Free Agent Read Free Page B

little glance that would lead him right by my table. He meandered over to look at the Sunglass Hut, then, drawn by a force he couldn’t possibly see, wandered toward me. I focused on my plate, on the half-eaten steak, and looked up at the right time.
    Our eyes met, and he smiled at me. The sunlight served to highlight the shine on him. I let myself play along and smiled back.
    â€œAfternoon,” he said, his voice not exactly melodic but plenty deep.
    â€œAnd to you.” I took a sip of my wine.
    On cue the waiter appeared. “Is the gentleman joining you for lunch?” he asked, unhooking the rope.
    The prince looked a little surprised. They always did.
    â€œPlease?” I said, and he was hooked.
    He sat down and I ordered for him in Italian. I only knew three phrases in Italian, and the other two were “pepperoni” and “mama mia.” It didn’t matter.
    â€œI’m Liam,” he said, and I thought that was a fine name for a prince.
    â€œMarissa.” I could use my real name. I wasn’t the one they’d remember. “What do you do for a living, Liam? No, wait, Let me guess. CEO?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œLawyer,” I said and from the look on his face I knew that wasn’t it. Those sorts of arms didn’t come from crunching numbers, so he wasn’t a stock trader. “Entrepreneur?”
    He shrugged. “Got me. I own my own business.”
    â€œCoal?” I gave him a playful wink, the kind that normally had them so certain of themselves.
    â€œIn a way. Iron.”
    I’d met a lot of oil princes, quite a few stock market princes, but Liam was my first rust prince. We finished our meal with the barest of conversation, and I confess I was a little worried. Normally these guys couldn’t wait to talk about their second favorite subject (their work) and their favorite subject (themselves). Liam was more the listening type. Given his face and his demeanor, he was definitely not a first son. First sons got all the good stuff—dashing good looks, a voice like a minstrel. Second sons got the okay stuff—they’d turn heads in the hall or on the field. By the time you got to a third son, the magic was sort of worn out.
    I looked at him over my wine. “So what brings someone like you down to the waterfront on a day like this?”
    He gave me a wide grin that looked kind of goofy. “I work hard. Sometimes it gets to me. So I decided to come down here, take a stroll. Then here you were,” he said, getting up.
    The waiter came over with the check. Liam reached for it and I “accidentally” took it from his hand, running my fingers across his palm. “My treat,” I said, with a smile.
    â€œThat’s not how a gentleman treats a lady.”
    I was at least two steps ahead of him. “Make it up to me. I’m done here, but I’m in the mood for a stroll.”
    He took my arm and we made our way down the waterfront. At the commercial pier, they had modern sculptures. We stood where the cold sea wind came in and listened to the chimes. I shivered in the wind and he leaned toward me.
    â€œI’d offer you a jacket, but I don’t usually wear one. I’m warm-blooded.”
    So I leaned back into him and enjoyed the warmth. That moment, right there, is where it hit me like a wave coming in from the harbor. I was twenty-four, turning twenty-five in a few months. Home was a stale apartment with an answering machine that never blinked, and I hadn’t seen or heard from my family in six years. In a few minutes, I’d walk a path I knew by heart. I’d waltzed on piers, walked through galleries, held a dozen hands, and broken a dozen hearts. None of those hands were mine to keep holding, and there was never a second dance. I was tired, and though the word never passed my lips, lonely.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” he asked.
    I blinked my eyes. “Nothing.” One more lie in a pile