hollis-partygirlFD-IN-EP

by Party Girl's First Date (epub)

  And Holy Moses, how many abs does he have under that shirt?

  Clearly he can’t tell that I’m imagining him shirtless, thank the Lord. He looks back over his shoulder at the hostess and waves his free hand in some sort of quick gesture.

  “I have plans.” He looks back at me. “And not one of them includes having our night ruined by her.” He pulls me towards the door. “We’ll go somewhere else just as great. OK?”

  I really should stop daydreaming about his stomach muscles.

  “OK,” I sigh wistfully.

  I hurry along as fast as these high, high shoes can take me.

  —

  Whatever the hand gesture was, it must have had something to do with the valet, because his car is waiting for us at the curb when we get there.

  “Where to now?” I ask when he helps me into my seat.

  “I’m not sure, but I’m going to figure it out.”

  He closes the door behind me and walks around to the driver’s side. As soon as he gets in, he hits a contact on his phone and the car fills with the sound of ringing from the Bluetooth.

  “You know I have Cade’s show tonight.” A young guy’s annoyed voice fills the car. “You promised I had the night off—”

  “Michael,” Brody says, interrupting the small tirade, “you’re on speakerphone.”

  It’s totally silent for a moment. When Michael starts speaking again, I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “So Landon is in the car? The Landon?” he asks gleefully.

  I look out the window and try not to blush. I’ve heard Brody talk about his assistant before, but it’s really sweet to know that he’s heard about me too.

  “You understand I can fire you, right?” Brody asks, but there’s no bite in his tone.

  “Please,” Michael snorts. “Do you know how many times you’ve threatened to do that over the last four years?”

  “Clearly not enough,” Brody grumbles under his breath.

  “Yes, well, what can I do for you? I’m literally minutes from walking into the theater, and you know I can’t have my phone on in there.”

  “I need new reservations,” Brody says.

  “What happened to your old ones?” Michael sounds exasperated again.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just get me new ones.” Brody is starting to sound pretty exasperated himself.

  “I need to find new ressies in the twelve minutes before the show starts and it has to fit your criteria?”

  “Yes,” Brody snaps. “This can’t be that hard.”

  “At least one Michelin star, romantic, intimate.” Michael starts listing things off in what I assume is his Brody voice. “And it can’t be somewhere you’ve taken—”

  “Which way am I driving, Michael?” Brody asks loudly.

  A long sigh fills the car through the cell phone speaker. Then Michael says quickly, “Drive towards the Westside. I’ll call you back.”

  The line goes dead, and music fills the car again. Brody pulls out into traffic, and when I turn to look at him, he’s running a hand through his hair in agitation. I need to try to make him feel better.

  “We don’t have to go somewhere special. I’d be totally happy anywhere. I think there’s a Cheesecake Fa—” I can’t even finish the sentence because the look on his face is so mortified. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “OK,” I say gently. “You choose the place.”

  His phone rings again, and as soon as he touches the button, Michael starts talking.

  “Can you make it to The Wilshire in half an hour?” Michael demands.

  Brody glances at the clock and the relatively empty street as we drive down La Brea towards the freeway.

  “Absolutely,” he says.

  “All right, I had to beg them to fit you in and you cannot be even five minutes late, because they have a huge party coming in at nine and if you miss your window you’re out of luck.”

  “OK,” Brody tells him.

  “All right, the little usher holding the door is super pissed at me right now. I have to go—and I’m shutting off my phone for the next three hours, Ashton, so don’t even think of trying to call me.”

  “OK, Michael—” Brody tries to cut him off.

  “Bye, Landon. Have fun!” Michael sings over Brody’s voice.

  I can’t stop my giggle.

  “Bye, Michael. Thanks for your help,” I call back.

  When Brody hangs up he looks over at me expectantly.

  “Is The Wilshire OK?”

  “Honestly, I’m really easy to please.” I smile at him. “And I very rarely get to go to dinner, so The Wilshire sounds awesome. Do you think we’ll be able to make it to Santa Monica in half an hour, though?”

  I glance at the clock on the dash, knowing after months of living in Los Angeles how driving always takes twice as long as you think it will.

  “It’s after rush hour, and I drive pretty fast.” He throws me a cocky grin. “We’ll be just fine.”

  He pushes down on the accelerator, and we rush off towards the beach.

  —

  Twenty-five minutes and six miles later, we’re sitting in a parking lot.

  Well, not a real parking lot, but bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 10 is a special kind of hell you have to experience firsthand to truly understand. Brody stopped speaking about ten minutes ago, and his hair is ruffled every which way from running his hand through it anxiously. We’re nowhere near the restaurant, and there’s no chance of us making it there on time. In fact, if we could make it there in less than an hour, it would be a wine-making Jesus kind of miracle. One of us needs to call it like it is, and based on the death grip he has on the steering wheel, I’m guessing it’s going to need to be me.

  “Brody, we can just go somewhere around here,” I say gently. “There’s no use going to all of this trouble.”

  He lets out a long sigh. When he finally looks over at me, his grin is self-deprecating.

