Neither of us moves for a moment, both caught off guard. And then he breaks into a smile and approaches, his arms outstretched. He wraps me up in a hug as Wendy looks on, amused.
“I didn’t think I was going to get to see you,” he says as we separate.
“Yeah. Small world,” I agree, my surprise robbing me of anything more interesting to say. “This is Dylan,” I explain to Wendy.
“I remember.” She smiles. “Sort of. Thank you for rescuing me at that fairy party.”
“No problem.”
“What brings you here?” I ask.
A wry smile plays around his lips. “Same thing as you, I suppose.”
“Lunch!” Wendy interjects brightly.
He seems less excited to see me than I might have expected, the easy rapport we had last time we met now strained. But then, he’s been through hell since the last time I saw him.
“How do you know John?” Wendy asks him.
He shifts his weight and runs his fingers through his hair, clearing his throat. “We—uh, we work together.”
Interesting. His eyes flicker toward me to gauge my reaction, but Wendy plows ahead. “And what do you do, Dylan?” she pipes up.
He glances over his shoulder as though looking for someone. “Future site research and development.”
“That sounds cool,” she says, laying a hand lightly on his biceps. “What does it mean?”
He crosses his arms, his eyes scanning the restaurant behind us. “I create viability reports on potential locations for commercial development.”
Why is he acting so odd?
“Cool,” she says. “Summer mentioned John’s building a resort around here—are you working on that with him?”
He furrows his brow, but before he can answer, a waiter approaches and bows slightly to Dylan, who looks decidedly relieved by his appearance. “Monsieur, votre compagnon est arrivé.”
His companion, ah. He’s on a date. Of course. So that explains it.
He nods. “Merci.”
The waiter continues to hover. I force a smile, wishing I had more time with him and that Wendy weren’t beside me. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s my grandmother. She’s ninety-one. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“Of course,” I say. “It was good to see you.”
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” Wendy says with sincerity.
He nods, his countenance for the first time showing signs of melancholy. “Thank you.”
I see my opportunity and speak up. “Is there any news?”
He quickly shakes his head. “Please do call me if you get a few hours while you’re here,” he says. “I’d love to catch up properly.”
He leans in and plants a dry kiss on my cheek, then follows the waiter from the room.
Wendy sighs as she watches him leave. “So sad.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She squeezes my hand and smiles. “I forgot he’s such an eyeful.”
“Yeah.”
“Seems to like you, too,” she adds.
“I don’t know. I didn’t really get that feeling.”
“I’m sure he was just surprised to see you, and after everything with Eric, he can’t feel great knowing Summer’s around . . . would just be so hard . . .”
“Yeah,” I agree, unsettled.
“And he knows John . . . He must know about him and Summer, then,” she prattles on. “I wonder if he’s upset about it. I mean, he’s probably upset, right? To see her here all happy with John when his brother was, like, crazy in love with her and now he’s—God, it’s so awful. Poor Summer . . . ” Her voice trails off as our eyes land on Vinny, who has appeared in the doorway that leads to the restaurant.
“Girls.” He beckons to us. We scuttle over to him like well-trained dogs. “No more taking off.”
Summer’s unsmiling eyes track us as he guides us to the table with a hand on each of our backs.
I take my seat, ignoring the fish on my plate, staring up at me with empty eyes. Brittani, Rhonda, and Amythest are tittering somewhat quietly together while Summer, Wendy, Claire, and the rest of the table listen with rapt attention to the rich woman we’re dining with prattling on about a castle they’ve bought for the rock-bottom price of twenty-five million. It’s uninhabitable, of course. They’re going to have to put another twenty in to make it livable.
I let my gaze wander about the restaurant, scanning in vain for Dylan and his grandmother. As I survey the tables, I realize that my earlier assessment was incorrect: not all of the patrons are titans and celebrities. There’s the security guard seated across from me, and at the table next door, an au pair trying to gently maintain control of a wound-up toddler. Various assistants and entourage members are scattered about the tables, often indistinguishable from their hosts until they hop to do whatever is asked of them. And then there are the few tourists lucky enough to secure a reservation, overdressed and sneaking vertical videos with their cell phones despite the signs indicating that cameras aren’t allowed, before flipping over their menus in search of the unlisted prices.
The restaurant is its own ecosystem, really, with its own food chain.
My mouth is dry as the desert, and I feel a headache coming on. I’m probably dehydrated from all the puking. I flag a passing waiter. “Excusez moi, un verre d’eau, s’il vous plaît?”
He nods and scurries away. When I look up, I find Summer inexplicably staring daggers at me. She whispers something to Bernard, who gets up and makes his way down to my end of the table, sitting heavily into the chair vacated by the teenage son of the rich people. “John does the ordering,” he growls into my ear.
“It’s okay. I just needed a glass of water.” My voice sounds maddeningly meek to my own ear, but I want him to know that I am trying to play by the rules.
“Don’t be disrespectful,” he spits just as the waiter appears with my glass of water.
