“Heyyy, welcome to Zao’s. Do you have a reservation?” The hostess was nearly toppling over in her five-inch heels and the sausage skin masquerading as a black dress.
Fuck. Reservations.
The place thumped and bumped all around us thanks to the live DJ in the corner, who clearly didn’t know how to adjust the bass.
“You know what? Bernie Ross from production was supposed to call ahead for me. I’m Layton Griffin . . . I’m one of the sound guys over at MGM.” I acted quickly, thought up something like a dog in heat, desperate to get knocked up. I would never have this chance again.
“Bernie? Let me look.” She ran her gaze up and down the iPad in front of her, tapping open apps with her finger. “Shell, did someone from Bernie Ross’s place a call?”
Who knew Bernie was such a bigwig here?
A woman’s disembodied voice came from the iPad; apparently it doubled as their phone as well. “Who knows? If he’s with Bernie, give him a table by the window.”
The hostess stared at me for less than a beat before she grabbed a couple of iPads that obviously doubled as menus and said, “This way.”
Wow, it worked!
My fingers grazed Charli’s back, urging her to go in front of me, and instantly caught fire. And really, I wasn’t so hard up, but the light touch was magnetic.
The hostess led us toward a two-top against the window. I scurried ahead to beat her at pulling out a chair for Charli, ignoring the awkwardness of the hostess trying to wedge herself around me as Charli paused and witnessed the whole thing.
It was better than watching the Return of the Jedi when Charli turned on her iPad. Her features were softly illuminated by the glow, emphasizing her plump and tender lips, as her gaze focused on the backlit menu in front of her.
“Do you like the raw stuff?” Charli’s question brought me out of my trance.
“Yeah. I pretty much like everything.”
And would need a few slices of pizza later . . . my usual sushi routine.
The server came over and welcomed us with more pomp and circumstance than I thought was usual. The Bernie factor, I assumed.
We ordered a few rolls and some sashimi. Charli ordered a glass of prosecco; I opted for a Sapporo. Mostly, we made small talk about the movie while we waited for the drinks.
“Cheers to first class and my lucky seat . . . 2D.” I touched my cold can to her glass.
“Ha,” she said, taking a sip of her sparkling drink.
Her blond hair contrasted sharply against the black walls, so shiny under the overhead lights of the restaurant. I wanted to run my fingers through it.
“So, New York all the time. That must be intense?” I focused on her collarbone and shoulders for a moment. They were perfect, slight, but not too bony. I’d give my left nut to be with a woman like this.
“It’s home. I’m used to it, been there since right after college. I have a routine, and I work a lot. Although, this place is pretty crazy itself.”
“It is, but out here everyone’s in the ‘business’ and we all drive around in our cars and show up fashionably late. Well, not me always. I’m a behind-the-scenes guy, and I guess I like fading into the background like that, especially in a town like this, where it’s all so plastic.” There I went again with my tell-all, diarrhea mouth.
“It does feel a bit fake out here, like everything’s so perfect. But I’m sure New York seems that way to some people.”
“I had a good time there, but I couldn’t believe how people rush around. I never can, anytime I’m there. I like being behind my mixing table with my headphones in my studio.”
Her eyes crinkled the tiniest bit at my comment. For some reason, she got my need to have space. Although, I doubted that she and I shared that quirk for the same reasons.
I was an outcast, and Charli? Well, she was a perfectionist.
But also perfect to the human eye.
Hot and flushed, I finished my prosecco a lot faster than normal. This guy listened to Ed Sheeran, drove a BMW, and was totally . . . unexpected.
Then again, I wasn’t sure what I expected. Perhaps a man conjured up from Janie’s expectations and my mom’s recent fixations?
I did come partly for him, expecting him to make me laugh, but this? The whole thing with him being a romantic James Dean crossed with John Cusack, that I wasn’t prepared for. Except for his build.