  “I wanted to do something nice for you,” he says into the space between us.

  Good grief, you’d think he’s as nervous about this as I am! Apparently he doesn’t realize how much I like him or how little the location matters so long as he’s the one next to me. I don’t want him feeling like he always has to impress me. OK, time to have some courage.

  “Hey.” I reach for his hand.

  Since the freeway is still at a standstill, he turns and looks right at me.

  “Anything I do with you is nice,” I tell him sincerely. “We could get McDonald’s drive-through or hit up the ninety-nine cents store or go do laundry at the fluff ’n’ fold down the street from my house. It would still be nice.”

  I click my tongue in response to the look on his face.

  “You’ve never done any of those things, have you?” I laugh at him.

  “God, no,” he says with a mock shudder. But then he smiles, and some of the tension falls out of his shoulders. “Thank you for saying that, though. I feel exactly the same way.”

  I smile back and fluff my hair dramatically.

  “All right then, pal, what do you say we just get off on the next exit and find somewhere nearby?”

  Brody is already easing into the next lane before I finish the comment.

  “Sounds like a—”

  The sound of his phone ringing cuts him off. Brody frowns at the unknown number lighting up the monitor on the dash.

  “This is Brody,” he answers, sounding like the crisp businessman I’d first met.

  “Mr. Ashton, I’m so happy I caught you,” says a breathless young woman. “This is Elena, the hostess at Hatfield’s. We think you may have left your wallet in the bar.”

  Brody immediately checks three pockets, and I wince as all of them come up empty. His mouth forms more than one silent curse.

 
; “Thank you, Elena. Do you have it with you now?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll lock it up in the general manager’s office until you get back.”

  Brody and I turn in unison to look at the gridlock on the freeway heading back in the direction we’ve just come. If anything, it’s worse than the westbound side. It would take us forever to get back to Hollywood. Brody thanks the woman on the phone and ends the call.

  “I can’t believe I did that.” He sounds annoyed. “I’m never forgetful. The eastbound traffic is a nightmare; it’ll take us forever to get back across town.”

  He shakes his head in dismay.

  Time to step it up. I plaster on my best smile. This really isn’t that big of a deal.

  “We can grab it later, or maybe you could send Michael over there tomorrow?” I offer helpfully.

  Brody frowns, apparently confused about the direction I’m headed.

  “That doesn’t do us much good tonight. It’ll take a while, but plenty of places will still be open when we get there.”

  “Brody, I have my wallet,” I tell him cheerfully. “I can get it this time.”

  Oh Lord, if I thought he turned green when I mentioned the ninety-nine cents store, it was nothing compared to the look on his face now.

  “Absolutely not.” He hits the blinker and quickly drives up the road, apparently deciding that side streets are better than freeways right now.

  I fold my arms across my chest in exasperation. How did I know he was going to be this guy?

  “It’s really not a big deal,” I try again.

  “It’s our first real date,” he counters. “I invited you out, and you are not paying for anything.”

  I blow out a long breath that makes one curl dance across my cheek. How do I proceed here without offending his ego and his pride? He takes another right, and I recognize the street and then realize how close we are to one of his clubs.

  “Hey, isn’t The Directory around here somewhere? And come to think of it, Q7 isn’t that far away either.” Both of them are Barker-Ash properties, and if he is insistent on paying, surely he could put our dinner on his account or something.

  “They are,” he says slowly, before pushing a hand through his hair again. “It’s just . . .”

  He trails off, and I can’t tell if he’s going to finish or if he’ll spend the rest of the trip caught in whatever thought process he’s found himself in.

  “It’s just . . .” I try to lead him to the end of the sentence.

  He sighs loudly.

  “It’s just, I go to those places a lot—I mean, I’ve gone to those places a lot. I really wanted to take you somewhere I’ve never—I mean—”

  Oh, I get it.

  Suddenly Michael complaining about Brody’s stipulations makes much more sense.

  “Somewhere you’ve never taken another date before?” I ask carefully.

  “Yes,” he says, before laughing quietly.

  I can’t tell if he’s laughing at himself or the situation. But either way, I refuse to let male pride ruin my night.

  “So you want to go to a specific place, and it can’t be one of your clubs, but I’m not allowed to pay, and you don’t have your wallet. Do I have that right?” I ask incredulously.

  “Yes?” It sounded like a question, maybe because he was starting to realize how ridiculous this was becoming.

  “OK. If you’re worried about your wallet being in unsafe hands—”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says warily. “I can have Michael grab it on his way back home tonight.”

  “All right then, this isn’t a big deal. You need to take a breath, stop trying to control everything—which is impossible, by the way—and let me pay.” I wave my black clutch at him. It’s filled with more than enough credit cards to get us through the night in one piece. “I want to hang out with you, and there are some really fun places around here, but you’re going to have to loosen up.”

  He looks dubiously at my clutch then at me. Finally he nods.

  “Speaking of which”—I point left so he can get into the turn lane—“I know the perfect spot to get our next drink.”