Bernard shakes his head at him before he can place it before me, and to my disbelief, the waiter whisks it away. My blood boils. I want to wrap my hands around Summer’s neck and squeeze until her eyes bulge. But I simply nod and fix my gaze on the ocean, ever placid beyond the chaos of the restaurant.
How quickly the line between guest and prisoner crumbles, like a sand castle swept away by the sea. But the tide always turns.
(nine months ago)
Los Angeles
On a particularly gloomy morning in November, I emerged from an audition at an office downtown to find the temperature had plummeted and rain was pouring down in sheets. Of course I was dressed as a homewrecker at eleven in the morning, wearing my most expensive four-inch stilettos and a slinky green silk cocktail dress, and my car was parked three blocks away in the cheapest lot I could find.
I had no umbrella and the building had no lobby—only a small vestibule with banks of elevators—so I stood looking out at the rain, willing it to stop. The street outside was industrial, no shops or restaurants, but a few doors down I recognized the back entrance to the flower market I’d visited a few months ago to buy Wendy sunflowers after her horse-jumping accident. Though it was in the opposite direction from my car, I figured anything was better than standing where I was, so I made a mad dash for it, holding the script from my audition over my head as a makeshift umbrella.
Ten steps outside I knew it had been a terrible idea, but I was drenched already, so I kept running. I burst through the entrance to the flower market looking like a drowned cat, my shoes and dress ruined. The polished concrete floor inside the door was so slick with rain that I immediately lost my footing in my stupidly high heels, and arms flailing, landed hard on my ass, flashing everyone in the checkout line my fuchsia panties.
Awesome.
The cashiers and patrons looked on with concern as the security guard rushed over to help me to my feet, lifting me by my elbow. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, mortified. At least I’d never see any of these people ag
ain. I looked down at my dress and noticed I’d split the hem on the left side clear up to my hip. Fantastic.
“Belle,” said a deep voice.
Oh God. Who was this going to be?
I turned to see Eric, a large bunch of pale-pink roses in his arms, his brow wrinkled with worry. Great. Exactly who I wanted to see me like this.
“Are you okay?” Eric asked. “This floor is unforgiving. You hit your tailbone pretty hard.”
“Oh, hi.” I tried to shrug it off like I was cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
The security guard nodded to Eric and walked away, leaving me with him. I rubbed my throbbing ass. “I live in the next building. You want to come up and dry off?” he offered. “Maybe borrow some pants?”
I cinched the side of my dress together in my fist. Considering that Summer, whose jealous streak had been particularly pronounced of late, was still living with me and seeing Eric, I knew going home with him was a terrible idea. Not to mention my hurt pride and ass. But it was still pouring rain outside, my dress was ruined, and one of my heels was broken. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
He shifted the flowers into one arm and offered me the other. I had no choice but to take it, limping along on my broken heel. “Do you want to get on my back?” he asked.
“I’m heavier than I look.”
“I’m stronger than I look. You just have to hold the flowers, and I’ll hold you.”
“Everyone will see my ass,” I protested.
“Lucky them. Come on.”
I stuffed my shoes in my bag and grabbed the flowers, then hopped up on his back. He easily carried me through the flower market, pointing out different varieties of blooms like we were just on a normal stroll as we traversed the aisles to the door on the other side of the warehouse. The rain was still coming down hard outside. He sprinted through the alley with me on his back, both of us laughing, and came to an abrupt halt at a door in the back of the building. “My keys are in my left pocket. Can you get them?”
I reached into his pocket. The fabric inside was thin and wet. I could feel the warmth of his skin through it, and something else. Oh. He didn’t seem to be wearing underwear.
The keys, Belle. Get the keys.
I extracted the keys from his pocket and handed them to him. He opened the door, and we tumbled inside, dripping wet. I hopped down from his back. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He punched the call button of the elevator.
I cast a glance up and down the hall, orienting myself. “I didn’t realize your building was so close.”
“Downtown’s confusing.”
The elevator door slid open, and he gestured for me to step into the dim interior. I hesitated, and he smiled. “I remember. You’re claustrophobic.”
I nodded. “It’s an incredibly small elevator,” I pointed out.
“I’ll cover your eyes, like last time,” he offered.
Last time. Before I knew he belonged to Summer.
Seeing no other choice, I stepped onto the elevator. He followed, his arms full of roses. The door slid shut. “I don’t want to stick you with these thorns,” he said. “Turn this way.”
I turned toward him, our faces inches apart in the confined space, my heart pounding in my chest. The sweet scent of the flowers filled the elevator.
“Close your eyes and put your face on my chest.” He moved the roses out of the way.
It wasn’t necessary. I could’ve just closed my eyes and the walls wouldn’t have seemed so close. But like a fool, I rested my forehead on his chest. And there it was again, the smell of spice and detergent, the warmth of his skin through his wet shirt. He bent his head ever so slightly toward mine.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. We didn’t move for a fraction of a second. I ripped myself away from him and spilled into his loft, flushed.
