by Jillian Dodd
And I absolutely have to meet him.
And if we end up making out, well, so be it. I’m sure I’ll get through it.
CHAPTER SIX
We’ve been at this diner for twenty minutes, and I’m pretty sure half the group has been out for a cigarette twice since our arrival.
“I wouldn’t have imagined there being so many smokers in the group.”
Rafe grins from the other side of the long line of tables pushed together to accommodate us, and his blue eyes practically sparkle in the light reflecting off so much chrome trim. It’s one of those old-school diners, very retro, right down to the little jukeboxes in the booths, where customers can play their favorite old songs.
“Can you imagine if smoking in public buildings were still legal?” he asks. “They’d be chain-smoking through the entire meal.”
“Everybody must’ve been really stinky back in the day, huh?”
His grin widens. “I don’t know if you’re old enough to remember when the host at a restaurant would ask whether you wanted to sit in the smoking or nonsmoking section.”
“I do! Gosh, I completely forgot about that. I was pretty young back then.” I sit back, looking him up and down. It’s not exactly punishing, studying him this way. “You couldn’t have been very old either.”
“Not very. Definitely too young to smoke.” He stretches his arms out over the backs of the chairs to his right and left.
Both of them are empty. Both were chosen by girls. They’d practically raced to get the chairs closest to him.
I can see why. And not only because he’s physically one of the most beautiful, perfect specimens I’ve ever seen.
Because he’s also charming. Genuine and warm and self-deprecating. Not an egomaniac. All points in his favor.
“So, did you go to school for acting?”
He nods slowly. “Carnegie Mellon.”
“Wow. That’s a great program there, isn’t it?”
“I was lucky to get admitted.”
He picks up his cup of coffee, which I notice he drinks black. I’ve never been someone who could manage that. The very thought makes my nose wrinkle a little.
“From what I saw tonight, it was more than luck. You’re a very talented actor.”
He offers a weak smile, glancing over one shoulder before leaning in toward me. “If you think that was something, you should see the other group I’m in. That’s a secret. Only you’re allowed to know.”
Well, would you look at that? Sudden intimacy. The sense of sharing something only the two of us are in on.
Is he deliberately flirting? Or does he have no idea what it means when a gorgeous, talented man makes a girl feel special?
I’m going to go with the latter of the two. I might be giving him too much credit, but the few minutes we’ve spent chatting—along with the small talk we made after the performance—haven’t given me the impression of him being a conceited jerk.
Though he’s a good actor. I have to watch my opinions of him. I have a tendency to want to see the best in people, especially when the people in question are charming and have a mouth that practically begs to be kissed.
Bianca sits to his right when she comes in, Madison to his left.
Ashley sits at my left and nudges me with her elbow. “It’s so neat, having you here.”
“You’re too sweet.”
And she is. It’s unusual, spending time with a fan like this. I guess there’s something to be said for getting out in the world and talking to people, meeting them, finding out why they enjoy my work and what their lives are like and what reading romance does for them.
It’s not easy, being an introvert. Even in college, I rarely got together with big groups of people like this. Sitting around a cluster of tables, stealing food off each other’s plates, all that.
“You’re like a big family,” I note as I look up and down the length of the table.
There are ten people on either side and two squeezed in at both ends. It’s easy to get caught up in the silliness and laughter and lightheartedness.
Rafe catches my eye and grins. “You’re seeing us on a good night too.”
Bianca notices the way my brows lift in curiosity. “He means, we’re feeling good after the performances. We had an audience with great energy. Everything went well.”
“So, if something had gone wrong, it would’ve been a different scene?” I mean, the heat was off the entire time, and I was sure an icicle would be hanging from the tip of my nose by the end. Is that considered normal?
“Honestly?” Rafe’s grin widens into an ear-to-ear smile, and my gosh, it’s like dawn breaking. I swear, the entire diner lights up from it. I feel myself opening up under its warmth, like a morning glory.
And I’m not the only one. If there were a means of measuring the amount of female adoration flowing his way …
Madison clears her throat before nudging Rafe. “Your pieces were incredible. Next time, I’d love to work on a scene with you. I think we could write something amazing.”
“You’re probably right.” He nods, encouraging, and she just about melts into her chair.
I wonder if I’m the only one who notices, and I think I am. Everybody else is busy talking among themselves and their significant others. And since I’m new and not here with anyone it gives me the benefit of observing.
When our food arrives, I notice everyone has ordered, for the most part, fairly greasy stuff. Burgers, fries, breakfast platters—gotta love all-day breakfast—mozzarella sticks, potato skins. My mouth waters while I look at all of it.
I’d feel lame for ordering a crock of French onion soup if it wasn’t for Rafe’s salad.
He sees me eyeing it up and chuckles. “The last thing I need is something heavy in my stomach when I’m trying to sleep. I value sleep over just about everything else.”
“Don’t even bother trying to get him on the phone when he’s asleep.” Ashley giggles.
