Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  “But I still have this terrible reputation, even though people haven’t found anything to prove it. That’s why I don’t like to go out in public with the girls I date.”

  I frown. It’s weird he said “girls I date” and not “girlfriend.”

  “But you said you have a girlfriend now, right?”

  “Yeah, we’ve been dating a bit,” Tate answers, looking a bit uncomfortable. “So, you can see why I don’t like talking about Tarantula. But I definitely don’t want you thinking I’m an asshole, so I guess it’s good we talked.”

  I ignore the abrupt subject change from his girlfriend and chalk it up to Tate wanting to keep his personal life private. The fire is dying now, and I am suddenly very aware of the chill in the air. I wrap my arms around myself and try to scoot closer to the dwindling warmth.

  “Sometimes I just don’t want to explain myself to anyone anymore,” Tate says as he gets up from his chair and walks over to where I’m sitting. “I know the truth, and that’s all that matters.”

  Tate’s words hit me like a smack in the chest. And I must have flinched a bit, because Tate suddenly asks, “Are you cold?”

  Before I can answer, he drapes his red zip-up sweatshirt around me. “That color looks really good on you,” he says, pulling his face back a bit to study me. “It makes your eyes pop. They’re like, really blue.”

  I smile at the compliment, but then one of the seduction rules slams into my head, as if slapping me mentally that I’m doing it all wrong.

  3. Show a little skin

  I’m supposed to be taking clothes off, not putting more on. But how come the first time Tate compliments me so genuinely and sweetly is when I’m all bundled up?

  Suddenly, I need to get out of here. Tate’s closeness, the fire, the rule-breaking, the sweatshirt, the way he spilled his story . . . it’s too much.

  I stand up and awkwardly back away from the fire pit, tripping on a chair leg in the process. “I gotta go. I’m supposed to have dinner with my roommate,” I lie. Tate stands up slowly.

  “You had dinner here.”

  “Right. I meant dessert. We were just supposed to hang out, and I thought I would be home by now.”

  “Oh, okay. Sorry I kept you so long.”

  “No! You didn’t keep me. I mean, I had a great time. I just . . . have to go.”

  I run back into the house before he can say anything else. Tierney is in the living room watching an HGTV show and she gives me a quizzical look as I walk quickly past her.

  “Dani? You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, I have to go. Thank you for dinner. It was so nice meeting you. I hope to see you again soon. Have a great night. Okay, bye!”

  I realize I crammed about four different polite phrases into one good-bye and I probably sounded like a bit of a weirdo, but I’m already out the front door. As soon as I’m safely inside the truck and half a mile down his street, I pull over, park, and call Elise.

  “Hey, you! I was just about to text you,” she cheerily answers. I lean my head against the steering wheel as I think about what’s going to come out of my mouth.

  “Elise, we need to stop this seduction scheme.”

  A pause.

  “Why now, Dani?” she asks. “I don’t get you. I thought you changed your mind?”

  My throat is inexpiably dry. I swallow harshly.

  “I think Tate is a great guy. There’s nothing left to investigate.”

  “Now, that’s where you are wrong. I was just thinking today that it’s kind of suspicious that Tate has never talked about me. Like, at all.”

  “That’s not true. He mentioned you tonight. He admitted he has a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, but that’s it. Admitted, like I’m a crime or something. He hasn’t like, talked about dating me or told you any actual details about me, has he?”

  I start nibbling on my thumbnail as I consider lying to her. But I’m lying enough these days, so I just tell her the truth.

  “No, but I think it’s because he doesn’t really know me that well and he doesn’t want to talk about his personal life. He is famous, remember?”

  “Well, then get to know him better. You’re supposed to make him trust you. Then we’ll see if he talks about me enough. Believe me, if I could corner his best friends or sister and ask what they really think, I would.”

  After spending the evening with Tierney, who obviously has her brother’s best interest at heart, Elise’s comment annoys me.

  “You know, now that I think about it, you don’t talk that much about Tate, either,” I hear the words coming from my mouth, but I can’t stop them. “The only time you really talk about him is when you are describing ways to stalk him.”

