“I’m not justifying anything.”
“So what do you do when you have … needs?” He chooses his words carefully.
“I handle them.” I sit straighter, cheeks flushing. “How did we go from me being a good sister to talking about my needs? I think we got off on the wrong exit?”
“Sorry.” He glances away, the cutest mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “It’s just that you’re really easy to talk to, Rossi.” The way my name melts on his tongue sends a spray of goose bumps down my arms. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to talk to someone and feel like I’m talking to the real person and not some version of them. You’re not trying to be the person you think I want you to be, and you have no idea how refreshing that is. Guess it makes me forget about boundaries.”
I rest my elbow against the back of the sofa, hands knotted through my messy hair as I stare at the gorgeous man mere feet away from me. It only makes sense—he’s probably used to everyone putting on airs, trying to come across as perfect and amazing at all times because they want him to like them.
“It probably helps that I’m not trying to impress you …”
Our eyes lock.
“I make a lot of people nervous,” he says. “But not you. Why’s that?”
“I was nervous the first time you came over.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
“After the Katherine Kingman interview I watched five times in a row? I was borderline terrified of you.”
He laughs. “You watched it five times?”
“Maybe six.”
“Why?” His eyes shine with bewilderment.
“Curiosity?” I shrug. “Wanting to know what I was getting us into?”
“Fair enough. What else are you curious about? Any other myths I can personally dispel for you?”
“Yeah.” I settle in. “What’s it like dating other famous people? Do you do normal people things like ordering pizza and sitting around in sweats or do you constantly need to be ‘on’ and picture perfect? Do you fight or do you have your assistants fight for you?”
His dark brows meet as he snickers at my questions. I hope he finds them more amusing than invasive.
“Everything is off the record and purely for my own nosiness,” I say, adding, “Nothing you tell me tonight leaves this house.”
I draw an X across my chest.
“Okay.” He settles back. “Imagine going out for a fabulous five-course dinner at the hottest restaurant in the city and your date is on a five-hundred-calorie-a-day diet. Or asking if she wants to take a last-minute trip to Fiji but she’s still healing from her lip injections and doesn’t want to risk being seen with bruised lips. And when you can’t get a hold of them, you have to text their stylist, their makeup artist, and their personal assistant to figure out where they are. It’s exhausting.”
“Have you ever just dated a normal girl?”
“Define normal.”
“Someone like me. A regular person.”
“I thought we already clarified that there’s nothing regular about you,” he says. “but to answer your question, I’ve never dated anyone remotely like you.”
“Maybe you should,” I say. “When you get home, I mean. Someone not famous.”
“Trust me, if I could find someone like you when I got home, I’d make her mine in a heartbeat. Unfortunately they don’t make ‘em like you back there.”
Speaking of heartbeats, mine is off the charts.
I’m sitting here, perfectly still, only my body is behaving as if I’ve just finished a twenty-six mile marathon.
I stand to stretch, but the room twirls the second my feet hit the carpet.
Apparently those appletinis are very much still in my system.
With impressive, tennis-pro reflexes, Fabian catches me before I make too much of a fool of myself.
“Take it easy there,” he says, breath warm and sweet against the side of my neck. Lowering me to the couch, he says, “What do you need? I’ll get it.”
“I just wanted to stretch …” I push myself up again, this time retaining my balance—and my humility. Doing a little spin, I make a show of the fact that I’m fine. “I’m just going to check on my sister, maybe make sure she’s still breathing …”
A minute later, I return, and Fabian’s exactly where I left him.
After last night’s 3 AM kitchen party and all the running around we did today, I should be exhausted, but something about being in this man’s presence is electrifying, and sleep is the farthest thing from my mind. If I were to call it a night right now, I’m one-hundred percent sure I’d spend the next several hours staring at the ceiling, my body humming with frantic energy. It’s almost as if I’m anticipating something … but what?
“How is she?” he asks.
“Out like a light.” I take a seat again, closer to him this time. Not on purpose though—but because I’m slightly less coordinated than usual thanks to this massive buzz working through me. “You tired at all?”