Carey falls back on the bed in laugher. “I thought the same thing,” she says, pushing up onto her elbows. “But no. It was good. I think we need to be bossier with her. Otherwise she’ll get away with everything.”
The reason for my visit comes back to me, and it occurs to me now that it might be a terrible idea. Obviously I can barely be around Carey without wanting to be touching—how will I do over candlelight? But Ted’s napkin promise looms large in my memory.
“Well, relatedly,” I say, “I was thinking that it might be a good idea for us to have dinner at a table near the Tripps tonight. Just to keep an eye on things.”
Her eyes gleam with playfulness. “You don’t trust them?”
“Not for a second.”
When she wrinkles her nose, teasing, my stomach takes a lovesick dive. “So you’re asking me out on a fake date?”
“If you’re up for it.”
Carey chews her lip, eyes narrowed as she takes me in. “Yeah. I think that’s probably a good idea.”
My skin flushes, and now I am sure that this was a terrible suggestion. She just threw a T-shirt on; she clearly isn’t wearing a bra. A drop of water rolls down her long, smooth neck, and I want to lick it off and then fuck her into next week.
But I suppose if the Tripps can spend this meal pretending to be infatuated, I should be able to spend it with Carey, pretending not to be.
At exactly 6:35 p.m. a waiter at El Gaucho is pouring me a glass of zinfandel while a smiling and camera-ready Melissa and Rusty Tripp sit just a few tables away. The restaurant is perfect: it’s connected to the hotel and filled with the kind of Melissa-approved soft-focus candlelight that makes everyone look great. They’re even seated next to a window, and if one of the photographers outside just happens to snap a few photos of the intimate dinner? Well, that’s even better.
I’ve eaten plenty of meals with James, but it’s rarely just the two of us, and never in a dimly lit restaurant with fancy alcohol, leather-bound menus, and innocuous classical music playing from hidden speakers. I know this isn’t a date—I know, we made that very clear upstairs—but it feels like it anyway. I’m in the best dress I own—the blue one I save to follow Melly to morning shows and big interviews—and James is sitting across from me, wearing a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt and a smile that makes me wonder if he thinks this is a real date, too.
He picks up a giant shrimp and dunks it in a dish of cocktail sauce. “This is a really nice hotel. Almost a whole star up from the Motel 6 in Hollywood. Good job.”
I kick him under the table.
He coughs as he chews, laughing into his napkin. “I’m being sincere,” he says, once he’s come up for air, “it’s great. I’m not much of a tub guy, but the one in my bathroom is making me question myself.”
Not even going to imagine him sinking naked into a giant tub of bubbles. Definitely not going to imagine sinking into a tub with him, leaning back against his chest and feeling his arms come around my waist, his hand sliding—
New topic. “Did you know it’s supposed to be haunted?”
His eyes widen playfully. “My tub?”
I narrow my eyes at him, fighting a smile. “The hotel. I walked downstairs to get some toothpaste because I’ve lost yet another tube, and there was some kind of tour happening.”
“Like a ghost tour?”
I pick up a roll and butter it. “The concierge told me the first owner supposedly haunts the hotel. There’s a mirror in the lobby where you can see the reflection of a woman in a turquoise dress. Oh!” I point my buttery knife at him. “And someone claimed they sat up in bed one night and there was a little boy playing peekaboo at the foot of her bed.” I laugh at his horrified expression. “The front desk will even bring you a companion fish to keep you company. Pretty cute, right?”
When I glance up again, James is still staring at me, second shrimp paused midway to his mouth.
I lift a brow. “You’re not scared, are you?”
He sets the shrimp back down on his plate. “I definitely don’t want a ghost child playing peekaboo in my bed.”
“I know. I would pee my pants, no question. But don’t worry, the guide said the twelfth, ninth, and seventh floors are the only ones ever reported for any activity. And the lobby, of course.”
He blinks. “I’m on the ninth floor, Carey.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “Do you want me to order you an emotional support fish?”
Straightening, James waves the waiter over and orders us both another glass of wine. “Yes to the fish,” he says, and grins at me over the top of his glass. “But enough of this will help, too.”
I smile back at him across the table and ignore the gnawing worry slowly rising in my chest. This feels so good. How am I supposed to be platonic with this guy? The more time I spend with him, the more I genuinely like everything about him. More than like. Tonight, after dinner, I want to take him by the hand and walk him upstairs to bed.
The idea of sleeping with his bare, lanky body pressed all along mine makes me shiver.
“So, Kurt,” he asks, and my sexy thoughts trip and fall over the Incompatible Topics Cliff. “What does he do for a living?”
“He frames houses. Started working with my dad when he was fifteen, and then Dad died and Kurt took over. He was twenty-two and has been doing it nearly every day since. I gave it a try before the dystonia started, but even then I complained so much he actually gave me twenty dollars to go away.”
James choke-laughs on a sip of wine, and I kick him again. “So when I called Melly to tell them what time we made the reservations for, she said Rusty was up in your room?”
He nods and looks at me like he broke a rule.
The expression is so hilarious, I burst out laughing. “I don’t care if he’s in your room, James.”
“Honestly, I think he was lonely. Well, mostly I think he wanted to watch the game, and since he and Melissa had to share a room on this leg, and she wouldn’t let him use the TV, he came down to me. I’d feel bad for him, but he’s just as much to blame for their problems as she is.”
I pull back, brows furrowed. “Some would even say he’s more to blame, seeing as how he decided to stick his penis in a woman who isn’t his wife.”
James holds up his hands, immediately clarifying, “I don’t mean the affair. I mean the terrible marriage.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “You’ve read the most recent book, I take it?”
I groan. “About a thousand times to hunt for typos, yes.”
“It’s actually pretty good, right?” He sips his wine, and the way his throat looks when he swallows is very distracting. “If they actually followed their own advice, they’d have an amazing relationship.”
“I’m hoping for your sake he’s not planning a sleepover.”
James starts to laugh, and then his smile falters. “God no.” He pauses, sipping his wine again and watching me. “I don’t share my bed with just anyone, you know.”
The air between us vibrates, warm and charged.
I finally manage a lame “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”