Am I the only one who sees how obvious it is that she’s loving that little bit of intimacy? Like she knows something personal about him, like they have a special connection of some sort.
Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
But I don’t think I am. The thing about being an introverted writer is, I’m used to analyzing people without even consciously doing it. It’s always been one of my party tricks—a trick only I know about. Reading body language, hearing what people say without saying a word.
Ashley has a crush on Rafe. So do Bianca and Madison and probably every woman at this table who likes men. Maybe a couple of the guys too. Who’s to say? He’s the star, the sun they revolve around.
And he has another group he’s involved with. One the people at this table aren’t supposed to know about. He doesn’t want to hurt their feelings. He has a good heart, but he’s not stupid. He’s better than they are. There’s training, and there’s talent. And he has natural talent.
He knows he’ll never go as far as he can if he doesn’t expand his horizons and work with serious, committed actors. I have to give him credit for that; he could keep up this life of being a big fish in a small pond, could keep being idolized by less talented actors, but that won’t get him anywhere.
“I guess you have to use your body a lot as an actor,” I offer. “You want to make sure it’s in good shape, so it’ll do what you need it to do.”
“You sound like him.” Bianca rolls her eyes and nudges Rafe, who only shrugs before shoving a forkful of salad into his waiting mouth. It seems like she’s not as enthused about her plate of fries, gravy, and cheese as she was before.
“That looks delicious,” I sigh, eyeing her plate like I’m envious.
When she offers me a fry, I take it even though I don’t particularly want one. At least she’s smiling again.
“So, how did you all meet?” I ask, looking around. “I’m so interested in how you do things. I’m basically a hermit, so this is really neat.”
Everybody looks at each other a
s the table falls into general silence. I see a lot of lifted shoulders, raised eyebrows.
“I don’t remember,” Madison admits. “It feels like we’ve always known each other.”
“We sort of fell into each other’s lives,” Ashley explains. “One person had a friend who knew another person, and that person had a friend in the group …”
“Got it. I sort of wish writers had something like what you have,” I admit. I could use a writing family.
“You mean, there aren’t groups for writers to get together and share their work?” Rafe looks and sounds skeptical. “There has to be, right?”
“Sure, I know at least three or four,” Bianca adds, nodding to Rafe like the two of them are in on some secret.
“Huh.” I have to sit back and think. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Though you’re probably thinking more of playwriting, I would imagine.”
“Probably, but there are all kinds of people writing things. Novelists, people writing memoirs, you name it.” Rafe practically scowls at me. “You mean, you’ve never thought of that before?”
The girls look at me like I’m an object of pity. I guess they feel bad about Rafe thinking I’m an idiot.
I don’t feel bad. In fact, I’m a little annoyed. Who does this guy think he is?
“Four of my books made it to number one on the New York Times Best Sellers list, and all but one of my subsequent books have placed on the list. My next release is projected to hit the top spot on its debut.” I fold my arms, arching an eyebrow. “I guess I’ve been too busy writing them to bounce ideas off other authors.”
It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room, and I know I made a mistake. A huge mistake. No way is this man going to want to get to know me after I not only snapped at him, but also pretty much rubbed my success in his face. Nobody likes a braggart.
Do they all think I am?
Ashley reacts first with an explosive laugh that draws the attention of people from surrounding tables. “Damn, son! She got you!”
Only when Rafe laughs with her does everyone else remember to breathe. Including me.
“Sorry,” I mumble anyway since I still feel like it might’ve been more than a little jerky to mention my success.
He doesn’t see it that way. “You’re right though! You’re totally right. You’re on a completely different plane of existence from the rest of us.”
“I did not mean it that way!” I insist. My cheeks are burning hotter than the still-piping soup in front of me.
“It’s not a bad thing.” His foot connects with mine under the table, nudging me a little. “Don’t feel bad for being successful. Seriously. If anything, you give hope to the rest of us.”
“You might be a writer while we’re actors, but we’re all artists. You managed to be successful, doing what you do.” Bianca’s eyes pretty much shine when she says it.
Madison looks the same way.
I don’t have the heart to tell them I haven’t exactly made it big. Yes, having a string of best sellers is a huge accomplishment, and I was lucky beyond measure to have it happen to me. Now that I’ve been on the other side of that improbable success, I realize now more than ever how precious it was. And how unusual since hardly anybody ends up with one best seller, much less four number-ones.
But I see now that they’re sort of looking up to me, and as uncomfortable as it makes me, I don’t have the heart to burst anybody’s bubble.
“I should expand my horizons though,” I remind her with a rueful grin. “Something I’ve been slowly but surely working on for almost a year now. Joining a group is the next logical step. Art can’t be any good if it’s stagnant, right?”
I never talk like this, but they’re making me do it. It’s their fault I’m becoming someone who talks about her art. Maybe I should start wearing a beret and refer to myself in the third person.
Writing is a form of art, but I care more about storytelling and creating worlds that immerse the reader into a place where they can forget their troubles for a little while. I have no illusions about my books being considered culturally significant or anything like that.
