by Ember Casey
I run my fingers through my hair one more time—my wrist, at least, is nearly back to normal—and smile at my reflection. My lips sport a delicate coat of pink lipstick, and my eyes a less delicate swipe of eyeliner. My mom taught me how to do a wicked cat eye when I was sixteen and going to my first high school dance. She said it made me look flirty and mysterious.
Just when I’ve started practicing my “come hither” look in the mirror, the doorbell rings.
My heart quickens as I limp my way to the door. My palms are sweaty, and my breath is coming a little too fast, forcing my breasts against the snug neckline of my dress. Dante’s comment about how I have trouble catching my breath when I’m overwhelmed floats into my mind, but I shove it aside. I’m nervous, yes, but I’m also excited. And proud of myself for taking this step, for taking back control of my heart.
And when I see the man standing on my stoop, I’m even more certain that I’ve made the right decision.
Damn, Mama Pat.
My mother hen’s detailed descriptions of Dean over the last few months didn’t even begin to do him justice. The man in front of me is breathtaking—tall and athletic with sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes. He’s so handsome, in fact, that for a moment I’m rendered speechless. The knot in my stomach explodes into a flurry of butterflies.
And when he smiles, I almost pass out.
“Ashlyn?” he says.
I find my voice. “That’s me. Dean?”
“A pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a bouquet of daffodils, and I nearly swoon. Why did I put off dating for so long?
“Do you like seafood?” he asks after I’ve popped the daffodils in some water and we’re heading to his car.
“Love it.” I try not to look too pathetic as I hobble around to my side of the vehicle. He offered me his arm on the way out the door—Mama Pat was right, he’s a perfect gentleman—but I’m not ready for physical contact just yet, even if my date looks like a cross between a male swimsuit model and a Navy SEAL.
We exchange general questions on our way to the restaurant. I tell him about the bakery; he tells me about his job at a local advertising firm. We chat about our favorite foods—I love sweets, of course, and he admits to a weakness for pizza—and our favorite music. Somewhere along the way, I learn that he grew up in Florida and that he has a German shepherd named Luther.
It’s strange, being on a real date. Dante and I never did anything like this. Even though what we had was the most intense relationship of my life, we never went out together.
But I’m not going to think about Dante, not tonight. Not when I’m on my way to dinner with Mama Pat’s hot neighbor.
Dean is friendly and personable, and the more we talk, the more my nerves start to fade. This doesn’t feel scary—it feels natural. Normal. Like talking to an old friend.
Unfortunately, as I sit across from him at dinner, eating what is admittedly some exquisite halibut, I realize why.
It’s just talking. Dean is kind, polite, smart. And—I won’t deny this isn’t a huge part of his appeal—extremely handsome. But he’s also boring as hell. Everything he says is just… pleasant. Nothing more. He uses the same tone to talk about his latest project at work as he does to talk about his dog, or that mediocre steakhouse he tried last week.
Dante’s opinions about my relationship with Jack—more specifically, his comments about needing someone who matches me—return to my mind.
But that isn’t what’s happening here, I tell myself. Maybe Dean’s just nervous. I don’t know much about his past love life—a first date isn’t exactly the time to have a conversation about that—but maybe this is a big step for him, too. Maybe once we know each other a little better, once we’re a little more comfortable around each other, we’ll both open up more.
“Tell me something crazy you’ve done,” I say abruptly.
He stops mid-chew, his eyes widening as if I’ve just asked him whether he’s ever murdered someone or something.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on a real date.”
That earns me a smile. “It’s all right. I’m just not sure how to answer your question.”
“Then I’ll ask you another one,” I say, leaning forward. This time, I’ll try something a little less personal. “If you had all the money in the world, what would you do?” It’s cheesy, yes, and not that original, but it’ll give me an idea of where his passions lie—and then I’ll start to see the real Dean.
He thinks for a moment, sliding his thumb back and forth along the length of his chiseled jaw. He really is a very good-looking man.
“I’d give some of it to charity,” he says finally.
“Any one in particular?” Does this gorgeous guy also have a heart of gold? A cause he fights for on the weekends?
But he only shrugs. “It seems like a thoughtful thing to do. I don’t need that much money.”
Dead end. I try another angle. “What if you were required to spend a million of it on yourself? On something completely frivolous? What would you do then?”
He laughs. The sound is pleasant, nothing more. Just like everything else about him.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really think about things like that. Why does it matter? I have what I have, and I’m happy.”
Maybe he’s just trying to seem humble, or nice.
“It’s just a game,” I say lightly. “Sometimes it’s fun to pretend.” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I add, “Would you like me to go first?”
His answering smile is friendly, if not exactly enthusiastic. “Go ahead. I’m afraid I’m not very good at games.”
“I’d spend some of it on my bakery,” I say. “Hire a bigger staff. Get some fancy new appliances. Buy that ice cream machine I’ve had my eye on—I’d love to have a full case of gelato and sorbet.” I tug at the end of my hair, thinking. “But that’s all work-related stuff. If I had to be frivolous, I’d buy a movie theater. My own private cinema where I could watch whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. And throw awesome parties. Then I’d use some of the money to travel. Somewhere on the other side of the world—maybe Thailand. Or Japan.”
