by Sunniva Dee
“Wow. You live there alone?”
The shards of silver in his eyes seem to gleam when my questions become too quirky. They’re multiplying too. My questions, not his shards. Geez, I hope he doesn’t read anything into this one. I really wasn’t trying to check on his relationship status.
“I do. Me and my American bulldog, Princess.”
“Princess?”
“That surprise you?”
“Did you name her yourself?”
He folds his hands and does a lazy backward stretch. “Naw. She’s a rescue. Was seven months old when I picked her up. Big chubby white girl, and that was her name. I actually tried other names on her, but she’s too dumb. She doesn’t react at all unless you use her given name.”
A real laugh tumbles out of me. “That’s so silly. How long have you had her?”
“Four years, now.” He shrugs. “She’s incorrigible.”
“I walk dogs,” I say, not seeing what I’m leading up to until it’s too late. And then my face flushes again. “Jeez, I mean—come eat at my restaurant and then I’ll walk your dog for money too. I’m sorry. I so didn’t mean what that sounded like.”
I hate it when I do this, keep talking until I’m hauled out of the mud by someone else. Frieda and Charlotte aren’t close enough to save me, so I open my mouth and blubber more.
Ciro interrupts with a breathy laugh. It’s like a soft gust of wind I’d love to feel on my ear. Maybe in other places.
“I do need a dog walker. I travel for work too, so my princess is home alone quite a bit. Do you pet-sit?”
“Oh yeah!” I nod, my head so eager he almost blurs. I’ve never pet-sat, but how hard can it be? “Princess sounds like a gem.”
“A gem, huh? I wouldn’t go that far. Do you have a business card?”
“...” I gather a crumpled napkin from his table and accidentally grab his fork too. He gently wiggles the fork out of my hand, I drop it too fast, and it lands on the floor. I’ve officially lost all connection between my nerve endings and my limbs.
“A business card. For your pet-sitting business?”
“Oh no, not with me.” I’ll get one made as soon as I get home.
“Ah.”
“I’ll give you my number.”
He arches a brow. They’re dark lines over his eyelids, framing them to perfection.
“Not like my private number! I mean, yes, it’s my private number, because I only have one cell, but I don’t mean that you can call me for, like, a date, or anything. It’s just for Princess, you know, and for pet-sitting her.” Shit! I shake my head. “Not that I would say no if you…” I hike my thumb behind me toward the kitchen again, breathless.
“Savannah?”
Fu-u-uck. “Yeah.”
“I’d very much like your number.”
2. DATE
Riiiiiiiiing.
“Savannah. That your phone?” Sam yells from the kitchen.
Riiiiiiiiiiing.
“Just pick it up already.” I mumble through hairpins I’m trying to plug into Frieda’s hair. She’s going out tonight. With her cousin. She claims it’s not romantic, but I don’t know. He’s very attentive to her.
“Helllo!” Sam has a way of singing the first part of his greeting and clipping the last vowel short. It makes him sound cheery, informal, and as boneheaded as a frat boy on a keg of beer. “Sorry, who’s this? Yeah, it’s Savannah’s phone. Sam. Yeah, Samuel Ilardi. I’m her roommate?” His pitch moves upward on the last word, like he isn’t sure his answer suffices.
Frieda twists in the chair, narrowing her eyes at me. “Who’s he talking to?”
“How would I know?”
“Sure, hold on.” Sam strolls over, sliding into the bathroom on his socks. “Here. For you.”
“Duh, it’s my phone,” I whisper.
“Your mom, though,” Frieda says. “She calls your phone to talk with the guys.
“’Cause she’s still boy-crazy. Who is it, Sam?”
“Some friend of yours from the restaurant. Silveira.”
I frown, eyeing my phone cautiously. I’m not much for unexpected calls. “I don’t know any Silveiras.” I lift a finger, waving Sam toward us with it and mouth, Tell him I’m not here.
“Churro Silveira? Something about having eaten at Mintrer’s.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Ciro? Do you mean Ciro?”