But these people are still dreaming that dream, and I won’t let my jaded self get in the way.
He sees it too. He sees right through me. I can tell when he offers a slight smile before going back to his salad. Even though he’s eating, his gaze keeps hitting me from beneath his lowered brow. Something tells me we’re going to talk a lot more about this.
And I want to. I do. It’s not an accident, the way the girls flock to him. The way no pair of eyes stays away from his part of the table for more than a few minutes at a time. The way conversations around us quiet down every time he speaks.
Yes, I want to talk with him. I’d like to do more than that, especially since my heart slightly flutters every time our eyes meet. For the sake of my new friends, I look away when we lock eyes. I don’t want to upset them.
It’s only when we’re finishing up and saying good-bye for now that he edges a little closer to me. We’re in front of the diner, and it’s a bitter cold night.
“Maybe we should’ve gotten the good-byes out of the way inside,” he murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is close to my ear. His breath forms a cloud between us. “It always takes a while.”
I can’t help but laugh softly. He’s got such a kind way about him. A talent for making a girl feel like she’s the only person in the entire world.
“I might lose my fingers in this cold.”
He gasps before grinning. “Oh no. Then, how would you write those best sellers of yours?”
“Cute. I am sorry about that, by the way. Really. I didn’t mean to brag or anything.”
“You put me in my place. It’s okay. I deserved it for being so incredulous. It’s none of my business why you haven’t joined a writing group. I don’t know the first thing about how you work or why you do what you do.”
“There’s one way to change that.”
I don’t have time to tell him how we can change it before Bianca throws an arm around his shoulders. “Come on. Share our car with us?”
I take a step back to give them room. If he and Bianca have a thing going on, I won’t get in the way. She seems like a sweet girl, and I’m not here to ruin anything.
Besides, I’m freaking freezing. My nose is starting to ache from it, not to mention the rest of my face.
Rafe’s body goes stiff. For someone who’s good at controlling his every move and muscle twitch when he’s onstage, he doesn’t cover his awkwardness well. “Thanks, but I was gonna stop off before going home. I’ll walk.”
“In this cold?” Bianca bites her lip.
“Come on!” Madison waves from the curb. “Our ride’s here. I don’t feel like being charged extra because the guy had to wait.”
Bianca offers me a little wave before hurrying over to Madison, leaving Rafe and me alone-ish.
“Before we get interrupted again, can I take you to dinner sometime?” he asks all at once.
I answer right away, “Yes. I’d love that.”
“I’ll find you online. Isn’t that how you found Ashley?” He winks, backing away. “See you soon, best-selling author.”
“You’re not gonna let me live that down, are you?”
His hair swings back and forth when he shakes his head hard, laughing, as I climb into the car waiting for me.
Am I craning my neck to catch one last look at him before pulling away? Maybe. Just maybe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“An actor.”
I manage to keep from rolling my eyes at my grandmother, but it’s not easy. Not even a little. “What’s wrong with that?”
“An actor.”
“You said that already. And you make it sound like I told you he’s a serial killer for kicks.”
“He might be, for all you know.”
I scoff.
“Well? You don’t know this young man. And even if his future doesn’t involve serial murder, can you
justly say he has a solid career?”
“Do I have to run down the list of so-called solid family men who ended up being psycho killers?”
“No.”
“You sure? Because I can think of several off the top of my head.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Must you be morbid? One would think you wrote crime thrillers for a living.”
“Writing isn’t considered a solid career either. You know that, right?”
“Why must you downplay your success, my dear?” She reaches out to pat my cheek just a smidgen harder than she needs to. Still gentle, but just barely.
I can’t help but notice how unsparkly she is today. Normally, I’m asking myself how she manages to lift her arms with so much hardware weighing her down. Diamonds are her usual favorite, and Lord knows she has enough of them to blind a person if the light hits her just right.
In fact, now that I’m paying attention, she looks downright ordinary. Still wearing a skirt, of course—I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear slacks, not once ever—and a silk blouse. Her hair is perfectly arranged, as always, in a sleek chignon.
Otherwise, there’s nothing even remotely fabulous about her. Nothing the average passerby would notice outside of her beauty, which time hasn’t managed to affect.
She notices me watching her because the woman doesn’t miss a trick. “What is it? Do I have something on my face? Between my teeth?”
“No. You’re okay.”
“So, why are you looking at me the way you are?”
I shrug while lowering my teacup to the table in front of us. We’re in the parlor today, which basically looks like it should be in a museum. Heck, it might as well be a museum, filled with priceless artwork that my grandmother and grandfather collected during their travels in the early days of their marriage. Before Mom was born, before they settled down into their roles as a married couple with a child.
“Honestly?” I wince a little when I ask since I know she’s not going to want to hear what I have to say.
She tips her head to the side, fixing me with a hard stare from eyes that look a lot like mine. “Of course.”
