The next night, Danica asked me to meet her for dinner. She called it a “professional meeting.”
I assumed this was part of her whole pretense that she didn’t want to fuck me. You know, an excuse to go on a date with me and pretend to discuss my thoughts on her decorating plans. As if I had any.
So I took her to Starving Wolf Eatery. Or tried too. She insisted on meeting me there, since it was pretty much halfway between her place and mine and she said she wanted to walk. Right through cracktown.
When she arrived, I was already seated. Haz was at the bar. I was a regular, and I’d called ahead to the owner, had him set me up with a great table in the back corner.
The hostess brought Danica over, and Danica gave me a careful smile. She was wearing a shapeless dress that was kinda fitted in the waist, but otherwise was basically a white potato sack. Clearly, she’d worn it to give one message: This is a business meeting and in no way am I trying to be sexy.
Except she’d forgotten about her legs. The dress ended mid-thigh and from there on down… nothing but her perfect, gorgeous bare legs.
Unfortunately those disappeared under the table as soon as she sat down.
“Hi,” she said. The careful smile remained on her face as I sat back down. I’d gotten up when she approached, because maybe I’d seen it in a movie or something.
Wasn’t sure I’d ever done that for a woman before.
“Tell me you didn’t just come from Main and Hastings,” I said, and her smile faltered. Next time, I’d really have to insist on picking her up, or send her a cab or something if she didn’t want to drive, because the thought of this beautiful girl walking down junkies’ row gave me heartburn. Almost had to go out for a smoke while I waited.
“I took Pender,” she said, which was at least better.
“What part of Railtown do you live in?” I grilled her, leaning my elbows on the table and staring her down. It was like my eyes had forgotten how fucking pretty she was or something. Like every time I saw her she just got prettier. The curves of her cheekbones. Her gorgeous, soft-blue eyes. Her little chin and her soft lips.
“The middle part,” she said vaguely, looking uncomfortable about the attention, and focused on her menu.
I studied her.
What was it about her?
It definitely wasn’t that she reminded me of her sister. I didn’t know her sister. They were both gorgeous, yes. I’d been drawn to her sister, too, in a drunken, horny sort of way.
But this was definitely something else.
I wanted to fuck her, yes.
I also wanted to figure her out a bit. So the fucking would be even better.
Because this girl wasn’t a one-night fuck. That much was obvious to me by now. She was a several-nighter, for sure. A woman you wanted to take a little extra time with, make the effort to try to blow her mind.
The waiter appeared, offering drinks, but I waved him away. “We need a few minutes.” When he retreated, I asked Danica, “Why do you live in the Downtown Eastside?”
She was pretending to read her menu and didn’t look up. “Because it’s more affordable than other areas, and there’s a community of artists, like me, and—”
“You’re an artist?”
Now she looked at me. Self-consciously. “Yeah. I, uh, make jewelry.” She fiddled with the charm bracelet on her left wrist. I looked at it, and at the necklace she wore with milky-pink stones on it, and the dangly gold earrings that peeked out through her long butterscotch hair.
“You made the jewelry you’re wearing right now?”
“I did.”
“You do metal work?” I had this sudden, white-hot vision of her over a blacksmith forge wearing a leather apron… and nothing else.
“No. I contract a company that provides the metals, according to my designs, and I source the jewels, and other elements from vintage jewelry, and then build everything.”
“That’s cool.”
She shrugged, looking increasingly uncomfortable. Definitely got the vibe she didn’t love talking about herself. “It’s just something I’ve always liked to do.”
“Always?”
She hesitated before answering, like she wasn’t sure why I’d possibly be interested in this. Or like she didn’t want me to be interested? “Well, when I was twelve, my grandma died. My sister and I inherited some of her jewelry. I took it all apart and remade it into new pieces. I think that was where it started.”
“Your parents were cool with that?”
She smiled a little. “My mom was impressed, actually. It was her mom’s jewelry, but she wasn’t sentimental about it. She figured the jewelry, I don’t know, wanted to be remade. She’s kind of… kooky like that.”
“You sell that stuff anywhere?”
“Some of it.”
“In stores?”
“No, just to people who want to buy it. Daniella helps me with that. Like I told you, I’m not much of a saleswoman. And I don’t really want my jewelry in stores.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it would be an actual business and I’d have orders to fulfill. Too many orders, and I wouldn’t be able to fill them myself. I don’t want to hire staff or have to outsource all the work. I just like making jewelry.” She shrugged again. “I make custom pieces for my sister’s photo shoots sometimes. She’s a fashion stylist. And sometimes I make pieces for brides. Just whatever comes along.”
“You enjoy it?”
“I love it.”
“What do you love about it?” I probed.
She hesitated again. Definitely uncomfortable that I was asking her so many questions—about her. “Um… I love coming up with a new design in my head, and planning it out and searching for just the right elements. I like working with my hands, making something tangible and beautiful. I like the looks on people’s faces when they see the finished pieces or put them on. I give a lot of what I make away as gifts, actually.”
I wasn’t exactly surprised to hear that. This was the first time I’d met with her that she didn’t bring me a gift.