  Elise gasps on the other line. I know I’ve gone too far, but maybe it’s time she really thinks about her relationship with Tate and deals with her own trust issues.

  “That’s not true,” she argues. “I just don’t want to end up with another cheater like Keith. And I know you don’t want that either. So, you’ll keep getting closer to him, right?”

  “Elise, this is so twisted,” I moan. “I don’t think this is healthy, and if the three of us keep going down this path, people are going to end up hurt.”

  “You’re just scared that Tate isn’t going to like you. He will! Please, Dani. Just a bit longer. I promise it’ll be over soon. The TV Spotlight Awards are next weekend. So just until then, okay?”

  “Why are you so worried about the Spotlights?”

  “Because everyone is going and it’s going to be this big thing, and I want to be with a guy who truly cares about me. I don’t want to be wrong again. It hurt too much with Keith.”

  “Elise, please don’t take this the wrong way,” I start, already sure she will take it the wrong way. “But do you think that you’re really over Keith?”

  I hear Elise suck in a shaky breath. I wait for her to yell at me, swear, or just flat out deny it. But she just remains silent.

  “He’s moved on, Dani. And I . . . I have, too. I just want to be with someone I can trust,” she finally says in a tiny voice. “Don’t you want that for me, too?”

  My heart aches for her, especially since right now she sounds like the little girl I met in school all those years ago. “Of course I don’t want you to be hurt, Elise.”

  “I know you don’t. So, let’s just talk tomorrow about what’s next. Okay?”

  I hang my head in defeat. I can’t argue with her anymore, not when she sounds this vulnerable. And it’s only for another week.

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow.”

  Elise hangs up without saying good-bye. I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and bury my hands in my pockets.

  Wait a minute. I don’t have pockets. I wore a long-sleeved T-shirt to Tate’s.

  I look down in horror and realize I’m still wearing Tate’s red sweatshirt. It smells like him. Like snow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My thoughts are a jumbled mess as I drive home.

  Eating dinner with Tate and his sister was the most fun I’ve had since arriving in California. If you had asked me on the plane from Chicago what my idea of fun would be in LA, I would have said “at a party with directors and writers, mingling and talking about scripts, and discussing future projects.” Or maybe “running around set following Morris Kensington as he barks orders at me and takes me under his wing to mold me as his successor.”

  I never, ever would have picked, “Just having dinner with two friends in a cozy house in Silver Lake. We didn’t even talk about the business. We talked about each other.”

  The fact that it was Tate Lawrence’s house makes it a bit more glamorous, but I don’t even care about how famous he is. I care about Tate. And me. I care about who I am to him.

  And that scares me. I came to LA prepared to work. But now, I’m driving home to a script that I’ve barely added anything to since I graduated, and the only thing making me feel better is pressing the sleeve of Tate’s sweatshirt over my nose a
nd mouth so I can take a deep sniff.

  I’m turning into a real creep.

  I finally get home and hurry into the house, hoping Brit can protect me from my own craziness. For once, I’m actually looking forward to whatever Brit-related New Age-ness is happening at our apartment—hell, I’d even do yoga right now. When I left her, she was calmly preparing dinner for herself. But when I walk through the door, I see the complete opposite.

  Brit is opening and closing every cabinet door we have in the kitchen, and she looks into the fridge no fewer than twelve times. I see a mishmash of ingredients from her favorite recipes in various stages of preparation, like she started mincing garlic (smeared on the counter), slicing eggplant (strewn on the cutting board), and reducing pomegranate juice (still gurgling on the stove), but quit halfway through because she didn’t think the meal was good enough.

  Her pretty features are tight with concentration as she moves around the kitchen, but I see a glimmer of panic in her eyes as she turns the stove off, then on, and then off again.

  “Brit? What’s going on?”

