“Hey, Evil,” he says, walking toward me.
It doesn’t feel weird to reach up and hug him.
He wraps his arms all the way around me, and I shiver a little when I feel the solidness of his body against mine.
“It’s so good to see you.”
Don’t think dirty thoughts. Don’t think dirty thoughts. “You too,” I say.
The embrace lingers, like we’re old friends seeing each other after a long separation. It isn’t weird, though—it’s easy, just like before.
I know relationships are work. My mom reminds me of this all the time, and of the balance it takes for two people to combine their lives into one. But I’ve always felt like it shouldn’t be work right away. Over time, yeah, I can see some effort needing to come into play when the honeymoon phase wears off and you can finally admit to yourself that it’s really irritating when they leave their socks on the couch or how they slurp their milk while eating cereal. But initially, being with someone should feel like the best and most natural thing in the world.
I’ve never really felt that chemistry before, but I definitely feel it with Carter. My blood hums just being near him, and I can’t stop grinning. He smells amazing and holds me so tight, squeezing a little more just before letting go.
Straightening, he gazes down at my face. “I think I forgot how pretty you are.”
“Me too.”
Wait, what did I just say?
“Aww,” he says, laughing. “I like being called pretty.”
Linking his fingers with mine, he turns and we check in at the hostess stand. His hand is big and secure—like a clamp around mine—and I can’t stop focusing on the way it feels. So not a buddy dinner then.
Hand-holding might seem like a simple, innocent way to signify closeness and attraction, but my hand in Carter’s feels anything but simple.
They say we have more nerve endings in our fingertips than we do in our lips, and as we snake our way through the dining area and to our table I swear I feel every millimeter of contact between us. When he lets go so we can sit, my entire body feels cold.
He swallows, and I’m mesmerized by his neck and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the way his smile slowly creeps in from the side of his mouth.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m really glad to be here.” It’s not like me to be so forthcoming, but I can’t help myself. My filter seems to have malfunctioned on the walk from the front of the restaurant to my chair.
“Me too,” he says, and then turns his attention to the incoming waiter, who tells us the specials and takes our drink orders.
“I’ll have a Red Bull and vodka,” Carter says, and I snort. When the waiter makes a slight face but starts to write it down, Carter stops him. “Not really. Sorry. I’m kidding. Inside joke. Bad joke. I’ll have whatever IPA you have on tap.”
The waiter is unamused. “Stone or Lagunitas?”
“Lagunitas.” Carter’s tongue peeks out, touching his lower lip.
I can’t stop looking at him.
The waiter turns to me.
“I’ll have a glass of the Preston Barbera.”
When the waiter leaves, Carter leans an elbow on the table. “You give good shoulder.”
“I . . . what?”
He nods to my dress. “Your dress. Your shoulders.” Clearing his throat, he adds quietly, “You just . . . look amazing.”
I whisper, “Thanks,” and take a long drink of ice water to cool down the boiling just beneath the surface of my skin. “So, what’s the latest in Carterland?”
He grins at my subject change. “Work. Dodging calls from my parents. Texting a cute agent down the road. You know.”
I blush, deflecting, “You’re dodging your parents?”
“They want me to make more of an effort with my brother, but really it’s just their continued disapproval that I moved here in the first place.”
“Oh, no.”
He waves this off. “Mom is positive I’m going to end up homeless and buying crystal meth from a guy living in a box on Skid Row. I tried to tell her my apartment has a doorman and I don’t even know where Skid Row is, but she remains unconvinced.”
The waiter brings our drinks, bread, and a tiny notepad ready for our orders.
“My parents are both in Burbank now,” I tell Carter once the waiter leaves again, “so I see them a few times a month, but I can imagine how much my mom would worry if I lived across the country.”
“Yes, but my brother moved here when he was eighteen, and there was little to no meltdown.”
I tear off a piece of bread. “I don’t think I knew that.”
“Jonah,” he explains over his glass, “took his camera and his clothes and left. He went to a party one of his first weekends in town and ended up taking some photos that were featured in Rolling Stone.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. From there it was Elle, then People. For some reason my parents think lightning only strikes once and I am destined to flop.”
I want to remind him that all parents worry their children will struggle and that if there was ever a place where that happened a lot, it’s Hollywood, but my mind snags on something he’s said.
“Wait, is your brother Jonah Aaron?”
“He . . . is.” His eyes go wide, his hand frozen where it was lifting a piece of bread to his lips. “Please tell me you haven’t slept with him.”
I cough out a laugh. “That would be a no. But for some reason I think my friend Amelia has.” I take a sip of wine, thinking. “I think she met him at a Vanity Fair party or something.”
Carter gives me a rueful half smile. “Maybe I should find her and apologize on behalf of my family.” When I laugh again he seems to realize what he’s said. “I mean no,” he corrects, brows furrowed. “Sex with the Aaron men is prime. Best sex of your life. I should clarify that . . . Let’s move on. Work is good?”
A laugh trips out of me, and I press my napkin to my lips. “It’s really good. I’m putting together a package right now and it could be pretty big.” There’s something about Carter that diffuses my usual instinct to keep everything close, and it’s a struggle to not spill every detail.
But if he notices how I’ve reeled myself in, he’s polite enough not to let on, and instead knocks on the top of the table.
“Superstitious?” I ask, but he’s kept from answering as the waiter arrives with our entrées.
Carter washes his first bite of steak down with his beer and then sets the glass back on the table. “In answer to your question, I would never say that I’m superstitious, because that would be bad luck. But it has been suggested to be one of my less charming traits.”
I grin up at him, spearing a piece of broccoli.
“Mostly, I consider them quirks,” he says. “It’s possible I have a lucky tie. The old knock-on-wood one is a favorite. I throw spilled salt over my left shoulder. I’ve been known to frequent wishing wells, and I have to let the phone ring twice before answering.”
“Those are so adorably minor,” I say.
“You have some better ones?”
“I’m sure my friends would tell you I am quirks galore.”
Carter leans back in his chair and motions for me to proceed.