hollis-partygirlFD-IN-EP (2 page)

“Well, this is weird,” Max announces, snapping both of us out of our staring contest.

She grumbles something else about getting to work and promptly leaves the room. So now there’s nothing to do but actually start this date.

Brody walks around the bar into the kitchen to put his empty glass in the sink.

“You ready?” he asks.

Yes, I am absolutely ready for whatever is next.

“Yep.”

Which is how I find myself hopping up inside his Range Rover a few minutes later, headed out on our first
real
date.

—

It’s important to note the distinction between a date and a
real
date, because Brody and I will now have had both. When he originally asked me out several months ago, I told him no for a whole host of reasons that mostly revolved around the idea that I was totally overwhelmed by the reality of dating a grown man. Which would, I suppose, make me a grown woman.

Don’t get me wrong; I feel grown up in a lot of ways. I moved to Los Angeles from Texas last year and made it through the nightmare of working my first job at Selah Smith Events. I now run my own event-planning firm, and we’re actually doing really well. I’m almost twenty-four years old. I support myself, pay my taxes, and remember to vote—most of the time—so I know that I am an adult. But as far as men are concerned, I’m a spring chicken. Which is to say, this chick has very little experience with boys and absolutely none with men.

OK, yes, sure, I went to the drive-in after football games in high school. But that was in a group setting and rarely more than holding hands and an occasional make-out session with whatever member of the football team I was infatuated with that week. When college rolled around all I cared to focus on was how quickly I could graduate so I could move to LA. If I wasn’t working to save money, I was studying for class, and men were the last thing on my mind. So when Brody asked me out months ago, I told him no. Then he somehow finagled time with me by taking me on a “non-date.” Learning to surf with him is an experience I won’t ever forget, and in the time since then we’ve had so much fun hanging out. But no, we’ve never formally gone out to dinner for a romantic evening, and so that’s what tonight is. Our first
real
date.

Brody gets into the car, and when he turns the key, sports talk radio turns on along with the engine. He grins and lowers the volume.

“Would you like to listen to something else?” he asks.

I grin back.

“You trust me with the radio?”

“Barely,” he teases.

Just for that, I flip right on over to the country station. His lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“How was work—” I start to ask at the exact same time that he says, “You look gorgeous—”

I’m sure I’m blushing like a peach now.

“Work was busy,” he says. “How about you?”

I smile, remembering earlier today when Miko and I danced around the apartment after finding out we’d booked a new client. I suppose we’ll eventually be more ladylike about the whole thing, but we’re only a few months into owning our company, and so for now, we have a dance party every time we sign a new contract.

“Work was great. We booked a new client today, and they have a really fun theme to work with.”

He smiles at me indulgently.

“And you love a theme.”

“I
love
a theme,” I agree happily.

And it’s the truth. Tropical, western, Asian fusion, Greek mythology—I want it all! I love it when a client gives us direction for an event, and then it’s up to us to make the idea come to life. I especially love when the theme is obscure or sort of tacky, because I believe wholeheartedly that anything can be produced in a chic way. A bride wants tulle or carnations or even those tissue-paper bells from the eighties? Bring it on! Miko and I can find a way to make anything look gorgeous!

Fifteen minutes later we pull up to the restaurant’s valet just as Blake Shelton finishes singing about neon signs. Brody gives me a pointed look before hitting the mute button.

I laugh in response.

“Oh yes, because heaven
forfend
the valet should know we were in here listening to country music.”

I make sure he sees me roll my eyes before I turn and step down with the assistance of the second valet holding my door.

Yes, that’s the kind of restaurant we were at—not just one valet but a whole legion of them there to assist you with whatever kind of thing you might need. Something I’ve learned after living in LA for a while: if you’re curious how expensive a place might be, don’t look at their menu; count the number of eager valets waiting out front. Rich people
do not
like to wait for their cars.

Brody walks around the car to meet me on the sidewalk and reaches for my hand. Even though he’s done it before, I still have to repress a silly giggle that we hold hands now—with each other—
in public
.

