She nods. “Yup. Very predictable. Very romantic.”
I lean back in my seat, aware I’ve been edging closer to her as she speaks. “Is predictability romantic? I think I’d prefer to be surprised.”
She pulls her damp coat closer around her shoulders, smiles a tight little smile that looks almostknowing, and glances out of the window. “Okay, mister,” she mutters, barely audible.
It feels like she’s laughing at me, and, even more surprisingly, I’m not annoyed by it. I’m intrigued. What does she think she knows that I don’t?
She doesn’t explain, but rests her forehead against the window and gently taps the knuckle of her forefinger against the glass.
We don’t talk the rest of the way home, but my heart thumps like a fucking drum all the way there, as if it wants to beat out of my chest and into hers.
17
DIANA
It was too good.
Too much fun.
The opera date with my best friend’s father was not supposed to leave me feeling the elated buzz of having spent time with someone you really like.
Not at all.
I don’t know if it was so good because we’ve already had sex.Great sex.Okay, it has to be that in part, because my body knows his, and it’s hard to be in his company and not be constantly reminded of that night. But the fact that he doesn't know who I am is a bit magical. It’s as if I’m being allowed to get to know him all over again. This different version of him, where he’s a responsible father and businessman, who’s done nothing but support me, which he does, reliably, every evening when he comes home.
It has become our routine, and tonight, I’m making content in my dressing room. I’m still missing an attractive bookshelf as a backdrop, but the dressing room with the fancy wardrobes and designer clothes hanging in the background has done the trick.It screams luxury, and that makes people stop scrolling, so for now, I’m happy.
Rafe is leaning against the wardrobe across from me. Lizzie’s gone out for dinner, and I’m not sure how it has come to this, but he’s watching me create content in real time.
His presence is distracting, to say the least. Having him just a few feet away as I perform for the camera, his shirt sleeves rolled up, muscular forearms crossed over his chest as he watches, is as bad as being publicly heckled. I can’t concentrate at all.
But I can’t tell him that.
The fact that my bed is mere feet away from us is a constant refrain in my mind. What we could do on that bed if I were to tell him what we’ve already done…
I focus on the task in hand, continuing to talk about the book I’ve just read and am now reviewing, but I keep stuttering and having to start over. On my fifth try, his phone rings.
He glances at the screen, then silences it.
“You can take it,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. This is more important. Try again.”
He sounds businesslike, and I can’t help recalling how he hardly looked up from his phone when I first arrived, distracted by work. But now, he’s cancelling calls so he can give his attention to me instead.
I understand what Lizzie meant when she said, ‘when you get his full attention, he’s wonderful’, but I’m not sure I can handle it.
I do as he asks, but my attempt at performing for the camera falls flat again.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it me? Am I putting you off?”
Yes. Yes, it’s you.
“No, not at all.” I put the books down and switch off the camera. “I guess I’m not feeling it today.”
He assesses me for a moment. “You know what Lizzie and I used to do whenever one of us was feeling off?”
“Tell me.”
