Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

I could tell her a short line—there’s no time for proper explanations—but I fear it would only fuel her dismay, so I opt to stay silent and release her from my clumsy bear hug.

“I’ll go to the kitchen and tell Diego we need an extra set of tableware,” Devon says and dashes off.

“And I’ll go to the back room and fetch a chair,” Pete announces and walks off, whistling.

Ellie uses this moment of distraction to plant a thumb against my spine. She takes advantage of her pointy nail to add as much pressure as she can, and a strange pride glows in her features when I flinch.

I raise my brows at her in a silent, ‘What was that for?’

A small tilt of her chin answers, You know very well what.

No, I don’t, I signal to her with widening eyes, but she calls my bluff with a narrowed glance.

Then she leans closer, so close that her breath teases my stubble. “We need to talk. Say you need to make a call and head to the bathrooms,” she murmurs in a low voice so she can’t be overheard.

I’ve heard Ellie say a lot of quirky things, but this one still takes me by surprise. I can’t prevent my lips from curling up. “The ladies’ or the gentlemen’s?”

“Funny. Just do as I say,” she hisses back, trying to move her lips as little as possible.

Her caution is unnecessary since nobody is watching us anyway. Pete and Devon are still gone, and the girls are busy shuffling the plates around on the table to make sure we can all fit.

Without waiting for my answer, Ellie blinks at Laia and raises her voice. “I’m going to the restroom.”

“Sure, sweetie.” Laia smiles at her.

Ellie throws a meaningful glance at me, then strides off.

I stare at her miffed little march with a smile, even though I know she’s probably plotting how to murder me once I reach her.

Chapter 11

(Ellie)

As soon as I reach the narrow corridor of the restrooms, I stop.

I flatten my back against the cool yellow surface, carefully avoiding the large talavera plate used as a wall decoration. I angle my body so I can monitor the dining area.

Devon trots out from the kitchen, and I lean back to avoid him catching me spying. I bite back a smile as I spot a plate, a glass, and some silverware in my brother’s hands. I imagine the waitress offering to take over this duty and my brother answering that he’d rather do it himself. Yeah, that’s how much Devon likes his childhood friend.

By the time my brother arrives back at our table, Pete has also returned with an extra chair, and they all sit down.

Including Wyatt. 

Desperation curls through me as I watch Wyatt fill his glass with water, empty it, then refill it again.

He can’t be that thirsty, can he? Didn’t he hear my message? What’s he waiting for?

“Stand up,” I murmur, keeping my gaze locked on him.

My mental channeling must work because Wyatt straightens and strolls in my direction.

But instead of veering right toward the restrooms, he continues to the restaurant’s terrace. Once outside, he pulls his phone from his jeans, taps on the screen, then presses it to his ear. After a second, his lips begin to move.

Is he on a call? And with a woman?

Judging by his pulled-back shoulders and wide smile, that’s a likely hypothesis. No man speaks in such a posture with a fellow guy.

Wyatt’s black polo and white-washed jeans—the perfect ensemble of effortless charm together with his sculpted muscles—don’t distract me from the indignation I feel.

Before I know it, my thumbs are playing piano on my fingers.

When I realize what I’m doing, I press my palms to the wall.

Wyatt lowers his phone and sticks it back into his pocket. He re-enters the restaurant and finally ambles to me.

“I’ve made my exit, as you wanted. Now what?” he asks, grinning.

“You took your sweet time,” I growl. “Was that call essential?”

Wyatt’s brows arch, then he chuckles. “That was my cover act. Cora’s sitting with her chair facing right toward the terrace. I said I was stepping outside to speak with my agent, so I wanted to give a brief show.”

Oh.

A hot flush rises to my head. “Well, you could’ve made your maneuver shorter. We only have a few minutes left. I need to go back to our table soon.”

“And we need more time than that? What are your plans with me?” His cocky smirk shouldn’t give me any sensations, especially not the fuzzy bubbly kind, but it does.

Before I answer, a familiar sound hits my ear from nearby. I know only one person who would whistle Frank Sinatra in Diego’s restaurant.

Did Pete stand up from the table?

I quickly pop my head out from the corridor and murmur, “Oh, shoot,” when I see I’m right.

“What’s the matter?” Wyatt asks.

“It’s Pete. I think he’s coming here.”

As if to confirm my hunch, Pete catches Juliana, the waitress who’s heading over to our table. I zero in on his lips to read what he’s saying, which is: “I’ll be back immediately. Short visit to the little boy’s room.”

My eyes dart to Wyatt. “Quick, we need to do something. Pete can’t catch us together.”

Wyatt points at the door behind me. “Where does that lead?”

“No idea,” I snap. “I don’t work here. Maybe it’s an emergency exit.” As I say the last word, a lightbulb goes up in my head.

I check the ceiling to see if there’s an alarm. If Pete finds Wyatt and me together, it will look suspicious. Still, if we raised a warning signal while fleeing from him, we’d be in even more trouble.

Luckily, Diego didn’t install any device above the door.

Now only two questions remain: will the door open, and may we, as guests, enter?

When Pete’s tootling grows louder, I forget my hesitation and reach for the handle. It gives way below my palm’s pressure, and the door spreads with a creak.

“Come on now,” I hiss, grabbing Wyatt’s arm and pulling him behind me through