“Hell if I know. You want the phone or not?” Sam holds it above our heads like it’s a microphone and he’s planning to perform a mike-drop. Frieda and I both scramble, and between the two of us we save it last minute.
“Savannah?”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Oh, maybe he’s a singer instead of a movie star. A singer of super-sexy songs.
“Ciro?”
“That’s me.” He does that breathy chuckle again that made me want to whimper yesterday. I can still picture him so vividly. Then again, it’s only been one day. “How are you? Did you get home no problem yesterday?”
“Of course I did. You? No librarians chasing after you?” I ask.
“Librarians?”
Mkay. Too private of a joke. “How’s Princess?”
“Stoked. She’s on her back on the couch next to me, with her tummy in the air. She’s snoring too.”
“No way, you let a snoring female lie next to you?”
“This is the only one. All other snoring females have to camp out by the pool. I give them sleeping bags.”
“Note to self,” I reply. “No snoring in Ciro’s presence.” Look at me being clever. No wonder I do better on the phone, though. He’s a tad much in person.
“About that,” he begins. And I blush. Seriously blush, making Frieda flip her palms upward in a what? I walk out of the bathroom while Ciro continues, “Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow is Friday,” I state, less clever than a minute ago.
“I’m aware. Are you busy tomorrow, Friday, Savannah? Do you want to go on a date with me?”
Oh my fucking gee!
“Mmm.” I think my arms flail. Frieda follows me. She’s literally stopping me from hitting Rodrigo’s painting off the wall. He’d be so pissed.
“Savannah,” Ciro urges. “Are you there?”
“Mmyeah. Hold on.”
He wants to take me on a date, I mouth, and Frieda starts to jump. She shakes her hands, grinning and looking exactly how I feel.
“Checking your calendar?” He’s so cool on the other end. Bet he never gets a no.
“Yes. Okay, yeah, I can go. What time and where?”
“Give me your address, and I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Truth be told, I can’t go. Not really. Tomorrow is jam-packed. I work at Mintrer’s. I have my late-night walk with Mr. Dakapoulos’ dogs. I’m supposed to put in at least a dozen sales calls for printer toners—if I don’t want them to can me for being their worst seller ever by the end of the week. Also, I need to visit Mom.
I’m calling in sick everywhere. My wallet hurts already, but I’ll get a free meal, and maybe I’ll get that job working with Princess? I wouldn’t mind having a funkis bunker in Hillside to myself every now and then while the owner took off on business trips.
As a last check, I call Mom and make sure she’s good. She doesn’t talk too fast, and she’s hanging out with her neighbor, Paul, tonight. I have no reason to pass up this date. And hey, it’s only a date, just enjoyment of the now.
“What do I wear?” I didn’t sleep last night. Rodrigo and Sam take turns getting me out of the house when I have a spare hour, but it’s been a while since I’ve been on a date that hasn’t just been playdates with one of my roommates.
“Where is he taking you?” Frieda asks.
“To that Chinese palace thing overlooking the Pacific in Malibu.”
> “Geez, he doesn’t mess around, does he?” Frieda’s brows lower as she cocks her head. “Should we be worried? Who just comes straight out and says, ‘Do you want to go on a date with me?’ Most people say something like, you know, ‘Hey...’” She wiggles her head sideways, all casual-boy-like, “‘Wanna grab a bite?’”
“I know.”
“And also, who takes people to a five-star restaurant on the first date? He’s hot as fuck, but what if he’s a total creeper? My cousin and I could go up there too, in case you need us. We’d have to nurse a Coke in the bar, though.” She snickers at the thought of the surely astronomical prices.
“No, I’ll be fine. We’ll be in public.”
“Oh boy, what about in the car? What if he doesn’t even take you there?”
“Will you stop jinxing this? You’re making me even more nervous.”
“Okay, cool. We just need to look up his address so that we know where to collect your body. What’s his last name again?”
“Frieda!”
