by Aria Ford
“I don’t go to Italy for dinner unless I’m already in Italy,” I say to reassure her. There’s no reason to tell her I’ve flown to Milan for the evening before, or that I’ve borrowed a yacht to take a woman out to look at the stars. I try another angle, “Is there something you’d like to do?”
“I don’t really think about that. It seems silly to you probably. I don’t go around thinking of all the stuff I’m not doing. When I was in college, I used to go out with my friends, have margaritas at someplace that didn’t card students, go act like idiots at some house party…I wouldn’t want to do that now. I was a different person. I had everything and didn’t even know it.”
She’s drooping now, her hand still on the tap. I go to her and touch her arm. She leans in to me, her head on my chest. I put an arm around her and hold her. I feel her arms go around my waist. She tips her face up to look at me. Her dark eyes are incredibly sad. I couldn’t see her eyes last night when she talked about losing her family, and maybe in the dark it was easier for her to tell me things. Now she’s letting me see how she feels and what she’s lost. I bend down and kiss her lips softly. I want to be a man of decency and not grope her, despite the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt, she’s not wearing much of anything, and there’s a Jacuzzi of hot water right there.
“You’re sweet,” she says.
I take a step back, “I’m a great many things, but sweetness is not something I’ve been accused of,” I say.
“My sweet boy,” my mother used to call me. I rub my forehead. I haven’t been sweet in a long time. I’ve been ruthless. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been extremely successful. I haven’t been much damn good, though. Now, I wish I were better. I wish I were something more. For this girl who won’t tell me her name.
“You are, though. A lot of guys would have taken advantage of a girl in my situation last night.”
“Are you forgetting the part where I fucked you in an alley?” I question.
I hate those words the second they leave my mouth. I see them register on her face like I’ve hit her. I take another step back. It’s too intense right now. Regret is sharp in my gut. I want to go to her and say I’m sorry, but I don’t want her to think I’m that guy, the sweet guy who rescues her. Because I’m bound to disappoint her.
“It wasn’t like that,” she says. Her voice sounds strangled.
I want the hell out of this bathroom, so I leave. I go sit on my bed and check my email. I hear the slosh of water in the tub as she gets in. I won’t let myself imagine her that way, naked and wet in the bath. She doesn’t turn on the jets in the tub. I want to show her how to work the control panel so she can use the bubble feature, but I know she doesn’t want me back in there after the way I acted. If I was acting like a stupid fifteen-year-old when I walked in there, I was a bratty six-year-old by the time I was done.
She takes a short bath and comes out in the robe and hunts for her clothes. I don’t make a move to help her. She won’t look at me, and it’s no wonder. When she’s dressed, or sort of dressed in her pants and the ripped shirt, which she’s holding shut, I get up and go to her. I’m about to say something. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I know I can’t leave things the way they are.
“It wasn’t like that,” she says, lifting her chin.
I stare at her. I can’t believe she’s standing up to me, that she’s so sure after how I acted. She’s magnificent. I want to kiss her for calling me out on my bullshit.
“It wasn’t anything ugly like you made it sound. I was there. I asked you. I think I said please,” she says. Her chin is jutting out defiantly. It’s pretty damn adorable.
“Do you expect me to believe that isn’t the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done?” I raise an eyebrow at her.
“You mean sex in a public place? Yeah, I guess it is. But just because I don’t have some wild past doesn’t make what we did cheap and meaningless,” she says stubbornly.
I have no idea why I’m trying to win this argument when I agree with her. It feels like my whole life is at stake. I don’t want her putting me on a pedestal, believing that I’m Prince Charming. It’s so hard to resist her right now. Speaking of hard, of course I am. How could I not be? She’s practically defending my honor to me, brave and stubborn and holding my robe over her arm. I’m reasonably certain that I will never be able to wear that robe again. I consider having it framed in a shadowbox and hung on the wall as a monument. Then that idea makes me grin. She takes the grin as an insult like I’m laughing at her. Shit.
“You think this is funny?” she says.
“No. I don’t find it amusing. In fact, I thought of something else entirely, something absurd, and—”
“Oh, am I boring you?” she says sarcastically. I’ve really hurt her feelings, I think.
“No, you’re not. You just need to calm down. You can wear one of my shirts.”
I go to my closet and return with a blue button-down. I offer it to her. She looks at me like I’m trying to hand her a dead albatross.
“The buttons work on this one. Take it,” I say gruffly.
She takes it, turns her back to me and drops her black shirt, puts on my blue one. I can see the shrug of her thin shoulders as she pulls on my shirt. I want to put my hands on her back, to feel the movement of muscle and bone as she gets dressed. I want to run my fingers underneath her bra strap, to see the flicker of arousal kindle in her eyes. She has the shirt mostly buttoned when she turns around. The sleeves are so long that the open cuffs cover her hands completely. I go to her and start turning up a sleeve. She looks offended. I finish cuffing the right sleeve and then do the left one. I like rolling her cuffs back for her. I like seeing her in my shirt. I like it way too much.
