Exposure

by Ember Dante

  “Hi, Parker, it’s nice to meet you.” I reclined in my seat, returning my attention to Ian. “Nice to see you again.”

  “This is a pleasant surprise, but if we keep running into each other like this, I may need a restraining order against you for stalking,” Ian joked.

  “Awkward,” said Jules in a sing-song voice.

  The buzz from the alcohol and excitement from seeing him again gave me the courage I needed to try flirting a bit. I ignored her comment and winked at Ian. “Maybe you’re the one stalking me.”

  “Don’t let Ace fool you—he likes the attention,” chuckled Parker.

  Ian gave him another dark look. I wondered if his reaction was to Parker’s teasing or the nickname itself. Maybe both. I made a mental note to ask him about it later—if I had the chance.

  “Should we move this party to a table?” Jules asked.

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” blurted Parker, jumping into action before she finished her sentence and sliding a chair from under a nearby table. “Does this work for you?”

  It was hilarious to see such an obvious tough guy act like a lovestruck teenager. We migrated to the new location and played musical chairs, jockeying for placement, finally settling in a boy, boy, girl, girl arrangement. When did the simple act of sitting at a table become such a chore?

  “So what do you do, Jules?” Parker asked.

  “I’m an L&D charge nurse at Plano Presbyterian.”

  “What’s L&D?”

  Ian snickered and took a swig of beer. Parker gave him a snarky look and punched his arm.

  “Labor and delivery.” Jules winked. “Duh.”

  “Parker’s oblivious to all but the most basic biological functions,” laughed Ian.

  Parker punched him again, much harder this time. Ian winced from the contact. “Asshole.”

  Jules crowed at their exchange, and it was contagious.

  “What do you do, Emmy?” asked Parker, with a chuckle still in his voice.

  “I’m a writer for Dallas Arts Journal.”

  “Is that how you and Ace know each other?”

  “Don’t be an asshole, asshole,” murmured Ian.

  Heat bloomed across my face. “No, actually, we met before I interviewed him for the magazine.”

  “It sounds like it would be an interesting story,” said Parker, his lips curved into a wolfish smile. “Care to share it with us?”

  I looked at Ian. “I think you know the story.”

  He responded with a wink and bumped Ian with his elbow.

  “Thanks a lot, dickhead,” Ian muttered under his breath.

  All flirty pretenses gone, Jules cackled with glee. “You two are fucking hilarious. Are you sure you’re not gay?”

  They turned toward her, gaping. I couldn’t contain my giggles. Jules shrugged and calmly sipped her beer. “What? It’s a fair question. You two argue like an old married couple.”

  Wearing matching scowls, they answered in unison. “No.”

  Their emphatic response dissolved the awkward tension, and we all burst into another fit of laughter. It was obvious that Ian and Parker were as close as Jules and me. For some reason, that mollified any irritation I felt at him telling Parker about our first meeting. After all, I had told my best friend about it. The thought relaxed me, and I warmed toward Ian a little more.

  “Why does Parker keep calling you Ace?” I asked when our laughter subsided.

  Ian opened his mouth to respond, but Parker beat him to it. “Because he’s an ace pitcher. The best UT ever had.” He lifted his beer, stopping halfway to his mouth. “The other team would piss their pants when they found out Ace was starting. No joke.” He paused long enough to chug the remaining beer in his glass. “By the end of sophomore year, this man had two perfect games and, what?” He looked at Ian. “Three shutouts, wasn’t it?”

  “Man…” Ian dropped his chin, shaking his head, voice low. “Don’t.”

  My instincts told me there was a story there, and it was even more obvious Parker wasn’t going to let it go.

  “What? You still got it, dude.” Parker looked at me. “Ace can still strike fear in the hearts of our opponents. We play in a local baseball league—small time shit, but something to do for fun. Keeps us young.”

  “More like it keeps us stuck in the past,” grumbled Ian.

  Jules tilted her head toward Parker. “What position do you play?”

  He smirked. “Catcher.”

  “Did you quit playing in college, or what?” I asked.

  Ian glared at Parker, clearly not pleased with him for opening that particular can of worms. His head swiveled my way, a forced—but sad—smile on his face.

  “An off-field injury ended my playing days—took away my shot. Like Parker said, now we just play for fun.”

  With that, he turned and flagged down our server, indicating to bring another round. Parker wisely turned his attention to Jules, and they fell into quiet conversation, giving Ian a much-needed break from the topic of baseball. I was dying to ask more questions, but it seemed like a sore subject. Maybe later, if there was a later.

  Ian’s previous good humor had returned by the time our drinks arrived. Taking advantage of Parker’s preoccupation, he leaned closer so only I could hear.

  “I want you to know I didn’t tell him everything,” he murmured. “I told him we met Friday, but I didn’t give him any details.” He paused a moment. “Well, I did tell him how beautiful you are.”

  Okay. He earned points for that. “I had you pegged for a gentleman.”

  He ran his fingers over my arm, from elbow to wrist. “I told you I’m a greedy bastard. I want to keep you all to myself.”

  “Well, here I am.” I shrugged.

