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Ten
Bord du Lac was jacket-required fancy, but there wasn’t a tie requirement. Fine by Cash. He’d pulled on a dark pants and a jacket over an open-at-the-collar white button-down, threw on cowboy boots and called it a day. He didn’t bother shaving since “scruff” was the look he preferred—and the look a poll favored according to a recent magazine article—and he did his usual hair routine, which was running his hands through it and letting it fall. A splash of cologne on his neck was the only fanciful part he bothered with, in case Presley leaned in for a whiff.
He stepped out of the master bedroom and jogged downstairs, expecting to wait for her for another ten or twenty or thirty minutes. He was surprised to find her standing at the kitchen counter, rummaging through a small sparkly handbag. She looked up when he reached the bottom step, where he was awestruck by the vision before him.
Her red hair was down, falling in big, bold waves around her deliciously bare shoulders. His eyes ate up her creamy skin on display, and there was a lot of it to enjoy. The dress was strapless, hugging her breasts and nipping in at the waist before flaring to allow for her luscious hips. He took in those long legs, capped by a pair of high-heeled shoes in the same slate-gray color of the dress.
She turned and the overhead lights caught the rhinestones—slate gray wasn’t the only color on the dress. There were also icy-blue and almost-black bits, and the whole of it twinkled like the nighttime sky. When he finally managed to reroute his eyes to her face, her bubblegum pink mouth was parted innocently. Her thick, jet-black lashes weren’t so innocent, closing down over blue eyes and causing parts of him to stir with interest.
Parts of him that wanted nothing more than to say screw dinner.
“I’m ready early.” She sent one hand down the side of the dress. His gaze followed her hand hungrily. The dress stopped way before it should’ve—high on her thighs—and dipped low in the front, too, giving him a view of her cleavage.
Drawn in, he walked over until he was right next to her and could look down at her from his height. With great effort he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You look incredible.”
She tipped her chin, sending her hair falling down her back. The woman was sex in stilettos.
“I have a wrap in case it’s cold in there. I wasn’t sure.” She fiddled with a piece of material next to her purse, almost absently, but she never took her eyes off him. “Cash?”
He didn’t know why she said his name, but he was already on the move. His lips touched hers for a soft, brief kiss. So soft, it shouldn’t have turned him on. So brief, he wanted to howl when it was over.
Feeling like a dope for rushing in, and yet not the least bit sorry for it, he smiled and moved away. “It’s a sin to hide those shoulders, but bring the wrap.”
He collected his keys and followed her through the foyer, pulling open the front door for her. By the time she folded into his car, he wasn’t sure how he was going to successfully drive to Bord du Lac with his eyeballs glued to her legs.
He succeeded, but only because he’d trained his gaze on the windshield like his life depended on it. Distracted driving wasn’t limited to cell phones and fiddling with the radio. His ex-girlfriend riding shotgun and crossing one silky leg over the other while wearing tall, spiked, bad-girl heels was enough to send him flying off an overpass.
Inside the restaurant, they were led to a private back corner reserved for famous folks. Before Cash’s fame peaked, he’d been mildly amused by the idea of famous people needing a “safe haven” for dining, but now he understood it. A visit to a nice restaurant could quickly become a nuisance. The few dates he’d been on in public were documented by every diner, whether they were a member of the press or not.
Even now, as he walked with Presley through Bord du Lac, he felt cell phone cameras pointing in their direction. He hoped he wasn’t making her the topic of a tawdry headline. “Don’t look now,” he murmured in her ear, “but we’re being watched.”
She scanned the dining room before whispering up at him, “I can handle it.”
Which reminded him that this was not the Presley from a decade ago. She hadn’t curled into a ball and withered away. She’d followed her dreams just like he’d hoped, gaining newfound confidence thanks to her achievements.
Their table was hidden behind decorative privacy panels, the booth backs high and ensuring they wouldn’t be bothered. Their nook was cozy, but big enough to accommodate multiple plates and glasses. The paneling extended on two sides with an opening wide enough for the waiter to stand and take their order or pour the wine, which he did before giving them privacy.
“This is very elegant.” Presley lifted a balloon-shaped glass and sipped the red wine. He did the same. She’d already moved her silverware so that the ends lined up on the napkin, touched the edge of the candleholder to see if it was able to be repositioned and drummed her fingers along the leather-bound menu at her right elbow. All signs that she was nervous, and doing her damnedest to pretend she wasn’t. “I’m glad Hallie loaned me this dress.”
“I’m glad Hallie loaned you that dress.” His words came out on a growl. “You couldn’t look more beautiful if you tried, Pres.”
She surprised him by smirking. “Is that why you kissed me? Again?”
He deserved that. “Yeah, but if you don’t want me to kiss you again, say the word.”
It was a test, but she didn’t say no. Instead she relinquished her wineglass before leaning back in her seat to study him. “What’s your favorite Cash Sutherland song?”
Back on the clock.
His guard climbed, a habit he’d honed after learning the press went for the jugular. He’d like to believe Presley wasn’t after blood. Still, he gave her a canned answer.
“My songs are like my babies. I couldn’t pick a favorite child and neither could I pick a favorite song. They’re all a part of me.”
“That’s cute.” She tipped her head in disbelief. She was the cute one. “Now the truth. Favorite song. And why.”
When he didn’t answer, she added, “I’m not publishing a recycled Cash Sutherland article a hundred other writers have penned. I want the real you. The public wants to know the man behind the guitar is a genuine person.”
Genuine.He liked that word. He wanted to live up to it. Aspired to reach it. Fame, while it allowed him to share his most personal feelings on stage, could also be inauthentic. It forced him to smile when he didn’t feel like smiling, or perform when he’d rather be sacked out in front of the television. His fans thought they knew him, but they only knew a version of him. Genuine is the summit of the mountain I’m climbing.