  “You don’t want dinner first?” he asks, making the left turn.

  “I do want dinner, but first I think you need to chill out.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “And I have an idea.”

  “Why does that make me nervous?” he asks with a chuckle.

  “Because you’re a very smart man.” I grin over at him. “Make a right up here.”

  —

  “We’re uh . . . slightly overdressed for this,” Brody yells over the sound of Bon Jovi wailing from a jukebox that is at least as old as I am.

  I look down at my gorgeous dress and his ridiculously expensive outfit, and while I agree in my head, there’s no way I’m going along with anything he says right now. He needs to stop being so uptight about this whole thing.

  “Nobody cares what you wear at St. Nick’s,” I yell back to him. “What can I get you?”

  I belly up to the bar and wave at a bartender the size of a Prius.

  Brody looks around the raucous bar with distaste. It’s filled with people from all walks of life and furniture from every decade. Neon signs fill up most of the walls, and half-broken Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. It’s a total hole-in-the-wall, but I’ve only ever had a great time here, and if he’d just embrace it, I know he would too.

  “Brody!” I sing his name out. “What do you want?”

  “Uh . . .” He eyes the alcohol options. “Stella, I guess.”

  “Two Stellas, please,” I announce to the bartender and slap down my card—which is definitely not black, just regular old green and white—on the bar. The bartender takes my card and replaces it with two bottles of Stella. I nod when he asks if I want to keep it open. A couple nearby gets up to leave, and I quickly grab their barstools. Brody is preoccupied by the group of bikers across the room, but he finally takes the seat next to me.

  “Let’s play ‘I’ve Never,’” I suggest to get his attention back.

  His blue eyes sparkle with amusement.

  “How does that work?” He takes a drink of his beer.

  “We take turns saying things we’ve never done, and if the other person has done it, they have to take a drink of their beer.” I take a small sip of my own drink, waiting for his response.

  “OK,” he says slowly, clearly not sure where this is going.

  I pretend to think about my choice, but the truth is that I know exactly where I’m going with this.

  “I’ve never . . . been out of the country,” I say with a smile.

  “Really?” he asks, totally shocked. “Not even Mexico—or Canada?”

  Bless his heart. He really is so far removed from the reality that most people don’t have access to private jets and unlimited bank accounts.

  I shake my head and tap his bottle with a pink nail. “Drink up, buddy.”

  He takes a swig while he considers me for a moment.

  “Your turn,” I remind him.

  “Right, um, I’ve never . . . been skydiving.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve never done that either. My turn! I’ve never been inside a private plane.”

  Brody looks suspicious and starts to say something but takes another drink instead.

  “I’ve never . . . been bungee jumping?” he tries.

  “You’re kind of terrible at this game.” I laugh at him, shaking my head again. I’ve never been bungee jumping either. “I’ve never had more than a thousand dollars in my wallet at one time.” I eyeball his beer pointedly.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I know he means the game I’m playing, but I purposefully misunderstand.

  “When I had to give Max the deposit for the apartment, I got eight hundred dollars out of
my bank account and I was sick as a dog, nervous that I was going to lose it or be robbed.” I take a sip of my beer while he laughs. “But no, that’s the most I’ve ever had at one time. I imagine you have had more than that, so that’s another drink for you, pal.”

  He grins and takes another big drink. “I know what you’re doing,” he says, fighting a smile.

  I am the picture of innocence.

  “And what’s that?”

  His eyebrow rises dubiously.

  “Trying to get me drunk?”

  “I suspect it would take more than a beer to do that, but it wasn’t my intention, no. I just want you to relax, and a silly drinking game seemed like the best option. It was either this or putting on “Roxanne” and drinking every time he says ‘red light.’” I shrug and take another sip. “But I didn’t have any quarters for the jukebox.”

  He chuckles and finishes off the beer.

  “Who says I’m not relaxed? I’m the picture of laid back. I’m the king of go with the flow. Come on, you’re lagging behind.” He points to my half-empty bottle. “What are we drinking next?”

  “Go with the flow?” I ask incredulously. “Oh really?”

  “Absolutely. I’m up for anything.” He knocks the bar with his knuckles to emphasize his point.

  An idea forms in my head.

  I really shouldn’t.

  I should not.

  It’s a terrible idea.

  “Anything?” I hear myself asking.

  He looks me right in the eye, daring me to do I don’t know what—definitely not what I have in mind—but it’s too late, and the idea is too good. I worked at a bar throughout college, and I’ve seen this more than once. Admittedly it usually happens at one in the morning, and admittedly it’s usually done by drunken coeds, but it’s the exact kind of thing that will shake Brody up, and that’s what he needs. The bartender wanders over and looks at me expectantly.

  “Another Stella?” he asks us.

  I grin at Brody. “You feeling patriotic there, buddy?”

  —

  Brody looks down at the shots in front of us, then to the small candle the bartender so helpfully provided, then back at me.

  “This is called a what?” he demands.

  “A Statue of Liberty shot!” I answer happily. “You never did this in college?”