Of course, he’d cleaned up well for tonight. His black hair was parted and styled, gelled into place. His teeth were white, and a light wave of cologne wafted from him. His tux was a tad tight, his stomach not entirely constrained by the pants, but from the shoulders up, he was a looker.
God, Charleston . . . get a grip.
But I was having a lot of fun, more fun than I should be having. This was a work trip, and it was only a convenient coincidence that Layton was here with me at dinner. Right?
“I’m sure your studio is cool,” I said. “I think when you love what you do, that’s all that matters.”
His brow furrowed and his eyes locked on mine. Silver flecks sparked in his irises when he went in for the kill. “Do you like what you do?”
Automatically, my hand went for my empty champagne glass.
“Would you like another?” His gaze drifted around the restaurant, looking for a server.
“I’d better not. I barely ate today.” Inside my head, my brain was wildly waving a red flag. I was enjoying myself entirely too much, and there was no need for more booze.
“Do you like what you do?” Layton obviously wasn’t going to let it go. He was too perceptive for that.
“I do, but I liked writing more. Now I spend my days axing ideas and cutting copy. I sort of want a change already, but it feels wrong. I’m only twenty-eight. Too young for this kind of crisis.”
Layton’s hand found its way on top of mine. “Hey, it’s never too early or late to want changes.”
I couldn’t take my gaze off his hand covering mine. He had long fingers with small calluses that tickled my skin, and his palm was warm.
He caught my gaze locked on the sight. “Oh, sorry. God, I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”
“It’s okay.”
When he pulled his hand back quickly, my fingers felt cold. The absence of his warm palm left me hungry for more of him. For him!
This guy, Layton Griffin—enigmatic introvert, chunky monkey, resident funny guy, and apparently a Casanova—scared the shit out of me. There was no polite, educated, ladylike way of putting it.
“Excuse me, I have to use the ladies’ room.”
Layton stood while I lumbered out of my chair, tripping over my own two feet, rushing to get away from the unfamiliar sensations I was feeling.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror—the few wispy layers of my blond hair framing my face, the lipstick smeared off my top lip, the tiny speck of mascara under my eye, and the heart beating wildly in my chest. It was racing so hard, I could see it pounding against my skin.
I closed my eyes and took big gulps of air, inhaling deep breaths and exhaling them with a whoosh, trying desperately to calm myself.
Stalling, I peed, washed my hands, and pulled out my phone to text Janie.
CHARLI: SOS. Please text or call shortly and say you need me. Bad breakup, death in the family, whatever you want. Need out of a dinner. Please.
I jammed the phone back in my small purse and made my way back to the table. Of course, Layton stood again as I approached, and had also waited for me to come back before eating. The food had arrived and was displayed around the table.
“Good thing none of it’s hot,” he teased.
“Looks amazing,” I said, and picked up my chopsticks to place a few rolls and pieces of sashimi on my plate.
“I guess we’re not at that stage in our relationship where we can just pluck off the serving dish. Not that we’re in any kind of relationship . . . I just meant, you go ahead and take what you want.”
Layton’s
cheeks pinked as he stumbled over his words, and the sight of it made my heart thump a rapid pace again. I’d never made anyone nervous before.
Was it flattering? Or was it a turnoff?
I moaned over a piece of salmon, my stomach thanking me for some food. I left the rice and moved on to the tuna.
“It’s good, really good. I was starving,” I said to fill in the silence.
Layton had busied himself with a shrimp tempura roll. At my comment, he looked up and nodded.
“It’s living up to all the hype. This spicy sauce is the bomb,” he said after swallowing.
“Why have you never been here? I’d be here all the time if I lived here.”
The back of my neck was beginning to feel damp. I didn’t know if it was nerves or excitement or both. Where the heck was Janie?
“I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve heard of it. It’s the hot place right now, but I usually do sushi takeout near my house . . . and then pizza delivery,” Layton said with a stilted laugh.
“Really?” I chuckled politely, but really? Is that what he did?
“I guess I shouldn’t admit to it.”