I lean down and kiss her forehead and whisper, “I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.”
Her arms go around my waist, and I pull her to my chest and hold her. It’s a relief to have her in my arms. My eyes drop shut tightly. I hadn’t realized that the itchy, tight feeling in my chest was from being at odds with her. I didn’t know until it loosened, until her cheek on my chest soothed it away.
“Let me buy you breakfast. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
“I think I’ll just go get the bus,” she says, “Truth is, I’m kind of tired. Last night was a lot. For all kinds of reasons.”
“Then I’ll drive you home.”
“You don’t know where I live,” she says.
“You’ll tell me, and then I’ll drive you there.”
“No. I don’t want to tell you where I live or what my name is. Because last night was complete. Let’s leave it in the past. I’m glad. I mean, I appreciate you saying you didn’t mean that because it made me—sad. This is going to sound so corny, like something off The Bachelor, but I feel a connection with you. And when you said that, I thought I had it all wrong. That maybe you weren’t who I thought you were.”
“Stay,” I say. I don’t argue with her about who I am, or how she’s idealized me. I go straight for what I want. “Stay,” I say again.
“Oh God, Griffin, you have no idea how hard it is to say no to you,” she groans, backing up. She folds my robe and hands it to me.
“It can’t be that difficult, since you’re refusing,” I say. I sound petulant, like I’ve been denied a treat.
“I have to. I can’t get mixed up with you. Not any more than I already have. You saved me in a lot of ways last night, but I can’t date you. I can’t spend the day with you or another night or anything like that. I’ll wind up hurt,” she says.
I’m pretty certain she’s right about that. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want her to stay.
“Let me drive you,” I say.
“I’ll let you drive me to a general area. You can drop me off at the Starbucks near where I live.”
“I’ll take that deal, since I don’t think I’ll get a better one,” I say.
“You’re right. You won’t.”
I’m driving with her beside me. S
he keeps petting the leather seat and making an appreciative humming sound. I’m guessing she’s never been in a Porsche before.
“What do you do?” she said.
“I own nightclubs.”
“Oh. How did you start that? I mean, did you just inherit it?”
“My mom only died last year. My dad was never in the picture. So, no. I didn’t inherit a business. I mean, I had a trust fund from my mom’s family. I used that for tuition and to bankroll a few pop ups.”
“Like the books? Where the picture’s in 3-D and it unfolds at you?” she says.
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Pop-up clubs. When I was a sophomore in college, I talked some people in to letting me use their barbecue joint for a nightclub after hours for two weeks. They had a liquor license and all I had to do was guarantee them $3,000. They made that in half the bar tab the first week alone. A friend of mine DJ’d it. The campy location sold a lot of people on it—word of mouth had us turning people away. I took the profit from that and did another pop up the next month at an auto body shop. I did that for two years and had enough to buy my first club.”
“Wait, a barbecue joint? What made you think of that?” she says, acting all impressed just like I meant her to do.
“Rich kids are bored. They’ll spend money for novelty. For something different to talk about and someplace new to go. That’s why it was so important to do limited engagements at first. Get different DJs. Different themes, the cheesier the better.”
“I wanted to work in fashion,” she says, “Now I get excited when Dominic lets me use the glass chalk on the specials board. Because it’s the closest thing I have to artistic expression.”
“Do you plan to go back, get your degree?”
“That’s why I started moonlighting with Epicurean Advantage. It was a good opportunity to save some money. It didn’t work out too well,” she says with a smirk.
“Was last night the first job you did for them?” I say. She nods.
“First and last. I don’t think they’ll keep me on after I caused a scene and ran out.”
“If you’ll recall, I caused the scene. I shouldn’t have dragged you out there to confront them both.”
“You did what you thought was right,” she says, and sighs.
“Yes. But I wasn’t right,” I admit, “I made it worse for you. I could have beaten his ass and dealt with them both while you went home.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she says, reaching over and putting her hand on my arm, “It sucked at the time. I thought you were an insensitive tool, but if you’d handled Simpson and his brother, I wouldn’t have met you. You would have been nothing but that hot guy I saw when I worked a private party one time.”
“Oh, I’m that hot guy, am I?” I say, trying to sound like I’m joking when I’m pathetically thrilled by the compliment.
“Yes. You are. I almost dumped food on you because I was staring at you. I have never seen anyone in real life as good-looking as you are. Since you’ve seen yourself in the mirror, this can’t be a surprise.”
“I’m not often told that I’m supernaturally handsome,” I tease, trying to hide how incredible it feels to know she thinks that about me.
“I’d tell you that every day,” she says. I think she sounds wistful.
“Have you decided what you want for breakfast? Since, regrettably, you can’t survive on just my good looks.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it,” she says.
“No, I want to treat you. What’s your absolute favorite breakfast food? Le Chat does a gorgeous Eggs Benedict with fresh hollandaise. The French toast at Aubrey’s is done with a loganberry syrup from Vermont…” I trail off.
