I race down the stairs just in time to see Manny pull open my front door, and I wonder where King is while also being glad he’s not here to threaten me within an inch of my vagina.
“I’m your detail tonight,” Manny explains to both Bobby and me.
“Detail?” Bobby asks with a disarming smile.
“My protections detail,” I explain.
“Oh right,” he says. “I heard you were having a bit of trouble with a fan. Everything all right?”
“Everything is fine.” I sigh. “I honestly think my dad overreacted.”
“And the gunshots were just a mistake then?” he fires back.
“Anything is possible.”
“Well,” he says as he gives me a weird look. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” I blurt out nervously.
Bobby takes my hand in his and leads me out to his car. I never realized how pretentious of a car he drove before. Race car drivers often do, but still. This one is over the top, and that’s saying something, because my baby Hellcat is tucked away safely in my garage. I miss her. I miss driving her. It’s weird to be driven around all the time when you’re a professional driver, and I didn’t realize it until now, but it’s been over a month since I’ve driven on actual roads outside of the track. It’s so weird.
He pulls open his door, and I pull open my own, and I know it sounds weird because I am a strong, independent woman, but it makes me think of King and how he always opens my door for me. I shouldn’t be thinking of King while I’m out with Bobby. That’s wrong. I shouldn’t be thinking of King at all. Whatever we had was wrong. It’s not healthy, and both of us will be better off once we’ve made a clean break from each other.
This is good. This is healthy. But most of all, being with Bobby will be safe.
I need to get away from King and his toxic fucking. Then I can think straight again.
He pulls up to the valet at the Marine Room in La Jolla, a small dining room that sits over the beach offering diners an upscale dining experience. Tucked away off the beaten path, it’s a spot for locals, not tourists. And a romantic one at that. Bobby must be serious about wanting to be with me.
We climb out of his car, and he joins me at the curb, tucking my hand into his. It’s a sweet gesture, and I turn to smile at him, but the flash of a camera—and then another and another—surprises me. The press is lined up outside the restaurant, snapping pictures of us walking into the restaurant hand in hand like lovers. Since this is an out-of-the-way spot, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that someone called them, and the only one who could have, whowouldhave, is Bobby.
He gives his winning smile for the cameras as he leads me into the restaurant, and I’m disappointed to notice that when he gives his name to the young hostess, she leads us to a table that has a view of the ocean but also sits by one of the windows to the front of the building, where the paparazzi can easily snap pictures of us on our date.How romantic.
He pulls my chair out for me, and I notice he takes the seat with the better view but also manages to position us so we’re on display for the press to see. I bite back a frustrated sigh. This is not off to a good start.
This has always been one of my favorite restaurants. I love coming here, and it’s always a special treat, so I’m going to make the best of the night. Their seared ahi is by far my favorite dish, so when the server comes up to the table, I know exactly what I want. I open my mouth to order, when Bobby beats me to it and orders the salmon… for me.
“Actually, I’d prefer the ahi,” I correct.
“You have to stay in shape,” he says, and I wonder if he’s been abducted by aliens. I’m thin. I have always been thin, mainly because of great genetics, but also because I train like a beast and maintain a healthy diet day to day. Never once have I had an issue with overindulgence or weight, so I can’t imagine why he would tell me I need to watch my diet.
“The ahi is hardly a four-course meal,” I reply. “And besides, I ran four miles before I dressed this evening.” Bobby gives me an approving look and hands the server our menus, who looks happy to race away from our awkward confrontation.
“I’m not the bad guy here, Addie,” he says when we’re alone again. “You know how it is. They expect us to look a certain way.”
“And have I ever given you any indication that might be a struggle for me?”
“No,” he replies, looking chagrined. “But still, you know how they can be.”
“I do, but I’m fine. I promise.”
The server returns and opens a bottle of wine that probably costs too much money for what it tastes like, but it’s what Bobby wanted. I just take a sip, confident now that we’ve made it over that hurdle we’ll be fine, when he speaks again.
“You have to admit,” he says. “This is a perfect solution.”
I choke on the tart wine. “Pardon.”
“This,” he says, waving his hand between us as our salad course is placed in front of us. “You and me.”