By the time I’m ready, Frieda and I have been through all of my clothes, all of hers, and half of Charlotte’s. I end up with a short red dress that shows off my butt—because it’s all right—and accentuates my little bit of cleavage. That’s not an easy feat, because I’m not what Frieda calls boobylicious.
I carry a small red purse. My toes are shiny and red too, and I’ve opted for leaving my hair loose down my back. It’s my best feature, I think, because it’s long, bright, and naturally wavy.
Frieda says I’m wrong, that my eyes is my best feature because they’re more round than oval. They tend to make me look scared, though, no matter my expression, and perpetually scared grey eyes aren’t a plus in my book.
I try my best with black eyeliner and lots of mascara. In my case, that makes my eyelids look heavier, especially with a light silvery eyeshadow on top.
As Ciro knocks on the door and I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, I want to run back to the bathroom. I should remain there until I don’t look deer-in-headlight-like.
Frieda is so helpful. She passes me and opens the door before I’m ready. My half-barked Wait! hardly passes my lips before he’s there, just-fucked bed hair rumpled with tips wet from the shower. Ciro has his hands in his pockets. His eyes lift from the doormat to me while I struggle with my inhales.
Crap, he’s so handsome. This will not go well. I can’t see myself talking during the whole date. Ha, worst case, I’ll go to the restroom and we’ll just call each other.
“Hey. Wow, you look beautiful,” he murmurs, and then he freaking hands me flowers too, a blur of scarlet and green. Who does that on a first date? Thank god there’s no card attached to them.
“Thank you,” I croak, drooping them sideways like I’ve never held flowers before.
“I’ll take that. Go, kids. Have fun.” Frieda winks at me, then at Ciro.
“You ready, then?” His speckled stare glides over my face, taking in my fear, I’m sure. I doubt I’ll ever look ready.
But I bob my head, and he takes my arm like we’re going to prom. He leads me outside and down the too long staircase from the second floor of our rental and to the driveway.
A charcoal sedan flashes its lights at Ciro’s key-click. When I searched for him on the internet, I found nothing, so I’ve had only my imagination to go on about him. He could be renting his funkis bunker. He might be a B-film actor with an okay income or a wannabe with a good side job. But when he opens the car door for me and it’s a Bentley, I realize that this man has made his mark.
“Nice car.” I’m encouraged by my almost normal pitch. I don’t sound overly impressed or croaky or anything. I tend to get more relaxed on a glass of wine too, so just wait until we get to the restaurant.
“Thanks. There’s nothing like owning the canyons in this girl. If you’re good, I’ll let you drive her sometime.”
That sounds a whole lot like he’s planning for more dates. As he flexes his thigh to push down on the gas pedal, I want to be so far down our string of fantasy dates that I can slide my hand over that thigh and feel the muscles work.
He plays Sinatra in the Bentley. I peer out my side window until I’ve got control over my nervous amusement at that. Then, I face forward until I feel his stare on me and we’ve come to a halt on the first traffic light. “Savannah?”
“Hmm?” I bite the bullet and look at him. At some point, I’ll have to anyway. Insecurity and shyness must pour from me. I don’t understand why I’m here, little me, this girl from the Mid-West who spends all her time surviving.
His gaze has softened. “Do you know what the color red symbolizes?”
“No...”
“It’s the color of fire and blood. Of desire, passion, and love. You look beautiful in it.” He smiles a little, and the Sinatra ballad lulls under his words, making me swallow.
“Thank you.”
He slides a finger from my cheekbone down to my jawline. “Red also symbolizes determination. Energy. Strength.” I shiver when his fingers grace the top of a red shoulder strap. “It enhances the human metabolism, and in cases like these it increases a guy’s respiration rate, even his blood pressure.”
Ciro withdraws his hand again to steer us through the last dip of the Valley and take us into the canyon. I’m relieved and wildly disappointed to lose his warmth.
“You know a lot about red.”