“That’s quite a list.” He’s still smiling, but I can’t tell if he’s just humoring me. In the back of my mind, despite my best efforts to keep all thoughts of him out of my head, I find myself wondering how Dante would respond to my list of silly dreams. Or even how Dante would answer my questions. Certainly none of the Fontaines are hurting for money, but when was the last time Dante did something frivolous? He’s always been so serious, so intense. And I can’t help thinking about the tense phone calls I’ve overheard. Cataclysm: Earth might be a hit, but Dante isn’t exactly leading a fantasy life.
What are you doing, you idiot? I think. You’re supposed to be forgetting about Dante. Not worrying about him.
I force myself to refocus my attention on Dean. “Have you decided what you’d do with your million dollars yet?”
He considers his answer for another moment, then gives another shrug. “I’ve always thought it might be nice to have a pool.”
Okay, so maybe there aren’t any exciting passions buried deep down inside this guy after all.
* * *
The date doesn’t get better. But it doesn’t get worse, either. It’s just… fine. A pleasant meal with a pleasant man. But as we prattle on about general, innocuous things, Dante’s words about what I need keep coming back to me. My conversations with Dante have never been just pleasant. They aren’t always good—some of our recent interactions spring to mind—but they were never just conversations. They were always something more—a startling connection, a sharing of energy, a meeting of two sparks of life. I never really thought about them in that way when Dante and I were together, but it’s hard not to recognize it now, when all of it is missing with Dean.
But I’m not with Dante, and I don’t want to be with him—in any way—ever again. I was lonely when I met him—so unbearabl
y lonely that I’d hidden it even from myself—and he’d been there. He’d started to fill in the empty spaces inside of me. I became dependent on him. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else… right?
But now I’m building a life of my own. A life on my terms. I stopped lying to myself about wanting a film career and instead followed my true passion—baking. I’ve made new friends—not just Jack, but Mama Pat and Karen and Jilly and others. Now is not the time to slide back into bad habits, and Dante definitely qualifies as a bad habit.
And Dean is attractive, even if I don’t feel any particular spark. Who says this has to turn into a full relationship? Maybe I can just have a little fun in the moment.
In my head, I see myself rolling into bed with Dean. Imagine him undressing me. Kissing my bare skin. Sliding his hand up my bare leg. And I imagine how I might kiss his throat. How my fingers might unbutton his shirt to reveal the broad chest beneath. How my lips might close around his earlobe.
But when the man in my fantasy moans, it’s not Dean that I hear. And the fingers I imagine sliding between my thighs aren’t his either. They’re far more familiar.
I shake my head, trying to jostle the images out of my mind. These kinds of thoughts about Dante are far, far worse than any of the others I’ve been having this evening.
But what did I expect? Dante is the only guy I’ve ever slept with. No wonder that’s where my mind goes when I’m trying to fantasize.
That’s all the more reason to create new fantasies, I tell myself. To do something wild, like have a one-night stand with Mama Pat’s hot neighbor.
In many ways, it’s an appealing idea. But at the same time, the very thought makes my stomach turn. I hardly know this guy. He might be attractive, but he’s still practically a stranger. And he’ll be only the second guy I’ve ever had sex with—shouldn’t I wait until I have an emotional connection with someone before jumping into bed?
Don’t make such a big deal out of it, a little voice argues. It’s just sex. Live a little. But how can sex not be a big deal when my experience is so limited? Not to mention that anyone I sleep with now has a lot to live up to. My relationship with Dante was… intense. There’s no other word for it.
Okay, so no sex then. But maybe I don’t have to have sex with Dean to get out of this funk. Maybe we can just fool around a little. I’ve fooled around with several guys over the past few years—that’s definitely something I can handle.
So when Dean suggests we continue our date after dinner, I find myself agreeing.
“Would you like to see a movie?” he asks.
“Sure.” This is actually the perfect solution—it means we won’t have to talk much. “Did you have anything in mind?”
“I’ve been hearing great things about Cataclysm: Earth,” he says. “Have you seen it yet?”
“No,” I say quickly. “But I don’t really think it’s my kind of movie.” I consider how that sounds. “Not that I’m not willing to compromise…”
“Disaster movies aren’t really my thing, either,” he says. “But I’ve heard this one breaks the mold. My sister loved it, and she hates action movies.”
“I…” There’s no way I’m going to go see Dante’s movie, but how do I get out of this without sounding difficult? “It just doesn’t sound like a very good date movie, does it? What about a comedy?”
“I could do a comedy,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. “I’m not sure there’s anything good playing right now, though. But I can look up the listings.” He pulls his cell out of his pocket, but he pauses when his internet browser pops up. “On second thought, how about a drink? My buddy told me about a place just around the corner.”