  “Here you are.” With a slight tug, he took my hand in his, threading our fingers together. “What are you doing Friday?”

  The fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach returned, and I glanced at Jules, who was multitasking by watching me and listening to Parker. She gave me an encouraging nod, and I took another drink, desperate to calm my racing heart.

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  Jules kicked my shin and gave me a ‘what the fuck’ look as Parker watched our silent exchange with rapt attention. Emboldened by the wordless challenge, I turned to face Ian.

  “Okay. What do you have in mind?”

  “How would you feel about coming to my apartment? I’d like to cook for you.”

  “You cook?”

  “Yes.” He smirked. “I can dance, too.”

  Hell yes, he could. I remembered how well his body moved when we danced together Friday night—both on the dance floor and in bed. I took a deep breath and released it. I could continue to live in fear or make an effort to move on and give him a chance.

  “It’s a date. What time?”

  His face brightened with triumph. “How’s seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He lifted my hand and kissed the back of my fingers, his gaze never leaving mine. Now that I’d given him an answer—about dinner, at least—my nerves settled, and we spent the rest of the evening enjoying each other’s company. It didn’t take long to become engrossed in conversation, and I realized I’d been too quick to judge him. He was charming and considerate, focusing his attention on me just as he had the night we met. It was as though we were wrapped in our own private bubble, and I found myself wishing the night didn’t have to end.

  The nerves were back. I couldn’t concentrate and hadn’t slept worth a damn since Wednesday when I agreed to a date with Ian. Regardless of my half-hearted attempts to deter him, I felt we had reached a turning point. Rather, I had. I was still terrified of the unknown, but I was also ready to start living again. Jules and Tyler were right—it was time.

  I arrived at Ian’s right at seven, heart racing and palms slick with sweat. Torn between residual fear, trepidation, and excitement, I took several calming breaths and wiped my han
ds over my thighs before ringing the bell. The door swung open, and there he was, looking sexy as hell in a dark T-shirt and jeans that hugged his hips and thighs—and he was barefoot again. That was a new hot button for me—Ian, barefoot. I was fooling myself if I thought I was prepared for an evening alone with him.

  “Wow. You look beautiful.” He backed up, opening the door farther. “Come in.”

  Heat rose up my neck at the compliment, and I dropped my gaze to give myself another once over. My outfit wasn’t anything special, just dark, slim-fit jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and strappy sandals. The fact that he considered me beautiful in such plain attire made my heart rate spike.

  “Thank you. You look great, too.”

  His apartment had the same loft appearance as the studio—exposed brick walls, hardwood floors, an open floor plan for the main living area, with the addition of a kitchen worthy of a five-star restaurant. The furnishings were eclectic and masculine—leather and sturdy fabrics but looked comfortable. Soft music played in the background, and it sounded like Michael Bublé.

  “Would you like a glass of wine? I have red and white.”

  “Yes. White, please.” Ugh, I sounded so stiff and formal.

  He gestured to the living area. “Make yourself comfortable. Food’s almost ready.”

  I tossed my purse on a nearby chair and followed him to the kitchen instead. “It smells fabulous. What’s for dinner?”

  “Sour cream chicken enchiladas.”

  Skeptical, I lifted an eyebrow. “Really? You actually know how to make that?”

  “Yes.” He laughed. “Mom insisted that my brothers and I know how to fend for ourselves without being forced to live on takeout.”

  “Well, I’m impressed.”

  “I’m no Bobby Flay, but I do all right.” He handed me a glass of wine before checking on the food. “How was your day?”

  “Hectic. I was happy for it to end.” I didn’t mention my jangled nerves.

  “I’m glad you agreed to have dinner with me.”

  “Me, too.”

  Smiling in response, he moved around the kitchen, comfortable in the space, and added the finishing touches to our meal. There was definitely more to Ian than I’d given him credit for. Brett wouldn’t have been caught dead in a kitchen other than to fetch a beer, and that was under duress when I refused to do it for him.

  “How many brothers do you have?” I asked, continuing my quest to learn more about him.

  “Two. Both younger.”

  “What do they do?” I asked, taking a small sip of wine.

  “Finn is a graphic designer, and Mason is a lawyer.”

  “What were you going to do before you went into photography?”

  “More interview questions?” he teased, retrieving two plates from the cabinet.

  Another blush covered my face. “Sorry. Just curious. You mentioned having other plans at one time.”

  He shook his head and began plating our food in a restaurant quality presentation. The guy was good.

  “My father had other plans for me. For all of us, actually. Mason was the only one who went along with it.”

  “He wanted you to be lawyers?”

  “I guess you could say he’s a bit of a control freak.” He looked up and smiled. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  Ah. So baseball and his father were touchy subjects. Duly noted. I let my remaining questions go unasked, leaving them for some other time.

  “I’m starving. I was so busy today, I didn’t have time for lunch.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Then I guess I should hurry and feed you.”

  Picking up both plates, he arranged them on one arm the way I’d seen servers do countless times before grabbing the bottle of wine with the other hand.

  “I can get that for you,” I offered, reaching for the bottle.

