“Hey,” Seamus asked with a smirk. “So now maybe you’ll tell me why you really decided to do the slow-motion valet getaway back there.”
Nicola blushed and quickly considered just running for it. Again.
“All right. Yes. Okay. You got me. I panicked. The valet rejected my car.”
Seamus gave her a wry half smile.
“It happens, you know.”
“Does it now?” He laughed. “Happen to you often?”
“Hey, look, yeah, it hasn’t happened before, but let’s face it, in a 1995 Tercel, it’s gonna happen sooner or later in this town. I’m hyperaware of the situation.” She stopped. She hated that she could hear herself rambling.
“Listen,” Seamus said, leaning in closer. “I ain’t busting your sweet ride. It’s what caught my eye. Every asshole at this party and every other fuckin’ party in town is pulling up in their look-how-rich-I-am car, even though most of them are sleeping on floors to afford their car lease. I wanted to see who the hot girl was who had the balls to turn up in whatever fucking car she wanted.”
Nicola tried to swallow, but her throat had dried up. She took a much bigger swig of her drink than she’d anticipated, and choked, coughing loudly.
Seamus’s hand was suddenly patting her on the back.
“It’s okay, Seamus,” Nicola said between coughs. “I got this.”
As the coughing subsided, Seamus’s hand stayed on her back, moving softly and slowly up and down. It was very warm. In a good way.
“I just saved your life.”
Oh great, thought Nicola. This is where he moves in. She tensed up.
But he just kept making conversation. “So tell me about the story where the prettiest girl at a party arrives in a vintage beater, has some crazy fight-or-flight instincts, and then tries to dissuade the nicest guy here from talking to her.”
“There’s not much to tell, really,” said Nicola with a smile, releasing her shoulders. “I’m from Dayton, Ohio. I’m a publicist at Huerta Hernandez PR. I bought that Tercel in the parking lot of a Ralphs for two hundred and fifty dollars and it runs like a champ. I feel like a bit of a cotton head driving it but for now, it’s perfect.”
“A cotton head?” Seamus raised one eyebrow, suddenly conjuring the movie poster for his last big budget sci-fi superhero epic.
“Huh? Oh, nothing. Ignore me. You can take the girl out of Dayton…”
“Exactly. Well, then promise to ignore me after a few more drinks and I start to talk like I left Glasgow yesterday.”
“It’s a deal,” laughed Nicola, noticing that Seamus’s hand was still gently caressing the small of her back, not venturing too low or high. She couldn’t help it. She relaxed a little toward him, and he pulled her a little closer.
“I don’t think that’s your whole story,” Seamus whispered into her ear.
“Well, of course it’s not,” Nicola said abruptly.
Seamus felt her tensing. His hand rested at the base of her spine, and she felt the warmth of his palm calming her.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said gently.
“It’s fine,” she said, making it clear that it wasn’t fine. “Look, I got out of a bad situation in Dayton. I’ve sworn off men for a year. No dates, no nothing. So just know that.” Nicola looked him in the eye to make sure he knew that she meant it.
“Otherwise, my whole story is that my mom works as a manager at a Motel 6. My brother’s just out of rehab. I abandoned them and ran to LA. I need to make it work here so I don’t feel like a total asshole for running. I send them money, but I need to do more.” She paused, her eyes searching his. “Aren’t you sorry you asked?”
Seamus shook his head.
“Not at all, Nicola. Not at all.”
His hand resumed stroking her lower back.
“Well, it feels weird telling you. And it also feels weird because I feel like I don’t need to ask you your story.” She already knew a lot about Seamus. His last three girlfriends had gone straight to the tabloids as soon as he broke up with them. She knew he was fiercely private, apparently loyal, but not generous enough for your average Hollywood star-notching trophy wife wannabe.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Seamus said, resignation heavy in his voice. “And let me say, you do need to ask. The truth doesn’t sell. And vindictive ex-girlfriends don’t tell the truth.”
Nicola raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond.
“Like you said, it’s fine,” he continued, “as in, ‘fine’ means it sucks. And if I complain, I’m a rich titled twat. The real story is, I’m just a fucking bloke who got lucky, and I’d just like to meet a girl who values laughing over Louis Vuitton.”