On the one hand, sitting at a bar means having to come up with more conversation. On the other, it gives me access to alcohol. I’d still prefer a movie, but it’s clear that Dean isn’t really interested in anything besides Cataclysm: Earth, and I’d go home before sitting through a two-hour reminder of the man I’m trying to forget.
“That sounds great,” I say.
It’s only a few minutes away. When we get there, Dean says, “Chris says celebs come here all the time. He spotted Stacia Fischer here once.”
A jolt of warning moves through me, but I force myself to smile. I can’t avoid every place where there’s a remote possibility that Dante—or another member of his family—might show up. This is L.A.—I’d end up sitting home by myself all day. Besides, Dante’s off on that press tour, isn’t he? There’s no reason to worry.
“That’s exciting,” I say.
The bar is small, but I can see immediately why it’s popular among celebrities. It’s nicer than your average hole-in-the-wall joint but still a far cry from one of those trendy, upscale lounges that seem so popular these days. It’s cozy and comfortable, a nice spot for a post-dinner drink.
Dean leads us to a table by the window—which is tinted so that we can see out but people can’t see in. I slide into my seat, careful not to jostle my ankle. When the waitress comes by, we decide to split a bottle of wine. And then we’re left staring at each other.
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Now I have to come up with more things to talk about, and though Dean is perfectly nice, he’s not exactly a big talker. I’ve given up on drawing out any of his passions—if there’s anything in his life that makes him light up with excitement, he doesn’t seem particularly interested in sharing it tonight.
I wonder if that lack of passion extends to the bedroom, I find myself wondering. Or would having sex with him be merely pleasant like everything else about him?
There certainly was a connection between passion inside and outside of the bedroom where Dante was concerned. At first glance, on the surface, Dante seems reserved. In perfect control. But I know from experience that beneath that controlled exterior, an intense inferno burns. I’ve seen the real Dante—the one the rest of the world never gets to see. There’s a fire in him, a depth of feeling that is usually only visible through his scripts. But I’ve seen that depth of emotion in his eyes. Felt it on my skin. Heard it in his words. He and I seem to bring out the wildness in each other.
But there I go, thinking about Dante again. Bad Ashlyn.
I force myself to ask Dean about his current work projects. He looks grateful to have something to talk about, and he quickly launches into a story about one of his clients. As he speaks, I let my eyes wander over him. From his lovely blue eyes… down his straight nose… along his strong jaw… and finally lower to where the muscles of his throat move in time with his words. If I zone out, I can pretend he’s giving an impassioned speech about his pet cause, or discussing his plans for getting his dream job, or even telling a hilarious, lively story about an adventure he had back in college. But it doesn’t help much.
Eventually, my eyes start to wander. My gaze drifts across the bar, casually observing the other patrons. Almost reflexively, I find myself looking for any familiar celebrity faces. I don’t see any, which is both a disappointment and a relief.
Until the door opens.
If this were one of the screenplays I submitted back at school, this part of the scene would have been torn to shreds for being too coincidental—not to mention extremely cliché. Funny, that film school is what I should think of when my worst nightmare is coming true. Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Of all people to walk into this bar, it had to be Dante.
Dante, who I’m supposed to be forgetting. Dante, who’s supposed to be on a press tour right now. And not just Dante, no—he has someone else with him, too, and as I examine the second figure more closely, I realize it’s his brother Luca. They’re both covered up—sunglasses, layers, and in Luca’s case, a baseball cap, and though both disguises would probably fool any casual observers, they don’t get past me. My body is immediately on alert, fully aware of him even across the room.
For a split second my heart stops, half expecting Emilia Torres t
o walk in behind them, but—thank God for small mercies—it’s just the two brothers.
That’s still two more Fontaines than I wanted to see tonight.
They stop just inside the door, glancing around. Most people in the bar don’t seem to be aware that two of Hollywood’s hottest celebrities have just walked through the door, but I can’t tear my eyes away. Dante always captures my full attention. And this is the first time I’ve ever seen Luca in person, but he too has a certain presence about him, that magnetism so often found in successful actors. Unlike Dante—who always looks so serious—Luca is flashing his famous smile as they survey the room.
I shrink back against the window, trying to position myself so that Dean blocks me from Dante’s line of sight.
Dean, to his credit, notices something is wrong immediately.
“What is it?” He glances back over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. I need to get out of here. Now. “I’ve been thinking—maybe we should go see a movie after all.”
“Right now? We don’t even have our wine yet.”
Shit. I forgot about that.
And right on cue, the waitress appears with the bottle and two glasses, so there’s no slipping away now. I suppose I could tell him that I’m feeling tired or sick—or that I just remembered that one of the pain meds I’m taking for my ankle doesn’t mix with alcohol—but as Dante likes to remind me, I’ve never been good at lying.
Besides, I tell myself. They’ve already walked over to the bar. And they’ve chosen seats with their backs to us. Maybe there’s a chance I’ll get out of here without anything awkward happening.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dean asks as he pours our glasses.
“Yes,” I say. “I just got distracted for a moment.”