  “I’ve got it. I waited tables during college, so this is no big deal.” Walking around the island, he motioned with his head to follow him. “Besides, you’re my guest. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself.”

  My heart skipped a beat, a slight glimmer of hope blooming in my chest. I mentally crossed my fingers that he wasn’t too good to be true. Carrying my glass of wine, I followed him to a table set for two—very romantic. A vase filled with tiger lilies, magenta Gerbera daisies and yellow carnations sat to one side. The combination was breathtaking.

  “The flowers are beautiful. I love tiger lilies.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t take credit. I just asked the florist for a bright, cheerful arrangement.”

  “Mission accomplished,” I teased.

  He placed the bottle on the table, and then served me before himself. Turning to me with a smile, he slid a chair away from the table. “Have a seat.”

  No man had ever done that for me—neither made me dinner nor helped me with my chair. I set my glass on the table and sat as he helped slide the chair into place, his fingers grazing my arms before he stepped to his own seat. It was the first time he’d touched me since I arrived, and a slow burn spread across my skin. I reached for the wine with a slight tremor in my fingers, and I wish I could say it was the need for food, but it was much more than that. Ian took his seat, oblivious to my distress—at least, he seemed to be—and topped off my glass before filling his own.

  “Dig in. I hope it’s edible.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fishing for compliments?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged. “Men have fragile egos and need constant reassurance. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Oh my God. Can you lay that on any thicker?” I laughed, grateful for his self-deprecating gibe, my tension slowly draining away.

  “Yeah, probably,” he said with a grin.

  Smiling, I shook my head before putting the first bite in my mouth. Damn, the man really could cook. The enchiladas were incredible, as was the roasted corn and pepper side dish. I had to remember to tell Jules she was right. Any man who could cook that well was definitely a keeper.

  “Okay, where did you learn to cook? This is wonderful.”

  “Like I said, Mom insisted. She forced all three of us to spend as much time in the kitchen with her as possible.” He took a sip of wine. “We hated it at the time, but I’m glad she did it.”

  “So am I. Tell her I said thank you.”

  He swallowed a mouthful of food and swiped his napkin across his lips. “I’ll be sure and do that,” he laughed. “She’ll be ecstatic to learn that I cooked for a woman.”

  “Is that something you normally don’t do?”

  “Nope. You would be the first.”

  A flush crept over my face, and the familiar flutter of butterflies returned to my stomach. “Well, I’m honored.”

  He smiled and raised his glass in a mock toast. Realizing how silly I was to be nervous about our date, I laughed to myself and considered the concept of time. Time was funny. Time was relative. When you wanted it to speed up, it dragged, much like the days leading up to our date. Being there, with Ian, made me want to lower an anchor and hold us in the moment for as long as possible. Our conversation carried us through all the usual topics when people began dating, drifting from one to the next with comfortable ease, as though we’d known each other all our lives. That directed my thoughts toward the possibility of fate, and whether or not there were any coincidences in life. Coincidence or not, we were together, and that was a beautiful thing.

  The easiness between us continued and deepened as the evening passed. After dinner, we lingered over wine and churros that Ian picked up from a local bakery. I don’t think either of us was ready for the night to end.

  “Have you always wanted to be a writer?” he asked.

  “For as long as I can remember. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Dad’s always been very supportive of me.”

  “What about your mom?”

  An intense sadness filled me, and I dropped my chin before he could see the
tears stinging my eyes. I should have expected the conversation to take that turn, especially after my questions about his family, but it still felt out of nowhere. It was difficult to talk about her, even though it had been a long time. I lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of my nose before giving a quick flick of my thumb and forefinger under my eyes to ease the burn and banish the unshed moisture.

  Ian reached across the table and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Emmy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I shook my head, willing away the hurt, and met his gaze once more. My lips curved into a shaky smile and my fingers made one more pass under my eyes. “It’s okay.” I took a deep breath and barreled through my answer, trying to move past it without shedding more tears. “Mom passed away when I was six. Breast cancer. It was just my dad and me for a while, then he remarried when I was ten. I went into a bit of a rebellious phase. I thought he was trying to replace Mom. It never occurred to me that he only wanted to be happy. She would have wanted that for him. Anyway, Natalie is great, and I love her. She’s just always felt like more of a friend than a mother.”

  He focused his blue eyes on mine, and that intense connection was still between us. “I can’t say I completely understand, but I know how I would feel if anything happened to my mother. Even at my age, I would be devastated. I can’t imagine how terrible it would be for a small child.”

  All I could do was give him another weak smile. The room grew quiet, and the air was charged with tension, emotional and sexual. He cleared his throat with a soft cough and tilted his head to one side.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Grateful for the reprieve, I stared after him, enjoying the way he moved as he strolled to the stereo. There was just something about the way he walked—I’d called it predatory the night we met—but there was more to it than that. It was part of him, part of who he was. He was graceful and fluid as if he glided rather than walked.

  He fiddled with his phone and the next song began—Sway, one of my favorites by Michael Bublé—proving he’d been listening. It surprised me. The man was either a master player or the real thing. He returned to my side and held out his hand.