“I’m happy to put up with your terrible taste in music,” he says as we walk to the entrance of the restaurant. “That doesn’t mean I want anyone thinking it’s mine.”

The horrified look on his face isn’t any kind of an act.

Poor Brody. Poor hot, sexy, wealthy Brody has everything going for him and a list of positive attributes a mile long. But he’s got some bad qualities too, and one of those is popping up now. He’s a snob. He was born and raised in a very wealthy family, and because of that he tends to look down his nose at a lot of things. The good news is that he’s aware he does it, and he really does try hard not to be so obnoxious, but the snob peeks through every once in a while. And just like Max needs to be pushed and ruffled, so does he. It’s a good thing for both of them that I’m not afraid to make them uncomfortable. I hum “Ring of Fire” loud enough to draw attention. It actually makes his smile bigger.

The restaurant is a study in modern design but has enough hipster touches—exposed brick, raw-wood accents, farm to table–style ingredients—to be thoroughly LA. It’s kind of a foodie paradise, and I’ve been dying to try it forever. I used to make reservations for my boss here all the time, so it’s super exciting to be having dinner here now.

I head towards the hostess stand to check in, but before I can get very far, Brody pulls me back fast. I look over my shoulder in surprise.

“Aren’t we going to sit down?”

He jerks his chin off to the right, towards the restaurant’s small bar.

“Let’s grab a drink first.”

Admittedly I ate an entire sleeve of crackers earlier in my nervous agitation about tonight’s date, so I’m not even close to hungry. I nod and follow his lead.

We walk up to the counter, and I wait as he pulls out a barstool for me.

“Don’t we need to check in and tell them we’re here?” I ask.

Before he can answer, the bartender hurries over to us with the eagerness of a springer spaniel.

“Good evening, Mr. Ashton. What can I get you?”

Brody’s smile is self-deprecating as he hands me the cocktail menu.

“They know we’re here.”

I study a cocktail menu that’s roughly the size of a hotel Bible and try to cover up my embarrassment.

I forget.

Because he’s sweet and funny, and because I’ve seen him laid back and pissed off and even terrified, I sometimes forget who he is. I forget that Brody is
Brody Ashton
and that he comes from a family of some of the most successful restaurateurs in the world. So if he walks into a high-end restaurant like this, in the city he grew up in, of course they know he’s here, and of course we don’t have to check in. He’s a golden boy in LA, bright and shiny as the sun, and they saw him coming from a mile away.

Once again I am reminded of how out of my league I am. The golden boy looks at me, and my heart freaks out as if to emphasize the point.

“Do you know what you’d like?”

I should probably choose one of the fancy-looking drinks on the menu or make like Max and ask the bartender to create something custom for me. But the truth is, I feel nervous and I’d rather have something familiar than something impressive.

“Jack, rocks,” I tell the bartender.

The bartender’s tiny hipster mustache twitches almost imperceptibly. His eyes dart to Brody in some kind of confusion.

“We have a lovely Macallan 17,” the bartender tells me. “I’m sure you’d enjoy that much more.”

I know from working with event clients that if an alcohol has a number in its name, it costs four times what a regular drink does.

“Jack is just fine,” I tell both of them.

The bartender looks like he’s fighting nausea. My date is fighting a smile.

“Sam”—Brody looks back at the bartender—“do you have the Sinatra Select?”

Sam’s shoulders visibly lose their tension.

“An excellent choice, Mr. Ashton,” he tells him. “Will you be having the same?”

“Please,” Brody says, finally taking a seat at the barstool next to me.

I watch the barkeep suspiciously.

“What did you just order me?”

“I ordered
us
Jack Daniel’s.”

I frown at his answer.

“Yes, but from what year?”

“Oh look,” Brody calls with far too much enthusiasm. “The drinks are here.”

I will not be a pain about this, because he did invite me on this date and I’m not going to fight him over the price of everything. But I have a sneaking suspicion this small lowball glass is holding two inches and fifty dollars’ worth of whiskey. I make a mental note to Google it later.

Brody raises his glass into the space between us.