“I’m sure a lot of people do it.”
“You don’t.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Well no, but I’m not a big eater.”
Geez, this whole conversation and evening just took a bad turn. What the hell did I know? Men probably couldn’t survive on sushi alone.
“And you’re a fitness editor, so pizza is probably a no-no.” He tried to say it lightly, to make it a joke, but his words came out tense.
“I like pizza . . . on special occasions.”
Layton laughed, and it felt like it was directed at himself. My heart sank.
“Hey, it’s no biggie. And you went out of your way to show me LA, so let’s not ruin this evening.”
My heart broke for this guy. Everyone probably judged him the way I first did when I sat in seat 2C, and here I was doing it all over again.
Just then, my purse began buzzing on the table. Janie.
Huh. I wasn’t sure I wanted her to rescue me anymore. I held up a finger to Layton, signaling him to give me a sec.
After digging my phone from my purse, I swiped a finger over the screen and turned my head to the side. “Hello?”
“Oh, thank God, Char, you’re there! Poppy died! Waaahhh,” Janie screamed through the phone, loud enough that the whole restaurant probably heard.
“Slow down, Janie.” We had a well-oiled routine when it came to bad-date rescues. It was always Poppy or Nana and included a lot of tears.
“Popppy diiied,” she wailed, sounding convincingly pitiful.
“I’m in LA, sweetie, but I can take the red-eye home . . .”
Her wails turned to stuttering sobs. “R-r-really?”
Layton stared at me. His hair had fallen a bit on his forehead, and he pushed it back so he could give me his full attention.
“Hold on one sec, Janie,” I said into the phone and twisted my body back toward Layton. Cupping my hand over the microphone, I spoke to him in a hushed tone. “My friend’s grandfather died. Janie, the one I told you about. I have to go.”
He nodded, his face stoic.
Disappointment flooded every inch of my body. This was what I had wanted, to get out of this evening, and now he was letting me go without a protest.
“Janie, I’ll text you when I know my plans. Take a warm shower and relax,” I said soothingly into the phone and disconnected the call.
“Too bad,” Layton said, his face still expressionless.
My belly ached from a weird hunger—and not for food.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t leave her waiting.” I pulled out my clutch and started to take out my company card.
“Hey, it’s on me. I’ll get the bill and take you where you need to go.”
His left eye twitched the slightest bit, and if he wasn’t such a large and looming presence, I would have thought he was holding back tears. That wasn’t his style, though. He was too proud.
“You know what? Is it okay if I grab an Uber or a cab? I hate to send you out of your way, and I really have to go.”
If this wasn’t what I wanted, then why was I running the hell out of there?
Because this wasn’t me. This guy—the closeness, the intimate conversation—none of it was me. Even if it felt amazing, like stoking a fire on a cold night, I wasn’t meant for this. I had a plan and I was sticking to it. Big city, even bigger dreams, and a huge life were in my future.
“It’s not out of my way—”
“It wouldn’t sit well with me. This has been great. I loved the movie. Thanks, Layton.”
I stood and so did he. We stood there in an uncomfortable silence for a beat as my mind raced, my uncertainty lingering.
I might be a successful woman but I was acting like a middle school girl, ditching a boy at the arcade. And of course, I ran.
Because that’s what I do.
Layton made the first move, leaned in and kissed my cheek. This time, he didn’t linger. It was a chaste brush of his lips, and more than disappointment flooded my veins. Shame, self-loathing, and vile thoughts wound their way through my soul.
But I had to follow through because this was so messed up.
“’Bye, Layton. Thank you.”
I rushed out into the night where a small line of cab drivers waited across the street.
Spread out on my bed, flat on my back, my shirt wrinkled and untucked, I stared at the ceiling. “That was a bust,” I said to no one.
I closed my eyes tight and let out a deep sigh. Even though I’d done enough rom-coms and dramedy films to know the phone call was bullshit, a small sliver of me wished differently but I knew.
