Chapter 7
1682 Words
Jennie
Holy s**t panties. If Dante Evans keeps smiling at me like that, I’m going to need someone to physically restrain me from doing something dumb. Like licking his jaw. Or climbing him like a tree.
Gosh, this date is so not normal for a broke white girl like me.
The restaurant he chose is the kind with cloth napkins folded like origami and handmade candles on the table that I’m still considering to steal to sell on Etsy.
Ugh!
I shouldn’t be here.
I know that in my soul and bones.
And yet, here I am. Sharing a table with the most beautiful man alive, trying not to stare at the cut of his jaw when he reads the wine list.
I focus on everything else instead. Like how his sleeves are rolled up to reveal his ridiculous forearms. I swear one flex from his muscles and that button-down will break under the pressure.
But that’s not all that’s beautiful.
His fingers are long and calloused in a way that says he works out and doesn’t talk about it. When he lifts the water glass to his lips, I watch his throat move as he swallows. f**k, even his Adam’s apple is sexy.
He doesn’t speak right away after drinking. Just hands the wine list back to the server and looks at me.
I panic.
Is he regretting this date already? Is he thinking I’m not hot enough, funny enough, sparkly enough to be seen in public with him? I resist the urge to sniff my armpits. I wore perfume. Right? Yes. I think so.
“You okay?” he asks.
I smile like my heart isn’t doing gymnastics.
“Just wondering if I can order chicken nuggets at a place like this.”
He smirks. “If you do, I’ll pay extra to watch the waiter’s face.”
“What a kink,” I say, reaching for my water.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs.
My hand freezes around the glass.
Is he flirting? Again?
I try to play it cool. Which means I immediately almost choke on an ice cube.
Dante watches me with amusement sparkling in his eyes. He leans back like he’s perfectly at ease, like this is normal. As if he doesn’t have every woman in the room casually sneaking glances at him.
When his knee brushes mine under the table, it feels like my entire skeleton glitches.
“So,” I say, desperate for something to fill the silence. “Tell me something embarrassing.”
His brow lifts. “Why?”
“Because I need to feel better about existing in a world where I once mistook dry shampoo for deodorant.”
He snorts. “Fine. I will give you an embarrassing memory.”
“You have those?”
“Of course. I once farted on stage during a Shakespeare play. Live audience. Full cast. Mics on.”
I gasp. “You did not.”
“Hamlet never recovered.”
I break. Full-on wheeze-laugh. Heads turn and one old woman places her hand on her heart as if a person laughing is the most outrageous thing she has ever heard. I try to calm down, but the deadpan look on Dante’s face only makes everything a hundred times funnier.
“I’m sorry...” I’m trying so hard not to smile. “I’m just...give me a minute.”
“Don’t apologize for having fun.”
I look up and notice Dante is watching me like I’m the show and when our eyes meet, those features on his face soften.
Which is dangerous.
I don’t want soft from Dante Evans since I might actually fall for him even through I know this date only comes from him being bored. One or two dates in and he will go back to dating supermodels.
“I bet your usual dates don’t come with frizzy hair and chicken nugget obsessions,” I tease and it doesn’t hurt to make fun of myself since what I just said is true. And the best way to protect your heart is to joke about something you’re insecure about.
Dante, however, doesn’t laugh.
“No,” he says, a little too honestly. “They come with contracts and a need for attention.”
“So basically, the opposite of me.”
He shrugs, meeting my gaze. “Maybe that’s the point.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t mean that, does he? That he likes that I’m different?
Our food comes. Mine is a plate so fancy I have no idea what I ordered. Something with foam. His looks like steak. Of course he ordered steak. Even his meal is masculine.
We eat. We laugh. He tells me stories about movie sets, I tell him about the time I accidentally sexted my dentist.
It’s so perfect that I let myself imagine what this date could lead to.
Until I remember things could never work between us since I am normal people.
He is not.