  Brit lets out a startled yelp and drops the weird vegetable she was holding onto the floor. It lands on her foot with a thud and rolls over to where I’m standing. It looks like a mutated turnip that martians would breed for fuel.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” Brit chokes out with a shaking hand pressed over her chest. I shrug apologetically and slide onto a barstool at the kitchen island. She motions to the counter with her giant, gleaming chef’s knife.

  “Put the kohlrabi right there,” she orders while making short work of an extremely long carrot. I blink twice and she’s diced it into bits. I put the K-whatever vegetable on the counter.

  “Brit, I know you’re a very skilled chef, but maybe take a deep breath before doing any more knife work. This place looks like a culinary vegan warzone, not a kitchen.”

  “Hannah is coming over,” she says while sticking her head into the freezer. “She’s finishing up studying for a big exam and I told her I would cook her a late-night dinner.”

  “Really? A date? That’s amazing!”

  “No, it’s not. Well, yes, the very fact that the girl of my dreams is coming over is amazing, but I said I would cook her dinner.”

  “Well, shucks. That really is a pickle you’re in. If only you were a trained, professional chef. Oh, wait . . .”

  “It has to be a perfect meal,” Brit snaps, clearly not amused by sarcasm. “And I’m just not prepared. Any dinner I come up with seems . . . not enough for her.”

  She finally stops her kitchen crusade and looks at me. “I sound crazy, don’t I?”

  “You sound like anyone who is going on a date with someone they like would sound. So, you sound normal,” I tell her. Brit goes back to searching for ingredients while I flip through her notebook of recipes.

  Flower Power: Cactus flower buds sautéed with mashed peas and tarragon.

  The Groove of Ocean and Earth: Sea cucumber and radish salad.

  The Healer of Souls: Seaweed stuffed with grapefruit, eggplant, and wheatgrass-infused jicama.

  I don’t know what half of these items are. But if I were to gauge whether or not Brit has a Hannah-worthy meal in her book based on how many times my face crinkles while reading her recipes . . .

  Brit is screwed.

  “Why don’t you do those black bean burgers? Those are always a big hit with your customers,” I offer. I can’t see Brit anymore, so I stand up on the legs of the barstool until I spot her on all fours with her head and shoulders in a bottom cabinet.

  “But I want it to be special,” Brit says, voice echoing in the cabinet. “And Hannah has had those things a million times.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” I snap, frustrated and exhausted for her. I bury my hands deeper into Tate’s sweatshirt and fight the urge to smell the fabric to calm myself down. I need to get rid of this sweatshirt.

  “Why don’t you make her mashed potatoes and chicken fried steak?” I joke as I make my way toward my room.

  The sound of pots and pans rattling stops abruptly and Brit pokes her head out of a bottom cabinet. Her hair is stuck to the side of her forehead with sweat and she looks like she’s about to burst into tears. I stop smiling instantly as I stare down at my roommate trying to fight a broken spirit.

  Brit stands up suddenly and I sense the air of determination she gets when she’s experimenting with a new recipe take over her entire body posture. Uh-oh.

  “Brit, I’m just kidding,” I say carefully, angry at myself for making a joke when Brit is clearly stressed out. The last thing she needs is a lame suggestion from her roommate. “I’m sorry. I had a weird night at Tate’s and I feel, I don’t know, off balance or something. And please don’t suggest a beet juice shooter to correct my balance, because I’d need like forty of them to—”

  “No,” Brit interrupts me. “You’re right.”

  “Huh?”

  Brit is standing completely still in the kitchen and I watch as her eyes flit over the mess she’s created, like she’s seeing it for the first time. Then suddenly, she’s in action.

  She starts scooping up the vegetable scraps that litter our countertops like confetti and tosses them in the trash. “You’re right,” she repeats, this time louder and more enthusiastically. She wipes her hands on her apron that’s stamped with peace signs and begins counting something on her fingers. I sit back down at the counter.

  “Brit. You heard me say you should cook fattening potatoes with butter and cream on the side of a breaded and fried piece of steak, right?”

  “Yes, I’ve made that a million times growing up. It’s my grandma’s recipe. It’s my favorite thing to eat when I need comfort.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! You eat comfort food?”

