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After a much-needed shower and fresh, semi-wrinkled, but still more dressed-up look, it’s my turn to gape when I leave the bathroom. Nova bends over the dresser in front of the mirror, running a tube of red lipstick over her full lips, and once again, my eyes are drawn to her long legs, shown off by strappy black heels and dangerously short black shorts.
Catching my stare in the mirror, Nova’s eyes narrow. “Eat your heart out, Hotshot. Lots of guys like to get their fill.” She spins, blotting her crimson lips on a tissue. “No harm in that.”
Throwing my words back in my face, my chest rumbles with a laugh. “What can I say? You clean up nice.”
* * *
We make the five-minute walk to The Dearborn, this upscale American tavern across from the theater, in silence, my attention drawing to the sway of her hips and those shapely calves one too many times. Ignoring another call, I drop my phone in my pocket, and my hand touches the small of her back as I open the door and usher her inside. Her gaze snaps to my face, a soft smile on her lips. “Thanks.”
Once we’re seated opposite each other in a red leather booth, we stare too long and too hard at our menus, the heavy silence lingering. Maybe we should’ve found somewhere casual to grab a bite, but this is where Nova’s family always goes before a show, a tradition, she said. In this setting, though, dressed as we are, it feels like we’re a couple celebrating a special occasion instead of two people who met six hours ago.
“This is nice.” I make a lame effort to break the lull in conversation as I peruse the fancy menu. Apparently, even pizza isn’tpizzaat a place like this.
Staring at the menu, her teeth tug at her bottom lip before she lifts her head. “It’s bougie, isn’t it?” I choke down a laugh. “We could split a few things from the sharing section.” She lowers the menu, tapping her tapered nail where I should look. “That’s what Myles and I usually do.”
“So the octopus then?”
Nova grimaces. “Um, more like the fried chicken and the poutine.”
Thank God.“Sounds good. Myles is the computer expert, right?” Nova nods. “Willa mentioned Archer being at your house helping him when I called her once.”
“Yeah, he’s fourteen and a tech whiz. Too smart for the rest of us.”
Nova continues sharing information about her three younger siblings once we’ve ordered, but once she’s exhausted the subject, we lapse into silence again. Even after our meals arrive, our conversation is minimal. Mostly murmured comments about the food and atmosphere.
While the conversation is stilted, one thing we’ve established is our mutual attraction. We may not share stories of our childhoods or favorite movies over dinner, but neither of us can accuse the other of staring. While Nova’s eyes seem to settle on me whenever she lifts her sparkly virgin drink—Shirley’s Sister—my gaze lingers on the skin beneath the deep vee of her white silk blouse between every bite. Three silver necklaces of varying lengths, the longest, a triangle diamond, settle in the hollow of her breasts. I’m only slightly ashamed I haven’t stopped wondering how soft her skin is.
Embarrassment settles in my chest when Nova slides the bill in front of her, but she’s the one with Daddy’s credit card, so I excuse myself to the restroom to keep from looking like a schmuck.
There’s a bounce in Nova’s step as we leave The Dearborn and cross West Randolph. “I’m so excited to finally see a performance in this theater.”
This is a brand new experience for me. I study the building—an eight-story tall black and red marquee runs vertically up the side of the theater, the name Nederlander brightly lit in white, and a smaller gold marquee sits over the main doors with signage for the show. A steady trickle of well-dressed people walk through the glass doors.
“Why’s that?”
Tossing a glance over her shoulder, her ruby lips give a coy smile. “You’ll see.”
We enter the lobby, and Nova’s laughter is light and musical when I mutter a curse under my breath. “I think I finally know the true definition of opulence. This is—”
“Amazing,” Nova says, breathless.
It’s as though we’ve been transported to another world. A world of marble and gold and Buddhas and scrollwork. There’s so much to see I don’t know where to focus, so I settle on staring at the girl beside me.
“You’ve never been here?”
“No.” She tears her attention away from the ornate ceiling. “My parents have been to a few here, so I’ve seen pictures, but most of the shows they brought me to were at CIBC. This place used to be named the Oriental Theatre.”
“I can see why.” The South-Asian inspiration is everywhere as I follow Nova’s wandering feet.
The lights blink dim to bright, and having been to more than a few of Willa’s dance recitals through the years, I know the show is about to begin. Clearly, I’m not thinking as I clasp my hand around hers and pull her toward the staircase. “C’mon, starry eyes, we need to get to our seats.”
Her hand twists, her fingers twining through mine, and she tugs me in the opposite direction. “We’re in the orchestra section, not upstairs.”
Having no clue where to go, I let her lead the way until she lags, her gaze wide again as she takes in the lanterns adorning the walls. I tug at her hand when the lights fully dim. “Nova, we can take our time looking afterward.”
Rushing into the theater, we settle way up front, Row E, almost dead center as the orchestra strikes up. I can’t fathom what these tickets cost, but the view is spot-on.
Nova’s hair brushes my cheek as she leans close and whispers, “Don’t forget to mute your phone. I’ve noticed how popular you are.”
