Devon signs something else, then Tempest looks at me, those brown eyes locking with mine and once more distracting me.
Get in the zone, man.
“What kind of pizza do you bake?”
“I make a mean artichoke, sausage, and tomato pizza,” I say wryly.
She licks her lips, mouths Yum, then repeats it to Devon.
“‘Sounds delish,’ he says,” she tells me.
“The cheese melts on your tongue. The dough is pillowy. The tastes are incredible. E come il paradiso nella boca,” I reply, dropping into Italian to say it’s like heaven in your mouth because I can’t help myself with this lovely woman who’s so unexpectedly captivating.
“Sounds like it must be,” she says and signs too.
Devon segues to other questions.
“Rumor has it you’re a cat person,” she relays. “I love cats,” she adds to both of us.
The reporter shakes his head then pants like a dog.
“Dog person?” I ask him with a grin.
“Yes, he’s a dog person,” Tempest tells me.
“Personally, I love the feline attitude,” I say, returning to the implied question about my pet preference. “I appreciate that take-it-or-leave-it vibe. You don’t always know where you stand with a cat. I love that you must work for it with them.” My attention keeps sliding to Tempest as she interprets my answer, but hey, she’s the fellow cat lover. “Do you have cats?” I ask her.
After she signs the last thing, a smile takes over her face as if she’s pleased that I asked her a question.
Devon chuckles and says something in sign language to her that she answers before turning her smiling gaze my way and telling me, “I have one. A tomcat. His name is—wait for it—Tom.”
I laugh deeply. “I love the simplicity of that, Tempest.”
She looks to Devon again for his next question. He fires it off, and she puts it to me. “What do you like to do for fun?”
“I enjoy cooking, Scrabble, and candlelit dinners,” I say with a straight face.
She laughs, her hands whipping through my reply.
Devon arches a brow at me, mouthing Really? Then he says something to her.
“‘Is that a line?’ he wants to know,” she says to me, laughing again as she poses the question.
I act deeply affronted, bringing my hand over my heart. “It’s all true.”
When the interview ends, I thank Devon, then I turn to ask the interpreter for her full name.
“Tempest North.”
North.
It’s not an uncommon name.
But it’s not the most common either.
“I hope we will meet again,” I say, because I’m a gentleman, and it’s polite to establish one’s intentions before asking for a phone number. But before I can, her phone trills.
She grabs it, checks the screen, then says she has to take it. She signs something to Devon, who nods, and then gives me a quick goodbye wave before they leave the shop together.
I sigh, shrugging. “What can you do?”
But as I make my way out of the café, I keep wondering if, with that surname, she’s related to my friend.
And whether I have the guts to ask him.
When Saturday night rolls around, I decide to quiz Ransom after the fundraiser ends. But it turns out I don’t need to.
Because the next time I hear the name Tempest North, it’s when I learn that she was the bidder on the phone during my turn at the auction.
And she’s won a date with me.
Tempest
* * *
The night of the auction
* * *
I’m due at the theater at seven thirty for an eight o’clock curtain. As soon as Ransom slides into his Lyft, I turn to my trusty companion.
My phone.
As I march to the theater district, I search for the details on the auction tonight.
The names of the players.
How it works.
And what to do if you can’t be there.
As I cross Fifth Avenue, I learn you can buy a virtual ticket. And you can place a virtual bid. And you can set your bidding limits.
I flash back to Thursday.
To randomly meeting the Yankees pitcher, to that crackle of connection I felt with him, and to that moment at the end.
When I was sure he was asking for my number, for a way to reach out and see me again.
But then I had to dash.
Now, I’ve learned that guy is Marty Boy—my brother’s friend—and he’s going to be up for auction tonight, a date with him going to the highest bidder.
I draw a deep breath, letting it fuel this crazy decision.
I reach another crosswalk and stop to wait at the light.
I have the money. That email from my agent made it damn clear I have plenty to spend.
And it goes to a good cause—his charity of choice supports athletic programs for disadvantaged youth.
Why shouldn’t I do this?
Why the hell not?
It’s been a while since I met someone I clicked with. As in, years. Most men I meet are flummoxed by my twin careers—they don’t know what to make of them or how to accommodate my crazy schedule. I’m either feverishly penning columns and books, studying the market, or prepping to interpret. It’s hard to make time for a date, let alone for browsing the apps trying to meet someone.
