He breaks into a smile, and I laugh in spite of myself.
“If you want casual, maybe I can loan you one of my football jerseys to wear later.”
The heat rushes to my face.
“So, you ready to go?” I’m already walking down the steps.
“Sure.”
He catches up to me and matches me stride for stride. As we head across the parking lot, Dylan pulls up short.
“Jasalie.”
He’s staring out past me toward the street, and his face is etched with tension. I look where he’s looking, but other than the glint of what appears to be sunlight hitting glass, I don’t see anything.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him, involuntarily reaching out a hand to touch his arm. A jolt of electricity shoots through my body, and I quickly jerk my hand away.
But Dylan’s eyes grow heated like he felt it, too. He clears his throat. “The paparazzi are around already,” he warns me, and his jaw ticks. “I know of a place where they won’t bother us. Do you like Italian?”
I nod. “I can drive, though. That way I can show you around.” I’m kicking myself as soon as the offer’s out of my mouth. I thought I’d prefer to drive so I could feel some semblance of control over this situation, but I’ll be lucky if we don’t end up in Phoenix for how well I remember Tucson.
We walk in silence to my car. “The thing is I thought the point of all this”—I gesture between him and myself—“was to be seen together.” I unlock the car and climb into the driver’s side. “Doesn’t hiding from the press kind of ruin your plan?”
Dylan settles into the shotgun seat and stretches his long legs out. “Like I said, let’s have this date be just us. I don’t want to overwhelm you right off the bat. Introducing you to my world is difficult enough; throwing you to the media wolves is another. I haven’t been on a date with someone who’s from outside of this scene in a while. Not since I started being photographed more regularly. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with me and trust me first.”
That’s sweet. He really is genuinely nice and considerate. “Thanks for thinking of me,” I say as I turn on the car. “But I’m pretty good at taking care of myself. A few men with cameras aren’t going to scare me off.”
Dylan lets out a light chuckle that sounds exhausted. “They’re more like vultures than cameramen.”
* * *
Using his phone for directions, Dylan tells me how to reach the restaurant.
I’m surprised when we pull up to a rustic building with the simple sign “Lucca’s” above the wooden door. With the type of life he leads, I assumed Dylan would only eat out at fancy places.
Dylan insists on holding the door for me as we walk inside.
An older man immediately comes over to us and shakes Dylan’s hand. “How are you, Mr. Wild? Good to see you again.”
“I’m great. Thanks, Paolo.” Dylan puts his arm around me. “This is Jasalie.”
“Jasalie.” Paolo takes my hand and kisses it. “You two get the table of honor, a private one in the back.”
He leads us over to a small table for two. The seating is far more intimate than I’d prefer, but making a fuss would just call attention to the fact that I’m trying to avoid breathing in Dylan Wild’s air space.
We take seats across from one another. I glance around the restaurant, already feeling more comfortable than I ever thought I would today. It’s a hole-in-the wall, tiny space with little ambience. But it’s real.
“This is a nice place,” I say as a waiter fills our waters and Dylan and I each order a glass of red wine.
Dylan tells me he’s been here a few times over the last couple years. “I’ve taken a few vacations in the desert to get away,” he explains. “Paolo always respects my privacy.” He raises his water glass. “Cheers.”
I shake my head. “It’s bad luck to toast with water.”
“Really?” He puts his glass back down on the table. “Didn’t know that.”
“We’ll wait for the wine.”
“That’s fine. We’ve got all afternoon,” he says.
