The waiter came and took our orders before Daniel and I were alone again.
“Tell me something that’snoton your resumé.” Daniel said.
I smiled. “I’m a dancer. Rhodium’s choreographer to be exact.”
He raised his brows, impressed. “You serious? That means you were the one who choreographed that set from the VMAs? That wasdope.”
I blinked. “You remembered that?”
Nathan shrugged in response. “I’m a fan of movement. My mom used to put me in dance classes to help with footwork. Said if I could learn to glide, I’d learn to fly.”
“That’s kind of poetic,” I said, surprised.
“She was dramatic,” he said with a shrug. “And okay. I’ve still got a little samba left in me.” I was still smiling when he added, “So, what kind of music gets you in your zone?”
“Oh, I have a soft spot for neo-soul. I listen to Cleo Sol and H.E.R like they're my therapist.”
Daniel dropped his breadstick. “Hold up. You know Cleo?”
“Knowher? Please. I choreographed an entire set once to ‘Know That You Are Loved.’”
“You just became ten times cooler.”
I laughed again and felt my shoulders relax for the second time all night. The conversation flowed after that, smooth and easy. He told me about growing up in East London, about coming to the States for college football, and how he has dinner with his mom and younger sister at least once a week.
The waiter came to clear our plates, and I hadn’t even realized how long we’d been talking. Daniel leaned back in his seat, arms stretched a little, relaxed and easy in a way I envied. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t crowded me, just let the night unfold and I appreciated that more than I knew how to say.
Still, something was missing.
Not from him. He was smart, funny, magnetic in that confident-wide-receiver kind of way. But the spark wasn’t there for me, not the way it’d been earlier when Nathan’s fingers brushed mine as he wrapped the bandage around my paper cut and held my hand just a second too long.
Daniel watched me for a moment, like he knew exactly what I was thinking, then he smiled gently.
“Can I tempt you with something sweet before we call it a night?”
I blinked. “Dessert?”
“Yeah. Figured if I’m getting friend-zoned tonight, I might as well go down swinging with chocolate lava cake and the best espresso in LA.”
I laughed, startled by how smoothly he said it, like it wasn’t rejection but just reality.
“I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my voice a little. “You’re great. You really are.”
“I know.” He winked. “And you’re not exactly forgettable either. But I think we both know your mind’s somewhere else tonight.”
It was. I didn’t bother pretending otherwise.
“I really did have a good time,” I said softly.
“Me too,” he said, grinning. “But the lava cake’s still happening. Can’t let me walk outta here with a bruised egoandno chocolate.”
The way he said it was light, playful, and had just enough charm to soften the blow which made me smile despite myself.
“No we can't,” I giggled. “Let's get some cake.”
***
DATE #3: THE SINGER