“What should we toast to?”

“Um—you choose,” I reply.

He considers it for a moment before his blue eyes light up with an idea.

“To freckles?”

I roll my eyes and try to fight a smile at the reminder of the time we went surfing and he discovered my freckles.

“To blue lips?” he tries again.

This time I can actually feel my blush a moment before he leans over and kisses my forehead.

“You are so sweet,” he whispers into my hair.

I’m sure I’m doing the whole serial-killer stare that Miko warned me about, but I can’t help it—he’s so sweet. He straightens back up in his chair, and I try to find my composure.

“OK, how about to pancakes?”

This time I can’t hold back my laughter at the reminder of the only meal we’ve ever eaten together. I nod and clink my glass against his.

“To pancakes,” I agree.

The whiskey flavors are smooth and smoky and much more refined than what I typically drink. I shiver as I feel the liquor work its way down to my toes. I set the drink back on the embossed cocktail napkin it came with.

“So is this what you do?”

His eyebrows come together.

“Excuse me?”

“On a date.” I grin at him. “Is this what you do when you go on a date?”

When he continues to look confused, I elaborate.

“You know—take her to Hatfield’s, drinks in the bar.” I twirl a finger to indicate the space around us. “Dinner is prix fixe, share a dessert.”

Brody gives me a wary smile before answering.

“Hatfield’s, no,” he says shortly. “I don’t usually bring dates here. But the rest of it, yes—this is what I usually do.”

He sounds annoyed and upset, and I have no idea what I said to make him react like that. I watch as his jaw tenses like he’s biting down hard on his molars. He reaches for his glass.

Are we not allowed to talk about other dates? Is that a rule?

I’m such a spaz! Why do I always let my mouth run away with me?

I had no idea.

I fiddle nervously with my cocktail napkin. It’s probably better just to ask.

“Is that not—should I not have asked that?” My voice is so low, I’m not sure if he hears me.

Brody puts down his glass and studies me.

“I suppose it depends on why you asked.”

Yeesh, I really wet the bed with this one, didn’t I?

I shrug helplessly.

“I was trying to make conversation.” I resist the urge to bite my lip nervously. “I was curious if this is what you typically do on a date.”

His blue eyes scan my face as if looking for some kind of answer.

“You’re not . . . upset, to talk about women I’ve dated in the past?”

Upset? Why would I be upset about that? I honestly never even considered it.

He must see the confusion in my face, because he gives me more information.

“A lot of women don’t want to hear about other women”—he pauses to swipe a hand through his hair before finishing his sentence quickly—“that a man has dated before her.”

My eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“But I didn’t even know you then,” I tell him, still confused.

Brody shakes his head slowly like he’s looking at some kind of alien life-form.

He still hasn’t responded when the bartender materializes in front of us again and slides the bill over to him. Brody takes out his wallet and puts it on the counter. He removes a black Amex and slides it inside the leather holder next to the bill without once glancing at the total. I didn’t even know they made black credit cards. I wonder what that’s all about.

I’ll contemplate that later, when I try to figure out why talking about other dates annoys Brody so much. I reach out to take another drink but get pulled up short by a terrible thought.

Once again the filter between my brain and my mouth is nowhere in sight.

“Wait—you’re not dating anyone else
now
, are you?”

I’d like to believe it didn’t come out as a terrified hiss, but I try not to lie to anybody, especially myself. I didn’t know we were supposed to clarify these things up front. I just assumed if he was dating me he wouldn’t be talking to anyone else.

I definitely won’t hyperventilate while this realization comes crashing down around me. I definitely won’t.

Brody’s face softens and then gains tension as he fights the urge to laugh. Smart man that he is, he finds a way to keep from doing it.

“No, Landon.” He tugs playfully on the end of my hair. “I’m not dating anyone but you.”

I immediately relax “Oh, great—me neither,” I reply stupidly. I feel infinitely happier, so I want to make sure he understands. “Then I’ll stick with my answer. No, I didn’t know you when you were dating these other people. So why would it upset me to hear about them? It’s what made you into who you are, right?”