He bites his bottom lip. I lick mine. "Would you like to come in?”
He shakes his head, runs a hand over his jaw, a very sexy, bearded jaw. His hands are big. His eyes are dark. His hair is pushed back from his forehead and his skin is clear. "No, we got to go actually."
"Oh, I didn't realize we were in a rush or–"
"Yeah, we kind of are. We have to be somewhere in like half an hour. And in LA time, that means we're practically late already."
"Right. Well, we don't want that."
"Right. We don't want that. So," he shrugs, "are you ready?"
I nod. "Sure. Yeah. I just," I swallow, pulling out my keys and locking my door.
My apartment door is an exterior one and once I lock up, I'm immediately setting foot outside. It's a balmy night and the sky is a hazy blue. He offers me his elbow, which I actually appreciate and take because I don't want to fall in these heels, and it's as if he knows that intrinsically. Maybe we are a match, a perfect match. Am I holding onto things, grasping at straws that aren't there?
I walk alongside him in silence down the stairs to his car, which is a Jeep Wrangler, classic, decked out, with redone upholstery. It's gorgeous, the kind of car that you buy when you have 100 grand to spend and not a care in the world. It looks like the kind of car a man who lives in the woods would drive, and I bite my bottom lip as he opens the door for me, holds it, closes it too.
I smile, not knowing what to say or do. He is a stranger, a famous stranger who I know has lots of influence and knows nothing about me. I feel like I know too many things about him.
And then he is next to me in the car and we're both buckling up. We drive somewhere on the highway, somewhere that I do not know. There is no music on. It is absolutely silent. The air conditioner is off. He rolls down the windows. I'm grateful for that, for the noise the city streets bring when we get off the highway.
"Where are we going?" I say.
"Uh, dinner."
I laugh. "Figured. You know, because it's dinnertime and this is a dinner date."
"Right," he says dryly, not offering me more.
"So, where is this mystery dinner?" I ask, honestly a little annoyed with his lack of conversation.
He looks over at me, swallows. "Fuck, you're really pretty."
I laugh then, not expecting that. "Uh, okay. Well, thank you. I didn't know what to wear."
"Neither did I," he says. He runs a hand over his hair, leans back in his seat, his hands on the wheel. He looks out at the road like he doesn't belong here at all, like he belongs in the mountains, but not here. I don't know this man, but I can see that. I feel that. Who is he? Why did he disappear? Where does he want to go?
And why was he matched with me, Story?
I swallow. "So, a secret dinner?"
He nods. "Yeah. Well, you wore the right thing," he says.
"You can't go wrong with black, you know?" I smile, running a hand over the skirt of my dress. "Thank you.”
"And pearls," he says. "I mean, you can't get more classic than that."
I run my fingertips over them. "They were my grandmother's."
"Yeah?" he says, looking over at me. "Did she cook?"
I frown. "Did she cook?"
"Yeah. Lots of grandmas like to cook."
I smile softly, looking out the window. "She made macaroni and cheese that was to die for. And anytime I went over to her house, which was probably way too often, she'd make me a box."
"A box?" Truett says.
I nod. "Yeah. I know most people think the best macaroni and cheese is homemade. You know, a pound of grated cheese, bag of noodles, milk, a roux. But they're wrong. The best mac and cheese is made from a blue box with Grandma Elsie stirring it. The powder was fine. That was never a problem. She'd add a little scoop of sour cream and that was the secret ingredient. And I know some places and some people say that they can make a real mean mac and cheese, but they're wrong. Nothing beats my Grandma Elsie's. But, and maybe you're going to call me way too sentimental when I say this, I really think the best meals aren't about the food itself. I always think the best meals are about the people who make them." I bite my bottom lip, shaking my head. "And I can't believe I just said that to like, a real-life chef, because that's probably an incredibly offensive thing to say to you. I feel like I just stuck my foot in my mouth in a million different ways, but–"