“Well, you know what I’d really like? That I haven’t had in forever? A sausage burrito.” She’s beaming. I have no idea where to find such a thing, but I suddenly want to get her one because she looks so excited.
“Is there a particular restaurant that serves—”
“McDonald’s. You can get them in the drive thru.”
I’m dumbfounded. Given a choice between the Le Chat eggs and the french toast, she picks a drive-through burrito in wax paper. It’s unbelievable. Does she think that’s all she’s worth? Or is she seriously this thrilled about the idea of a greasy takeaway burrito? I look over at her in disbelief. She’s grinning expectantly, waiting to see if her wish will be granted. I’m such a pushover for this girl it’s unreal. I’m about to take my Porsche on its inaugural trip to a fast food drive up window. I would laugh at the absurdity of this situation except she looks so damn endearing and happy. So I ask her exactly what she wants. I order her two burritos, a hash brown, a large orange juice. She looks just that way you’d picture someone who’s won a sports car or the jackpot on a slot machine. I can tell she’s trying to restrain herself but she’s practically bouncing in her seat.
“You can eat in the car,” I say, knowing what she’s thinking.
She doesn’t say a word, just digs into the bag and starts scarfing a greasy looking burrito. She breaks off a piece of hash brown and offers it to me. I don’t want it, but I take it anyway and eat it because she gave it to me probably. It’s as salty and oily as I expect, but it also doesn’t disgust me the way I thought it would. Maybe because if she offered me a damned live frog I’d consider eating it. I nearly choke laughing at that thought. I have to take a drink of her orange juice to stop coughing. She laughs at me, and I don’t even mind.
I drive around the city, making a lazy circuit and listening to her talk. She tells me about her little brother, about her professor in college that sometimes lapsed into a fake French accent during lectures, about how she likes to stand in the grocery store to read magazines. “I read them all,” she brags, “Vanity Fair, Cosmo, all the good ones. I don’t read all the articles, but I check out all the clothes and read my horoscope. They’re basically all the same, the horoscopes, but it’s fun to read them anyway. Just in case I skip it one time and that was the time that something horrible was going to happen, and I could’ve been warned.”
“Superstitious,” I scold a little indulgently.
“Yeah,” she says, finishing off her second burrito, “God, I ate too much. But it was so good. Thank you.”
“Is that the way to your heart? Fast food?”
“Maybe,” she says, “why would you ask?”
“I’m keeping my options open,” I say. “I still want your name. Your number. Something.”
“You’ve got more than something. You’ve got the best night of my whole life, so my name shouldn’t matter very much compared to that.”
“Kate,” I say, “I’m serious. I want to know who you are.”
“You know who I am. I was a student and a sister and a daughter, and all that ended with a car wreck. I’m a waitress. I’m trying to get by. And one night I got in some trouble. This guy rescued me. He doesn’t want me to think he’s a hero. I don’t think you’re perfect, Griffin. I know better… but you’re still my hero.”
It makes my chest burn when she says that. My throat feels tight. I have to stop driving. I find a place to parallel park. I manage to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the wheel after a minute and look at her. She is looking at me with these trusting, open dark eyes.
She is in my arms now and we’re kissing. Whether it’s because I want her so much or because of what she just said, I couldn’t decide. My hands are in her hair. I don’t know if I can let her go. That’s how bad it is. I kiss her cheek and top of her head. I am undone by her.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I’m better off not knowing her name.
Because that would make it too easy for me to come back for more.
I might never stop.
I drive her as far as she’ll let me. I give her my business card, in case she ever wants to get in touch. My personal number isn’t on there. But she’d never use it anyway. I know as I hand it to her that there’s no reason. She may keep it as a memento for
a while, tucked in the corner of her mirror. She’ll never dial the number, never ask to meet me for coffee. I think of that card for a second, slid into the frame of the bathroom mirror, mute as she puts on lipstick to meet another man. I shut my eyes to that. There’s no point.
She has me drop her off outside a convenience store. Makes me promise not to follow her, not to watch her walk away. I want to break my promise, but if I did that, I wouldn’t be anything close to the man she thinks I am. So I let her go. I drive away.
CHAPTER NINE
Caleigh
If I don’t get out of the car now, I’ll stay forever.
I might have to live in his car. It’s more comfortable than my apartment and cleaner, that’s for sure. It’s about him though. About how we don’t fit in each other’s lives. He’s a CEO or something, and I just lost a part-time waitressing job. Not exactly a match made in the society pages.
I’m crying.
There’s no way to hide it. This is not one of those photogenic movie cries, where the gorgeous actress blinks her huge, beautiful eyes shining with tears and sniffles once bravely. This is crying with hiccupping sobs, wiping my face on my sleeve. It isn’t pretty. I can tell I’m puffy and red and look wretched. Way to give him a romantic goodbye—it would be perfect if not for the weeping and the snorting and gulping sounds I’m making. He kisses my cheek way back by my ear. I clutch at the front of his shirt for a minute.