The restaurant is black and scarlet lacquer, golden Foo Dogs flanking private booths and overlooking the ocean. What sounds like Chinese harp music floats through the air and envelops us between exotic bushes.
Ciro is as relaxed in this grandiose setting as he was at Mintrer’s. Now he slides in next to me in the u-shape and supports his arm on the backrest. At what Grandma would call “a respectful distance,” I can still sense his heat.
He leans back in the seat, eyes on me. I’m intently aware of his hand inches from my shoulder. I lift my drink—real champagne opened by the table and poured by our standby waiter—and let the fizz hit my palate. The mouthful is so big it takes a minute to get it all down.
“Tell me about you,” he murmurs while I swallow.
“There’s nothing to tell, really.”
“Where are you from? You’re not from here.”
“I grew up in a small town in Kansas. I have a sister and a brother who both still live there, close to my dad’s. We sort of don’t speak very often. My mom moved to the Valley, and I followed her.”
“Are you close to your mother?”
“Physically for sure.” I laugh. “Mom just needs someone around. I love her, of course.”
He raises both perfect eyebrows to urge me on, and I grimace but continue; it’s not like I have family secrets. “I’m in California because Mom gets obsessed with new ideas sometimes and needs people to pull her back to earth. If no one was there, she’d probably fly off.”
“So you’re her anchor?”
“I guess.”
He smiles broadly, causing his features to swing into a boyish grin. His eyes shine when he does that. “That’s sweet. You’re putting yourself in the backseat in favor of someone you love.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m putting myself in the backseat”—I tip a different glass to my lips, calming my nerves with the smoothest pinot noir I’ve ever tasted—“but since my parents’ divorce a few years back, I can’t leave her stranded in one of her moods. I just want to be there in case of trouble, you know.”
He lets out a small rumble. “I bet that’s how my mother felt about me before the fam collectively decided to cut all ties.”
“They cut the ties with you?”
“Yep, it was time. They did about... hmm, a decade ago? I was pretty bad. You wouldn’t believe that now, would you?” He winks, and somehow I get the feeling that he’s joking.
“Looks like you’ve
got it together to me. Not everyone in L.A. has funkis bunkers and Bentleys and princess dogs.” I wink back, because I’ve been shifting between pearling champagne and full-full pinot. It makes me relaxed and daring.
“That depends on the eye that sees.” He purses his lips suppressing a smile.
We sit there for three hours. No matter how luxurious, that’s a long time in a restaurant booth. Once I’m calm and can look straight at him, the words just flow between us. This Greek god seems to have a genuine interest in me. As odd as it is, it doesn’t stop me from enjoying myself.
He learns about my black lab, Doris, who after a long life ended up run over in our own driveway. I get emotional over it, and he pulls me in for a brotherly kiss on a temple. I let him. No, I don’t just let him. I cuddle closer, which he has nothing against.
Whenever I ask him about himself, he answers, but he’s such a great listener, we always end up back on me, my boring life in Kansas, my even more boring life in the Valley. He tells me about Princess because I prod, and I tell him everything there is to know about my old elementary school, the principal, the bullies Tim and Tom who ended up expelled for three days and returned scowling but nicer. My middle school, my favorite subjects, even high school. I need to drink often, because my mouth is dry from talking.
“Did you have any boyfriends?” His bass transplants to my chest like hot, red energy.
“Yeah, one. Matthew from the wrestling team.”
“That’s cool. Good body, then, right?”
I giggle, because when do men talk about other men’s bodies? Ciro asks like it’s natural and smiles at my amusement.
“Just to have this out of the way. I assume you wouldn’t be here with me if you had a boyfriend?” He curves his fingers around my neck and tilts my head enough to meet his stare.
“No. I’ve only had a few dates since I moved here. I’m too busy with my mom and work to get serious about anyone.”
“Good.” Ciro’s gaze leaves mine. Sinking his head into the backrest, he watches the stars through the latticework of greenery above us.
“Why’s that good?” Yep, I’m fishing.