Starfire(70)

I walked around turning off the lights and saying goodbye to the store. The whole thing seemed silly and premature, since we were coming back the next day to oversee the movers, but I did it anyway, running my hand along the bead curtain leading back to the bathroom, and letting the clinking chimes ring through the space.

“I’ll miss you,” I said to the space in general.

“I won’t miss you, evil jerkface,” I said to the cupcake vent as I passed underneath on my way out.

Adrian was leaning up against the building’s exterior with one foot resting on the wall. With his blond hair and high cheekbones, plus wearing his tight jeans, sneakers, and black T-shirt, he looked like a troubled youth in an indie Euro movie—like he was waiting in some Swedish city’s alley for a drug dealer.

“Hey, sexy,” I called out.

He moved languidly away from the wall, stretching his arms theatrically over his head. His sleeve rose up enough to reveal his compass tattoo.

“Hey, yourself,” he replied. “You’re a beautiful stranger I’ve never met. What are you doing in this dangerous part of town? Are you looking for a good time with a hot stud?”

“I sure am. Do you know one?”

He gave me a supermodel stare, sucking in his cheeks and running his hands up and down his long torso. “I’m not rich, but I know how to work. Hard.”

“I’m the kind of girl who appreciates a man who works. Hard.” (Shit! What was I doing, flirting with the guy I was supposed to be breaking up with? What was I doing besides, obviously, getting way too hot under my clothes, thanks to the dirty talk.)

He said, “Then I suggest we load up on carbohydrates, and get down to our hard work.” He jumped up and down in two jumping jacks, then crouched. “Race to you DeNirro’s.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Monster Legs! As if I could ever win a footrace with you.”

“I’ll give you a head start. Run!”

With that command, I did. I ran down to the corner, looked both ways, and darted across the street, then off in the direction of the restaurant. As I raced up to the door of DeNirro’s, I could hear Adrian’s footfalls behind me, and I moved faster, giddy with adrenaline. He grabbed me, swooping his long arms around my body. I squealed and trembled, panting heavily.

Adrian pressed me to the restaurant building, my back to the wall, and kissed me. Both of us were breathless, and I wrapped my arms up around his neck, yearning for more of his lips on mine.

He pulled away silently and gave me an eyebrow waggle before leading me into the restaurant.

For a few minutes, I forgot about the things I needed to say. I was just a small-town girl on a date with her boyfriend.

We ordered the sampler plate for two, which was a new special they were offering, with a bit of everything.

As we crunched on bread sticks and waited for the meal, Adrian started drawing parallels between the sampler platter and our lives.

He said, “A little taste of one thing contrasts with everything else and makes you appreciate each thing more.”

“We can’t appreciate one delicious thing on its own? Like a bowl of one flavor of ice cream? Maybe rum raisin?”

“Isn’t two scoops of different flavors better, though?”

“But you always like one flavor more than the other,” I said. “It’s inevitable. You always get the one you really like on the bottom, so you can finish with it.”

He smiled, his big teeth bright in the candle light. Adrian had worn braces for a while, then went straight to the lip piercing, always distracting from his perfect smile.

He continued, in a grave tone, “The key to happiness is the right blend of novelty and routine.”

The way he was smiling, I knew he meant his dating life, and not store business.

I asked, “Who’s the novelty and who’s the routine for you? Golden is the routine, I bet. How can I not be the novelty?”

“I have a confession to make.”

My body got tense, the hard chair I was sitting on suddenly uncomfortable.

He was breaking up with me.

My skin got clammy. No! Yes! No!

Adrian swirled his water and ice cubes, looking down at the red-checked tablecloth, his fair eyelashes hiding his eyes. If he was breaking up with me, that was a good thing, probably. Then I wouldn’t have to do the same to him.

I couldn’t keep dating him while I was getting fake-married to Dalton Deangelo, could I?

No, really?

I was asking myself for permission to have it all.

Was that so crazy? Any crazier than me being an underwear model, or any of the other insane things that had happened to me lately?

“I tricked you,” he said. “We didn’t have a date for tonight, but I pretended we did, and you’re so sweet and easygoing, you went along with it.”