AllFreeNovel
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I dig through my bag until I find a tube of mascara. I cram contacts into my eyes for the first time in months and swipe mascara on my lashes. I apply a coat of tinted lip gloss and run my fingers through my hair.
Vince knocks on my door. “Are you ready, Lynds? I made reservations at a little trattoria down the street.”
“Yeah! One second!” I call.
Fuck, what shoes am I supposed to wear? I dig through my suitcase, unearthing a pair of black sandals, and shove my feet inside. I don’t give myself time to look in the mirror and chicken out. I shove my phone, wallet, and room key into a black clutch and open the door.
“Wow,” Vince hums. He’s wearing a black blazer and black jeans. His hair is artfully ruffled, curls lapping his shoulders, and his green eyes are shining with … awe. Is he impressed? For the record, he looks hot, emanating the exact ease of an off duty rockstar, down to the scuffed matte black combat boots he’s wearing.
“Is this, okay?” I ask.
“You look amazing. You look stunning. You look—” I hold my hand up to stop Vince from waxing poetic. “I mean, for the restaurant. Is there a dress code or something?” I clarify.
“Nah. I don’t think so. You look lovely,” Vince mutters, pulling me in for a kiss.
I relax as I slip my tongue into his mouth. Already, I can feel his hard-on stiffening against his jeans. I don’t know why I was nervous about tonight. It’s only Vince. He’s not going to transform into a completely new person the moment we go on a date, is he?
When we pull apart, he fishes his phone out of his pocket.
“I need a photo,” he says.
“Of me?”
“No, of us. We have no photos together,” he says. He flips the phone camera around and takes a Selfie of us. I can’t help but smile. He grins. Then he takes another, pressing his lips to my temple.
“You don’t strike me as sentimental,” I say.
“I’m trying to experience tour, y’know? It’s important. You’re important. I want to remember this.”
My heart melts as I grab his hand. We walk to the elevator and then spill out onto the street. It’s dusk; the city lights contrast with the cornflower blue of the sky. Around us, couples emerge from bars and boutiques, holding hands and stopping for photos.
We could be any one of them. We’re just another pair of New Yorkers going out on a date tonight.
Vince leads the way to a small trattoria with a bright red awning. Inside is dimly lit by dozens of fairy lights and candles. The walls are a pale yellow. The air smells like oregano.
“I called in a seven o’clock reservation for Vincent,” Vince tells the host, who nods and leads us to a tiny table in a dimly lit corner. It’s perfect; no one can see us. Even better, as we walkback to the table, I note dozens of actors and actresses also trying to maintain a modicum of normalcy over massive plates of fresh pasta.
Vince pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit. I blush. The waiter runs and grabs a loaf of piping hot focaccia and sets it on the table along with a plate of fresh olive oil. Vince and I grab a handful. The bread is warm to the touch.
I order an Aperol spritz, and Vince orders a seltzer water and some calamari for the table.
“I hope you like Italian food,” Vince says, squeezing a lemon wedge over the calamari. I nod and quickly give up on transferring the calamari onto my plate delicately and instead grab a spoon and plop a spoonful onto my plate.
Again, I’m surrounded by actresses who wear toddler-sized dresses. I can’t help but feel a little out of place. I nibble on a piece of fried squid. The breading is delicate and crumbly, enhanced by the bright zest of the lemon. I take a sip of my spritz as Vince grabs another handful of bread.
“More places should give you free carbs,” he muses before adding, “We should put this on the rider.”
I laugh, “So you want me to add one loaf of fresh focaccia?”
“Yeah, I can pack my own olive oil.”
“Got it. I thought you didn’t want to talk about work on our big day off.”
Vince shrugs, “I’m surprised I brought it up. But really, it’s nice to feel normal for a day, or at least, as normal as we can be.” Vince leans over and points over my shoulder, “Don’t make it obvious, but that guy over there is part of the Academy,” he whispers. I pretend to stretch and glimpse an older gentleman in a three-piece suit.
“How do you know?”
“I met him at a party once, and that’s how he introduced himself to me. Did you know all you have to do for that is watch the movies? Like, that’s his job.”