I stab at my food. “Do you always fake it this well?”
He blinks. “Fake what?”
“The charm. The whole... swoony movie star thing.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. Then shrugs. “I guess I’ve had practice.”
Something about the way he says it sticks in my ribs.
But I nod like it doesn’t matter.
And because the universe has a dark sense of humor and like reminding me that when things seem to good to be true they usually are, that’s when it happens.
The door opens and a woman walks in.
The beautiful kind. You know the type. Tall. Blonde. Legs for days. Wearing designer everything and the kind of effortless grace that screams celebrity. Her eyes land on Dante.
Her entire face lights up.
“Dante!”
She walks over like she owns the place. Like she owns him. Since she is so gorgeous I suddenly become hyper-aware of my own reflection. I’m short, brown hair frizzing slightly from the humidity, glasses slipping down my nose, and my dress that was on sale for a reason. She looks like a cover girl. I look like the before picture in a makeover ad.
Dante goes still. “Lila,” he says tightly.
Lila.
I narrow my eyes, but it’s clear that this woman doesn’t see me as her competition at all.
She doesn’t wait for an invite and leans down. To kiss him. On the mouth.
Right in front of me.
Not a peck. Not friendly. A real kiss. Lips lingering. Eyes closed. Her hand on his chest, squeezing his tie.
Everything in me goes quiet.
The restaurant vanishes. The candle flickers. My stomach drops. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare.
Dante doesn’t kiss her back.
But he doesn’t stop her either.
I tell myself it’s a misunderstanding. That this is Hollywood, where people air-kiss all the time. But then I see the way her lips mold to his. The way she presses in like she’s done it before. And he just... lets her.
My heart sinks through the floor. That’s the actual feeling in my chest, a hollow thud like my heart landed somewhere by my feet.
This woman is kissing Dante because I look like a joke.
My face burns. With embarrassment. With humiliation. With the stupid, aching realization that I actually thought this date meant something.
And that’s worse since it makes tears sting behind my eyelids.
Why did I go out with an actor?!
I’m not good enough for that!
I stand. I don’t remember making the decision. One second I’m frozen in my seat, and the next I’m on my feet, napkin falling to the floor.
Dante looks up, eyes wide. “Jennie—”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t. It’s fine. This started out as fake, right? So why should I care? You got your laughs. I got... well, who knows what I thought I got.”
He pushes out of his chair. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what? That you have a girlfriend? That you let her kiss you while you were on a fake date with your other fake girlfriend? Honestly, Dante, I didn’t even know it was possible to get dumped in a pretend relationship.”
His jaw clenches. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
I don’t care.
I reach for my purse, grab the edge of the table to steady myself, and give a smile that feels like a knife. A knife I fully intend to stab into my own dignity later when I inevitably replay this scene in the shower. Maybe I’ll even throw in a dramatic reenactment for my cat. I toss back the last of my water, slam the glass down harder than necessary, and look him in the eye.
“You know what’s funny? For a second there, I actually forgot this was fake.”
Then I turn around and walk away.
Not just out of the restaurant.
But straight into the night, heels clicking, heart pounding, trying not to cry in front of valet. I pass a couple laughing, a man on the phone yelling into his AirPods, a waiter lighting candles. All of it too normal. Like the earth didn’t just c***k open under my stupid too-expensive shoes.
Behind me, I hear Dante call my name.
But I don’t look back.
Let him chase me this time.
Let him explain.
Because I’m done pretending this isn’t real.
My phone buzzes.
Dante: That wasn’t what it looked like. Don’t shut me out.
My thumb hovers over the screen, the message burning like it might scorch through the glass. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw my phone into traffic. My heart twists in that stupid way it does when your brain is screaming no, but your feelings are standing on the sidewalk waving a boombox.
“Of course it wasn’t,” I mutter to no one. “It never is.”
I keep walking, because if I stop now, I’m afraid I might run back.
- Writer