  “Of course I do. I’m a Southern girl, after all.”

  I watch her mentally tick off the items we have in our pantry and fridge with my mouth hanging open in a stupor. Brit is in the middle of making a list of ingredients when she notices my expression.

  “What? Look, I love cooking vegan and I do believe it makes your body and mind run better. But I also grew up in the South and my grandmother taught me to cook, so I have some gravy in my veins. I just don’t cook the fattening stuff for my business.”

  “Maybe you should,” I suggest, but Brit shakes her head at me.

  “I don’t think people would want to stop at a food truck on the beach that serves biscuits and gravy.”

  “Oh God, I looove biscuits and gravy,” I moan out loud. Brit rolls her eyes and shoves the grocery list at me.

  “I just need the steak and some stuff for the breading. I’ve got everything else to whip together a suitable chicken fried steak dinner. You have twenty minutes. Go!”

  * * *

  One hour later and five minutes before Hannah is due to arrive, everything is ready and the kitchen smells delicious. “Anything else?” I ask as I set down the last fork.

  “Oh, um,” Brit says, “Actually I was hoping . . . youcouldsitandeatdinnerwithus.”

  “Huh? I didn’t catch that last part.”

  “Sit and eat dinner with us?”

  I squint at her, running her request over in my head to see if there is some hidden meaning to it. Because she couldn’t possibly mean . . .

  “Please? Pleeease? I just need you there as a buffer in case I say something stupid or do something stupid or look stupid or—”

  “Brit. Relax,” I order soothingly from across the living room. “Sure, I will eat with you guys,” I tell her. All it takes to prepare for a second dinner is the smell of the chicken fried steak cooling on the wire rack. I am in.

  Hannah arrives right on time. Either out of nervousness or because she notices me staring at the food, Brit immediately starts piling food onto three plates at our very small dining room table. And when I say “dining room,” I mean the space between our kitchen and our living room that fits a table just big enough for three people to
sit semi-comfortably.

  The dinner is delicious. The mashed potatoes are creamy and seasoned just right, and the chicken fried steak is tender and fried perfectly. I know the noises I’m making as I inhale the food are borderline sexual, but I can’t help it. Brit can cook Southern food as well as Justin Bieber can constantly remind the public that he’s mostly a tool.

  “Brit, this is so fantastic,” Hannah says earnestly and I nod in agreement. I nod vigorously because I’ve stuffed my mouth too full of mashed potatoes and gravy to talk. Brit blushes as she daintily cuts her steak.

  “I’m so glad you guys like it,” Brit says. “I really love cooking this kind of food.”

  “Why don’t you do it more often?” Hannah asks.

  “Well, once I moved to Los Angeles, it felt dumb to cook such heavy, fatty foods for a town that’s all about body image,” Brit replies. Hannah chews her food thoughtfully for a moment.

  “But you’d rather be cooking this kind of food?” she asks while gesturing at her plate. I grab another roll from the plate in the middle of the table.

  “Of course. Southern food is where my heart lies. It’s what got me into food and cooking. And I have a whole book of recipes that my grandmother handed down to me. Dani, we have dessert coming, remember? Slow down.”

  I grunt in response as I butter my roll. Then I realize I probably look like a starved maniac to Hannah and I sit up a little straighter and smile at her. But Hannah isn’t paying attention to me. She’s completely focused on Brit.

  “Brit, if comfort food is your passion, can’t you find a way to combine vegan and Southern food? You can’t give up what you love just to fit into the LA mold. And if anyone is smart enough to combine healthy ingredients and comfort food, it’s you.”

  Brit’s pale complexion suddenly changes to hot pink and she smiles into her wine glass.

  “She’s right, Brit,” I say after pushing a wad of mashed potatoes to the side of my mouth. “Think about all the people in Los Angeles who probably want to eat meals like this all the time, but they can’t, because it’s usually fattening, right? Well, what if you come up with a way to make Southern food just a bit healthier?” I ask.