“That reminds me,” she said, digging kinda awkwardly in her purse. “I brought you something.”
And there it was.
“You and the gifts,” I said, shaking my head. I was half-teasing, but then she pulled out a little black silk bag, the size of her palm, with a gold drawstring. It did look like a gift.
And definitely not a lemon wedge or a candle.
She handed it to me. I took it, slowly, and when her fingers brushed mine… it rippled right through me. My nipples hardened. My dick twitched. The girl gave me goosebumps—the really fucking good kind.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” she said as I opened the drawstring. I could feel a small, hard object in the bottom of the bag, and I tipped it out into my hand.
It was a ring.
“It’s a ring,” she said.
“I see that.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she said quickly, but her cheeks were rapidly turning pink. No, make that flaming red.
I looked at the ring sitting in the palm of my hand. It was a men’s ring, a thick chunk of silver metal with cool geometric designs carved into it and a big, flat black stone.
I looked at her. “You just gave me a ring?”
“I didn’t make it,” she said, the blush spreading outward from her cheeks. “It’s Art Deco. 1920s.”
Was she for real?
“So, it’s an antique?”
“Um… I really didn’t picture this being so awkward.”
I gave her a half-smile. “How?”
“I don’t know.” She laughed nervously. “I just wanted to go ahead and give it to you…” Her smile faded. “In case we never see each other after this.”
The smile dropped off my face. “Why wouldn’t we see each other after this?”
“I mean… if you don’t end up hiring me, or I don’t take the job…”
“Why wouldn’t you take the job?” I semi-grow
led.
“Um. It’s just… I give jewelry to people all the time,” she said, getting flustered and totally avoiding my question. “I’ve had this ring in a drawer for like ten years. It’s nothing, Ashley.”
Oh, it was something. I just wasn’t sure what it was yet.
I looked at the ring again, studying the three little sparkly things in a row on one side of the black stone, which looked a hell of a lot like… “Are those diamonds?”
“It’s platinum and onyx. And yes,” she mumbled, sipping her water so I could barely hear her, “there are some tiny little diamonds on it.”
I stared at her. “You just gave me a diamond ring.”
“It’s an onyx ring. And really. It’s not like that. I just saw it in my drawer when I was making a bracelet last night, and you’re the only person I’ve ever met who would suit it, so…”
She trailed off as she watched me lay the little bag on the table in-between us, and place the ring on top of it.
“I can’t take this, Danica.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she insisted.
I believed her, but still. A generous spirit was one thing.
I was starting to think this chick was a little nuts.
“I swear…” she said. “This is so embarrassing. I’m not proposing to you or anything.”
I cracked a smile. “Good thing. What if I said yes?”
“Um… Well…”
“You said it’s an antique. What’s it worth?”
“Nothing. It’s worth nothing if it’s of no use to anyone.”
“Right. Because that’s how jewelry appraisal works.”
She glanced uncomfortably at the ring. “If you don’t like it, then I’ll take it back. It can live in my drawer for another decade or two until I meet another stylish, super cool rock star.” She looked at me, and I tried not to grin like a cocky bastard at her assessment of me. “But honestly, do you like it? If someone else gave it to you… Like, if it was a special gift from your parents or something?”
I kinda laughed. “My dad would never give me something this special. And my mom’s not alive.”
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” She kinda cringed and looked at the ring, then at me again. “This is so awkward.”
“I’ve never been more comfortable.”
She burst out laughing, somewhere between a giggle and a guffaw. “Right.”
I smiled. Couldn’t really help it. “I like watching you squirm.”
She avoided my eyes. “If this was a marriage proposal, it was the worst one ever.”
I pretended to weigh that in my mind. “I’ve had worse.”
“Really?”
“Well, the other girl didn’t give me an antique ring.” Now I was just messing with her, but at least she knew it. She visibly relaxed, a bit.
“The ring has no value to me, Ashley. Seriously. But it’s an antique, it’s beautiful, and I hate that it’s just sitting in a drawer. You’re the only person I know who could pull off wearing it. It would look great on you.”
I stared at her. I could feel the sincerity in her words. It really, truly bugged her that the ring didn’t have a home.
“Do you love your interior decorating job as much as you love jewelry?”
Now she looked uncomfortable again. She glanced around, like she was looking for the waiter.
“Thirsty?”
“Well, it’s hard not to be completely honest with you when I’m so sober,” she admitted. “But this is the part where I slightly need to lie to you to tell you that interior decorating is my passion.”
“It’s not?”
“I love my job. I love the firm and I love working with my aunt and my cousin, Jolie… You met her, at the front desk? I love helping people and I love transforming my clients’ homes. I enjoy it, a lot. But it’s not my passion.” She searched my face. “Is music your passion?”
“What’s your passion, then? Jewelry?”
She smiled softly. “Is this an interrogation? You’ve been peppering me with questions since I sat down.”
“My prerogative. I haven’t hired you yet, right?”
Her smile faltered. “Right. About that—”
“What’s your passion?” I repeated.
“Honestly… I don’t know if I’ve found it yet.”
“Then you haven’t.”
She sipped her water. “Have you found yours?”
“Music. For sure.”