It was just chemistry. A stupid attraction to an inappropriate man. Not the first, and I was sure not the last.
I reminded myself of all the reasons I didn’t actually want him as I looked around his light-filled loft. I’d seen his art gallery and the roof the night I met him, of course, but I’d never been in his personal living space. It felt oddly intimate to be in his home, surrounded by his things.
The loft was huge; it took up the entire floor of the building and was 180 degrees from what I was expecting from Summer’s description, which had it sounding like a dingy bachelor pad.
I could sense him watching me as I took it in.
He was Summer’s. I had no claims. He wasn’t what I wanted, and I wasn’t what he wanted. He was just a flirt, a playboy. And I wasn’t about to stab Summer in the back to become one of his conquests.
“This place is amazing,” I said.
“Thanks. I like it.”
Even on this gloomy day, light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows in every direction, reflecting off floors of brushed concrete. Brightly colored exotic rugs and midcentury modern furniture were clustered in different areas across the open floor plan—a living area featuring an impressive record and book collection, a dining area with a Sputnik chandelier dangling from the soaring ceiling, an art area, canvases in different stages of completion, and in the corner, a chef’s kitchen with Carrara marble countertops and an industrial oven. And plants. Everywhere, plants.
It was my dream home.
He was a womanizer. He was moody. He had a chip on his shoulder.
I found myself standing in his art studio, wandering among the paintings. They were all different styles—abstract, mixed media, dreamlike renderings stolen from some of his photographs—but something tied them together. Wild whimsy, controlled chaos, that same play of opposites that infused his photographs.
I heard the click of a camera and turned to see him with a film Nikon raised to his eye. He quickly fired again before I could cover my face. “Oh my God, what are you doing? I must look a mess,” I said, ducking.
“A beautiful mess,” he returned. “Angle your face toward the light.”
“No, Eric, seriously.”
“Please?”
Those sea-green eyes. I looked toward the light.
I allowed him only a few shots before I turned my back on him. “Okay. I’m freezing. How ’bout those sweats?”
He beckoned for me to follow him through a doorway into his room. It was fairly orderly for a bachelor not expecting guests, and dark with the blackout shades drawn, his platform bed unmade.
A vision of us tumbling into it, ripping the wet clothes off each other, flashed before my eyes. I blinked it away.
He rummaged in a chest of drawers and produced a black long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of women’s leggings.
I held up the navy-blue leggings. “Are these Summer’s?”
“No. You can have them, though; she won’t be coming back for them.”
I had to laugh. “Gotcha.”
“I know Summer’s your friend, and I respect that.” He found and held my gaze. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but we’re not together. I’ve been very honest with her about that.”
I bit my lip. “Why?”
He shrugged. “We’re not compatible.”
I knew it wasn’t my business and I should probably have left it there, but after months of hearing it from her side, I was interested to hear his.
“What do you mean?”
“How can I put this without sounding like a total dick?” He sighed. “She’s obsessed with money. Status. I understand it: she didn’t grow up with it; she’s looking for security. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m the opposite—my childhood was the casualty of a horribly greedy father. I’ve spent most of my twenties thinking money is responsible for all the evil in the world. But, of course, that’s not true, either.”
“So why do you still see her?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt her. And I enjoy her company. Like you do, I’m guessing. In small doses. She knows we’re never going to be serious, and she’s okay with
it.”
I was shocked that he could be so perceptive about her and yet so blind. “Eric,” I laughed. “She’s not okay with it.”
“She says she is,” he protested. “I really am honest with her.”
I furrowed my brow. “Trust me,” I said, “she’s not. Summer’s used to getting what she wants. And she wants you. Once she realizes she’s not going to have you—well, you’ll know.”
He nodded slowly, but I could tell he still didn’t understand. “I’m moving to New York in a few weeks anyway, so that should put an end to it.”
I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. “Permanently?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll keep the place here, and I’m sure I’ll be back and forth some, but I need a change.”
He flicked on the light in the bamboo-and-slate bathroom, and I heard the water turn on. “A shower will warm you up,” he said as he left, gently shutting the door behind him. Our conversation echoed in my head while I warmed my shivering body under the hot water. How on earth could he believe that Summer was okay with their not being together? She must put on quite an act.
I emerged from his bedroom freshly showered and cozy to find him in the kitchen arranging the roses in a vase. He looked up and smiled. “Feel better?”
I nodded. “Beautiful flowers.”
“It’s my mom’s birthday,” he explained. “Tea?”
“Sure.” He filled a mug and handed it to me. “She lives here? Your mom?”
He shook his head. “She died when I was eleven.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. She’s the one who got me into gardening—she loved roses, so every year on her birthday, I buy them.”
“That’s so sweet.” I wanted to ask how she died, but knew it wasn’t polite. “Did your dad raise you after she passed?”
His face clouded. “No. My grandmother.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
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