise. “You never mentioned him before.”
Jake shrugs. “You never asked.”
We arrive at the group, a gathering of older people in their seventies and eighties, and some younger ones, too.
“You made it!” An older gentleman decked out in a linen suit comes over. Jake hugs him warmly.
“Hank, I want you to meet my . . . friend, Lizzie Ryan. We’re working together on that show at the Met I’ve told you about.”
“A pleasure.” Hank vigorously shakes my hand. He shamelessly looks me up and down, then gives me a wink. “Jake’s mentioned you often, but he didn’t tell me you were such a knockout.”
I’m starting to see where Jake gets his sense of style. And his charm.
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling. “And happy birthday. It’s so great to meet you. Jake’s told me . . . well, nothing about you.”
“Keeping me a deep, dark secret, eh?” Hank says, leaning in to elbow Jake. “Probably wise,” he adds. “He just can’t stand the competition.”
“Dream on, old man,” Jake says good-naturedly.
“Now, Lizzie,” Hank says, taking me by the arm, “Come tell me all about yourself. How do you like my grandson?”
“He . . . has his moments,” I say diplomatically, and he laughs.
“That sounds about right.”
“Lizzie!”
I turn. It’s the couple I met with Jake way back when all this madness had just begun, the redhead and Jake’s cousin. “Julia?” I say, searching my memory.
“That’s right.” She beams, hugging me. “And this is Nate.”
“I remember, good to see you guys again.”
“We’re just in town for the weekend,” Julia explains. “Until I can convince this guy to move to New York, that is.” She gives Nate a nudge, looking up at him like she wants to drag him off into the bushes and have her way with him.
“Over my dead body,” Nate snorts, and she shoots me a smile.
“That’s what he thinks.”
“Isn’t she divine?” Hank asks, gazing adoringly at Julia. “Reminds me of a young Marilyn Monroe in her calendar days. I have no idea how he managed to win her over. None at all.”
“I learned everything from you, Hank,” Nate grins.
“You certainly did, my boy. Now this one?” Hank turns his attention to Jake. “When he was a boy, he was absolutely hopeless with the ladies!”
“That’s right!” Nate smirks, slapping Jake on the shoulder. “No game at all. Remember when you had that crush on that girl Molly in the second grade and you used to ride your bike past her house every day until her mom told you to stop casing the joint?”
Jake rolls his eyes, looking bashful. “So, who wants a game of bocce?”
“Not now,” I grin. “This is just getting interesting.”
“Nate, Grandpa?” Jake says with a warning note in his voice. “Let’s go get some beers and play.”
Hank chuckles. “I can take a hint, son.” He pats Jake on the back, and we head over with them to the bowling lawn. There are seniors milling around, all dressed up for the occasion in straw hats and pastel-colored pantsuits that remind me of SweeTarts—or a nursery. Take your pick.
“How about you, Lizzie?” Jake says, arching his eyebrow in that cocky stare of his that spells a challenge. “You ready for me to beat the pants off you?”
Am I ever. Pants, and bra, and panties too.
“You wish,” I say instead. “I’ve never actually played,” I admit. “But I watched my grandpa for years. He loved bocce.”
“It’s easy.” Jake hands me one of the smaller balls. “You just take this ball—it’s called the jack—and throw it as far as you can. Just be sure to toss it underhand. Here, I’ll show you.”