She studied me. “When did you know?”
“When I was thirteen. One of my friends got a guitar for his birthday. He started teaching me what he’d learn in his lessons, and I’d play guitar whenever I was at his house, trying to teach myself songs from his tabs. ‘Smoke on the Water,’ ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door,’ all the stuff you learn to play at first. Then I heard Jerry Cantrell for the first time. ‘We Die Young.’ First Alice in Chains song I ever heard. His guitar, Layne Staley’s voice… the harmony of their voices. Their lyrics… I always had a decent singing voice, but I had no idea what to do with it. I couldn’t afford lessons. I spent the summer trying to learn that song, trying to be as good as those guys. Didn’t happen, but I saved up for a year to get my own guitar and a little amp. Never looked back.”
Danica was smiling softly as she listened to all that. “Your grunge phase?”
“Had a grunge phase, a punk phase, a just-about-everything-else phase.” But now we were talking about me, and I wanted to talk about her. I passed her the liquor menu. “Let’s get a drink.”
“What are you having?” she asked, scanning the menu.
“Gulden Draak. It’s a dark Belgian beer.”
“I’m more of a light and crisp girl myself,” she said. Another small smile.
“Like a lager?”
“Like a cider.” She shut the menu. The waiter was just walking up and she told him, “I’ll have a Strongbow, please. He’ll have a… Golden what?”
“Gulden Draak,” I said.
“And we’re ready to order our food.” She blinked at me hopefully. “Aren’t we?”
Cute. She was trying to move this along.
“We’ll start with the roasted Brussels sprouts, then the crab cakes,” I told the waiter, not even cracking my menu open. Figured I could draw this out with enough courses. Was pretty bent on getting Danica Vola between the sheets before the night was through, but I didn’t mind feeding her first. Seemed like she needed a little time to get comfortable with the idea that we were gonna fuck, anyway. “Unless you want to add another appetizer to that,” I told her.
“Those sound good,” she said, reluctantly.
“And you want the albacore tuna or the smoked prosciutto pizza or the buttermilk fried chicken,” I informed her. “Trust me. Unless you’re veggie…?”
“I’m not.” She smiled at the waiter. “I’ll have the tuna, please.”
“Chicken,” I told him, handing over our menus. “We’ll keep the liquor menu.”
“You come here a lot?” Danica asked, after he’d walked away.
“My favorite restaurant.”
Her eyes widened a little.
“Don’t worry,” I told her, deadpan. “I didn’t choose it because I’m falling in love with you and I want to create a special memory or something. I chose it because the food is the fucking bomb. I really didn’t expect you to whip out a ring.”
A tentative smile played at her lips. “Don’t tell me I’m really the first girl who’s ever done that.”
“You are, actually.”
She sipped her water and made no move to take the ring back.
Neither did I.
“Can I, um, ask you a personal question?”
“You can,” I said.
“How do you stay so… fit… and still manage to drink beer and eat fried chicken?”
“Gym, mountain bike, surfboard, wakeboard, snowboard.”
“Oh.”
“And when I’m touring, the stage eats up a lot of it.”
“Righ
t.”
“Do you work out?”
“I do a barre class,” she said, fiddling with her bracelet again like she was embarrassed by that or something. “You know, like a ballet barre.”
“You’re a ballet dancer?”
“God, no. Are you kidding? I’d have to lose about thirty pounds and keep it off, forever. Not happening. Plus, I am not that graceful. It’s just a fitness class.”
“Cool.” I wasn’t sure thirty pounds was accurate, but either way, she clearly had a lower opinion of her body than I did. From where I was looking, she’d be hot as fuck in a leotard. “Anything else?”
She shrugged. “I like going for long rides on my bike and exploring the city, when the weather’s nice. It’s a cruiser, though. Not so good for mountain trails. I’m not that hardcore.”
“You look like you’re in great shape.” And yes, I took the opportunity to check her out when I said that. Not that I could see much, but my imagination was pretty good at filling in the blanks. “You ever want to lift some weights, I can train with you. Got access to a private gym we can use.”
She didn’t seem to have a clue what to say to that offer.
The waiter dropped off our drinks, and she took a sip of hers, then seemed to check if I was still looking at her.
I was.
“Look, Mr. Calegari—”
“Nope,” I said. “Don’t know where you heard that, but that’s really not my name.”
She started to blush again. “It’s not?”
“It’s the name I was born with. But I don’t really use it unless I have to.”
“Okay…” She tried, awkwardly, to amend, “Mr. Player, I think we should clarify something…”
Yeah, that was fucking adorable. But I put an end to it, quick.
“Call me Ashley. You just gave me a ring.”
She sighed. “Ashley. I think we should keep the conversation professional. And I wanted to tell you—”
“It was professional. I tried to hire you. You told me to think about it. So I thought about it.”
“Oh… Okay?” She didn’t look all that happy about it, though.
More like she was bracing herself or something.
Did she really think I was here to tell her I wasn’t hiring her after all?
“I thought about what you said, about the functions of my home. And I do want it to be a place where a woman will feel comfortable staying a while.”
Hot Mess: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #1) Page 15
