“Yeah, I can’t take credit for the view or this setup. The decorator did it.” Grip eyes his rooftop retreat with a pleased smile. “I don’t get up here as much as I’d like, but every once in a while to eat or write.”
I can see how it would be the perfect place to write. Padded benches tuck into the far corner, and slate-colored cushions rest against the brick wall. Four low, square tables stand in the center with candles of various sizes and shapes strategically dotted on them.
Grip sets the bags on one of the tables and walks to the wall to turn a few knobs. Soft music fills the air around me, and strands of fairy-tale lights now glimmer over our heads. It’s all very romantic.
“You know this is just two friends eating dinner, right?” I flop onto the padded bench and put down our drinks.
“I do know that.” The innocent expression is the only thing that doesn’t look right on Grip’s face. “But if you need to remind yourself, I understand.”
I make sure he sees me rolling my eyes before tearing open the bags of precious fried dough.
Correction. Baked.
“You said these were fried,” I complain around a bite of empanada.
“My bad.” He stretches his brows up and takes a leisurely sip of his beer. “That’s your second one, though, right? I guess you barely notice the difference when you inhale them.”
“Very funny.” I actually do laugh and polish off another one.
“Well, so much for leftovers.” He leans back against the cushion beside me until mere inches separate our shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have invited me to stay if you wanted leftovers.”
“I think your company’s a fair trade.”
Our eyes connect across the small slice of charged space separating us. I sit up from my slouch, inserting a few much-needed inches between us.
“You mentioned needing to talk about the email I sent.” My business-like tone clashes with the soft music and lighting, which is exactly what I need it to do.
“Yeah.” He considers me for an extra moment, as if he may not allow me to steer our conversation into safer territory. “You mentioned that next Wednesday at three you have a sit-down scheduled with that reporter from Legit.”
“I checked the shared calendar, and that block of time was free. Was I wrong?”
“It’s my fault.” He shoots me an apologetic look. “I forget to add personal stuff there sometimes. I’m talking to some students in my old neighborhood that day. Could we reschedule?”
Between my request to cancel tomorrow’s interview for Qwest’s would-be booty call, and nixing next Wednesday’s sit down, Meryl won’t be too happy with me.
“What if she tags along?” I sit up straighter, twisting to peer down at him. “She could see you talking to the students and then you guys could chat a few minutes maybe right there on the grounds. Get some local color shots.”
“Local color?” A husky laugh passes over his lips. “There’s four colors in Compton. Black, brown, red, and blue. In the wrong place at the wrong time, on the wrong street, any of those could get you killed. I don’t know. And I don’t want the talk exploited. Like headline shit. That isn’t why I’m doing it.”
“I know that. Of course it isn’t. I’ll make sure it isn’t like that.”
He glances up at me, wordlessly reading between lines.
“You’d be coming, too?” His voice is soft, but the look in his eyes is loud and clear. His eyes tell me he likes having me near. It makes my stomach bottom out like we’re back up on that Ferris wheel, and if I’m not careful, I’ll fall.
“Why not?” I give what I hope is a casual shrug, though it feels as stiff as my neck.
“You just haven’t been around much lately.” His eyes never leave my face, and I hope I drop my expressionless mask in place fast enough to keep him out.
“We connect every day.” I look him straight in the face like it isn’t hard to do. “So I don’t know what you mean.”
“We text, email, FaceTime, but we haven’t seen each other much.”
I rub at the knots in my neck, wishing a masseuse would magically appear.
“Are you tight?” His voice and eyes seem to simmer, both hot and steady.