“I don’t do well with delays.”
“Oh.” He closed my door before walking around to his side. His face was like a little kid who’d been scolded. Once he was in, we buckled up in silence. Five minutes into the date and I was already ruining everything. I stared out the window, and he drove.
It didn’t take long for him to break the silence.
“I’m sorry. I was… detained.”
He was clearly not used to people calling him out on his lateness or anything else, I’d assume. His body was tense, like he was weighing whether to turn around and scrap the whole thing. Probably thinking it was too much trouble for a hookup. But still, he apologized. Even if the words looked like they tasted foreign in his tongue. And I appreciated that.
“It’s okay.” I forced a polite smile. I could still try to save this.Small talk mode activated.“Where are we going?”
“Accardi,” he said, perking up as he mentioned it. “It’s been my favorite restaurant for a while now.”
“Never heard of it.”
Was that too rude?
“You’ll love it,” he said, not seeming bothered by my blunt response. “The atmosphere’s perfect, and the food is phenomenal.”
“Sounds great.” I sounded more enthusiastic than I felt. As we cruised through the city, I fell into my usual habit of observing my surroundings, cataloging little details to adapt my conversation. My eyes landed on a flask tucked into the cup holder.
A drinker. Got it.
Then his phone buzzed. And buzzed again. And again. I couldn’t help but look. The screen lit up with a name—Anna.He didn’t even flinch, just completely ignored it. I assumed it was typical, having women calling him all the time.
I focused on how spotless his car was. There wasn’t a speck of dust, not a thing out of place. As a neat freak myself, I had to appreciate that.
The phone buzzed. Again. Loud and insistent. I tried to let it go. I stared out at the passing lights, doing my best to focus on anything else. But when I opened my mouth to say something polite, something entirely different slipped out.
“Aren’t you going to pick it up? The buzzing is annoying.”
Oh. My. God. Did I actually say that?
I braced myself for him to snap back or, at the very least, give me one of those“What’s wrong with you”looks. I was all too familiar with those. But he didn’t. He… laughed.
“You’re absolutely right. Sorry about that.” Then, as if it were no big deal, he switched off the phone and tossed it into the back seat without even checking who was calling. Problem solved.
Most people would’ve been annoyed or caught off guard, but not him. Nope. He laughed and handled it, like what I said and how I said it was… amusing.
Give it time.It was only the beginning of the night, after all.
“So…” I started, fishing for something remotely interesting to say, but landing on, “Do you live in the city?” I immediately cringed at myself. Riveting stuff.
Chris didn’t seem fazed.
“Nah,” he said.
He kept his eyes on the road, no distracted and casual glances people give when they’re driving. Interesting. I always imagined famous people to be a little reckless, like they didn’t need to follow the rules because they could charm their way out of a ticket.
“I have an apartment here, yeah. But my real home is inBoston,” his eyes sparkled at the mention of the city. “And a house in L.A. It’s hard to stay in one place for long in this line of work, you know?”
Well, I didn’t. But I nodded, watching him as he spoke. I was kind of fascinated by how he filled the silence, not because he had to, but maybe because he was a little nervous, too. The thought caught me off guard. Chris Jones? Nervous?
“I’ve got a project here in a few months, so I’ll probably spend most of my time here. For a while, at least. It’s good… the paparazzi aren’t very chill though.” He was talking a lot, but it didn’t come off as arrogant. “I’m talking too much,” he caught himself. When we stopped at a light, he glanced at me and asked. “Your house looks beautiful. I’m assuming it’s your primary residence? Or…?”
I laughed because, really, what kind of question was that?
“It’s myonlyresidence.”
