Antonides' Forbidden Wife. Anne McAllister

the starch she could muster.

      He laughed. “Check your caller ID. Come on, Al. Don’t be a bad sport. You never used to be a bad sport.”

      “This has nothing to do with sports. It has to do with you signing the divorce papers.”

      “So convince me over dinner.”

      “PJ…”

      “Are you chicken, Al? Afraid?” It was the same old taunt he’d used years ago. In the same teasing tone.

      When she had met him she’d never surfed in her life, and he’d been appalled.

      “Never surfed? And you live where?” He’d stared at her, stunned. She’d just handed him his order from the lunch counter and expected him to move along, but he stayed right where he was, ignoring the line behind him.

      “Not everyone who lives in Hawaii surfs,” she’d said haughtily.

      He’d shrugged. “Guess not,” he’d agreed. Then he’d slanted her a grin. “And why should you if you’re chicken?”

      “I’m not chicken!”

      “Then come out with me,” he’d suggested. “I’ll teach you.”

      “I have work to do.” She’d waved her arm around, pointing out the fact that she had responsibilities, even if he didn’t. “I can’t just walk out and go play with you.”

      “So come tomorrow morning. Better surf then anyway. I’ll meet you here at seven.” He’d tipped his head, the slow grin still lingering, green eyes dancing. “Unless you’re—”

      “I am not chicken!” Ally said it then. She said it again now. “Fine. I’ll have dinner with you. We can catch up on ‘old times.’ And you can sign the papers. Where shall I meet you?”

      “I’ll pick you up.”

      “I’d rather meet you there.”

      He paused, then said, “Fine. Suit yourself.” He gave her a street corner in Brooklyn. “You can take a cab or the subway. Either way, I’ll meet you at the Seventh Avenue subway stop.”

      “I’ll go to the restaurant.”

      “I’ll be at the subway stop. We can walk from there. Seven o’clock. It’s a date.”