Fair Play by Deirdre Martin Page A

crushes. . . . If she were flattered that Michael had sent her the pastry—which she wasn’t—Janna was the last person she’d admit it to. Janna would go running to Ty and Ty would say something to Michael at practice and then it would be all over. It would be exactly like high school.
    She watched as Janna finished the cake and tipped the empty box and remaining fork into the trash. Obviously, the tiramisu was made by Michael’s brother, and that bode well for the restaurant. If she did her job right, Toothless Michael the Noodge and Chef Anthony the Nut were going to be elevated to a level they never dreamed of. She could already imagine the review in the New York Times, the four-star rating . . . and it would all be because of her hard work and creativity. And the food, of course.
    â€œTheresa?”
    Blinking the daydream away, she turned to her friend. “Mmm?”
    â€œI’m sorry to push you about Michael. I know you hate it. It’s just that it’s been so long since you’ve gone out with anyone, and he’s such a nice guy—”
    Theresa made a zipping gesture across her lips and Janna shut up.
    The subject was closed.
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    Three days and three more dessert deliveries to the office forced Theresa down to the gym at Chelsea Piers for an hour-long session on a cross trainer. Between the tiramisu, sfogliatelle, olive-oil cake and almond cookies, she didn’t want to think about how many calories she had ingested. She had to hand it to Michael: He was persistent.
    Not to mention creative; other guys might have tried flowers or perfume.
    She increased both the exertion and elevation level on the elliptical. Perspiration seemed to be pouring off her in buckets, rivulets running between her breasts and down her back. Just ten more minutes to go, she thought, as she mopped her dripping face with a towel and took a large gulp of Evian. She tried to resume reading the book she’d brought, but the truth was that she could never concentrate on words when she was working out. She wound up reading the same paragraph over and over. She wished she’d brought her Walkman with her. At least then she could zone out listening to music.
    She was panting her way through her final four minutes when she thought she heard someone say her name. She looked up to see a blond vision looking buff and delectable and standing only a few feet away from her.
    Reese Banister.
    â€œI didn’t know you worked out here,” he said. He was wearing gray sweat pants and a plain white T-shirt.
    â€œYeah . . . I . . . do,” Theresa managed breathlessly. This is not happening. I am not standing here on this machine with no makeup on, drenched in sweat and stinking to high heaven, in front of this man. It is a hallucination. If I blink once, he will go away.
    She blinked.
    â€œWhat are you reading?” he asked with interest.
    Shit.
    â€œUm . . . uh . . .” Theresa stopped peddling in an effort to catch her breath. Mortification had struck her mute. She could barely form words. She sounded like a grunting idiot. In a few seconds, he would realize this and turn away from her in disgust. Quickly, she handed her book to him.
    â€œWuthering Heights,” he read out loud. “Hooked on the classics, huh?”
    â€œI like to read it once a year,” she told him, her breathing beginning to normalize somewhat.
    â€œSo you’re a romantic,” he murmured.
    Theresa could feel herself blush straight up to the roots of her sweaty hair. “I guess.”
    â€œHave you ever seen the movie? he asked. “You know, the original, with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon?”
    Theresa nodded, her heart pounding wildly. She adored that movie. She could quote huge chunks of dialogue from it. Her impersonation of Cathy flinging herself across the rainy moors howling “Heathcliff!” was famous. “You’ve seen it?” she ventured.
    â€œOh,