Was I that gross? I’d even tried to tighten up the last week. Instead of tossing the ball to Harriette on the beach, I actually walked her every morning. I thought I’d cleaned up okay and had actually been hopeful of getting the girl.
Right, not only a girl. I could do that; I was funny and full of wit. But this was the girl, the one worth chasing, the one worth going all out for.
And then she’d practically run the hell out of the restaurant, even taking a cab, happy to let some other nobody drive her back to the hotel and to the airport.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. For a fleeting moment, I was hopeful once again, but the screen read PETER. No such luck for my renewed hope.
“What’s up?” I sat up and answered the phone, but when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror, I plopped back down.
“You done with your fancy gig?”
I hadn’t mentioned my cyber-affair with Charli at all to my friends. It was less about being embarrassed and more about not wanting to share the few moments of happiness we had. Or I had.
“Yeah, I’m home.” I kicked off my loafers and heard each one make a low thud on the hardwood floor.
“A bunch of us are down at Bastion’s. Come on down.”
Harriette clicked through the room and jumped up on the bed next to me, shoving her face in mine. I guess I wasn’t alone. If golden retrievers count.
“I’m fucking tired. I don’t know.”
“Come on, Griff, don’t be a twat-waffle. We’re ordering wings, so get your fat ass down here. Plus, we’re gonna hustle some dudes in pool and we need a big guy.”
Peter was a stand-up comic, or waiter, depending on the day. He thought he was funny, but I wasn’t so sure.
“Fine, fine. I got to change and I’ll be around. Don’t get into any bar fights.”
He disconnected without a word, and I rolled off my bed and headed toward my closet. I peeled off my tux and threw it into a ball in the corner. I’d probably skip the next premiere, anyway. Opting for a worn-in pair of jeans and a flannel thrown over a Stones T-shirt, I shoved my feet into a pair of Chucks.
“Come on, girl,” I called to Harriette, and let her into the backyard for a quick pee.
She did her thing, I gave her a cookie, and I walked up
the street to the main drag toward Bastion’s. It was a trendy bar with all the old-school fun stuff like pool and darts.
A small crowd of people stood so many feet away from the door smoking, and I brushed past them and into the bar. It was dim with a DJ spinning tunes in the corner.
I decided to stop at the bar first . . . I needed something to erase the earlier events.
“Whiskey, make it a double,” I shouted across the glass bar.
Lots of pretty people occupied the stools, laughing and clinking their glasses without a care in the world. Women with long, shiny hair and men in fitted Henleys and skinny jeans.
I was invisible to them.
I grabbed my drink and tossed back half, the burn making me forget the few minutes I wasn’t invisible—the half hour when Charli looked at me, not through me or around me. As soon as I removed the glass from my lips, the moment was over.
I threw some money on the bar and made my way to the back, finishing my drink by the time I made it to the pool table.
“Griff! What’s happening, man? You ditch the penguin suit?” Peter greeted me over his pool cue before bending over the table to take a shot.
“Hey, Griff.” Adam slapped me on the back and silently motioned toward the bucket of beer. “So, the super-famous Katie didn’t drag you back home?” the ass had the balls to ask me as I grabbed a bottle of Heineken.
“I’m her Saturday-night man.”
“You wish,” he tossed back.
“Actually, she’s not the girl for me.” The whiskey was now having an unexpected effect. Rather than calming me, it was acting like a truth serum.
“Oh yeah.” Peter looked up. “You’d throw her out of bed, I’m sure.”
I took a big swig of my beer and looked toward him, taking in his scrawny frame, wire-rim glasses, and unkempt brown hair. “She may prefer you, big guy!”
He ran a hand through his hair and jutted his hip out. “You know what, you may be right.” He proceeded to sashay around the table as if I’d said he thought he was funny.
“I got next,” I hollered and settled onto a stool to wait. “Who the hell are you playing, anyway?”
“I’m warming up, letting my shooting arm get ready.”
To See You Page 6