* * *
“So,” Dylan says as we take seats across from each other at the café. “What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“The museum.”
I smile at him. It’s a relief to be here, actually. It’s a relief to have something to talk about other than us.
“I like it,” I say. “A lot of the paintings are incredible.”
“Do you go to museums a lot in L.A.?”
“Not so much. I tend to get nauseous at them. All that creativity stuffed into one place overwhelms me. But I’ve been wanting to come to this museum, so I’m glad you thought of it.”
When his cell phone rings, I jump.
“Sorry,” he says to me. “Hold on a sec.”
I start in on my croissant. I’m starving.
“Tim, calm down. It’s just one crappy tabloid…”
Oh, no. This phone call is because of me and my inability to let Dylan handle his own shit.
“‘That woman’ has a name remember? It’s Jasalie. So start using it, Tim.”
Remember? When did Dylan mention me to this guy? I widen my eyes, but Dylan gestures an “It’s okay” with his hand.
I want to disappear into the ground of the museum right about now.
“No, she’s not a black belt. She’s just very good at protecting herself. Calm down, please.”
I block out what he says next and try to focus on the paintings lining the walls of the café.
“Fuck.” Dylan gets off the phone and tosses it in frustration onto his lap. “I have to do a photo shoot and interview this afternoon. My agent just flew into town, and he set it up without confirming with me.”
I inhale. “What about the other part of your conversation? The tabloid and ‘that woman’ part?”
He grimaces. “It’s no big deal. They’re running a loop of our exchange with the paparazzi last night on Hollywood Now! Just the part of you taking that asshole out.”
“Oh, my gosh.” My stomach goes into knots.
“Don’t worry.” Dylan waves his hand in the air like none of this matters. “Tim’s already making sure the video is exclusive so no other network can air it. I mean the photos will be in some online media outlets and possibly a magazine or two.”
My head is fully in my hands now.
“Jasalie, I’m sorry. This is the price of going out with me. You may have signed up for a few awkward photos together, but being crowded against a wall late at night by a group of strange men wasn’t a part of our deal. I usually see the paparazzi before they see me, like at the restaurant, and I should have been prepared for it last night. It’s my fault.”
I whip my head up to look into his face. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes look so…sad.
“Dylan, you seriously think I blame you for this?” I say softly. “Besides, who cares if I’m on a few magazine covers? Bill’s such a fame whore that he’ll undoubtedly think the whole thing’s great press for the company. You’re the only one this really affects. You asked me to be your date in Tucson to help your charity, and my behavior last night proves you can’t trust me. You have to worry about your reputation. You know, the Dylan Wild brand.”
Dylan’s eyes get so dark I can hardly make out the gold highlights. “Jasalie, I don’t give a damn about my brand. I care about my charity, yes. My brand, no.”
I give him a look. “Come on, Dylan. Be truthful. You care a little bit. You have to. I would, too, if I were you.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I really just care about playing football. All this crap—it starts to take over your life. It happens slowly, and before you know it—”
