The Resistance(47)

“I have no fucking clue other than she’s crazy.” He looks me in the eyes. “I mean like a nutball, out of her mind, batshit crazy.”

“I see the attraction.”

“Ha! Yeah.”

Curling my legs under me, I lean closer to him, and run my fingers along his neck and into his hair. “Tell me what it’s like for you to date.”

“Why do you want know that?” His tone is even, but his expression curious.

“I want to know you and how you ended up single in Vegas with me.”

He smiles. “I’m a player… or was, am, supposed to be. Something like that. I don’t keep score or anything, but I’ve slept with a few women, sometimes several at one time. I was always free to do it, even when I was in relationships if that gives you any indication of how dysfunctional they were.”

“That won’t happen with me.” I don’t bother beating around the bush. “That’s cheating in my opinion.”

“Good to know.” He seems to make a mental note, but deep down, I don’t think he’s the same guy he was back then.

“How many serious girlfriends have you had?”

“Serious. Hmmm. Tricky.”

“Rephrase. How many girlfriends have you had?”

“Three in the last seven years.” He sighs. “Women date Johnny, not me. I’m just the baggage that comes along with the image and fame they desire. One was an actress. She forced me to go to these big Hollywood events, would do a lot of schmoozing, and eventually started landing small roles.” His eyes meet mine, and he raises an eyebrow. “When I say schmoozing, I mean she did anything to get the job, anything. She broke up with me when she hooked up with her much more famous than me co-star. The dude was twenty-two years older than her and recently separated. He’s since dumped her. When she turned twenty-five, he traded her in for a nineteen-year-old lingerie model from Eastern Europe. It was a big tabloid scandal. I almost felt bad for her. Almost. She’s the one who sent the wedding invite. I didn’t even know she was dating anyone.”

“Maybe she found true love.”

“Maybe she found an asshole who fell for her tricks.”

“You fell for her.”

“But I’m an asshole.”

I laugh and hit him on the arm. “I’m hoping you’re not. I’ve dated enough of those to last me a lifetime.”

“And I’m hoping you don’t turn batshit crazy on me.”

I kiss him. “Guess we’ll find out, now won’t we?”

“That’s half the fun, right?”

I giggle. “Totally. Now carry on and tell me about the others.”

“The other two were models—big mistake. I figured since my relationship with the actress went south, maybe hot models were the way to go. The thing about hot models is they’re hot and everyone wants a piece of them. I ended up dumping one when she couldn’t kick her blow habit. The other, I caught in bed with a famous photographer. He walked away with a bloody nose and a broken camera. She treated me like I was the bad guy. The crazy one for flipping out on them.”

“So you could sleep with whomever, but she couldn’t. This is starting to sound a bit like a double-standard.”

“I couldn’t fuck whoever I wanted. I could fuck my girlfriend and whoever she brought home to fuck. There’s a difference.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.”

When I lean back, he reaches for me, and I can tell he senses the distance I’m putting between us. “You asked me. I was honest. This is the past, the distant past, so don’t hold it against me. I’ve changed a lot since then.”

The oven timer sounds, drawing our attention toward the door. I stand up, but he grabs my hands. “I’m asking you to trust me, Holliday.”

Although relationships and boyfriends don’t come with guarantees, I look into his eyes, seeing his truth and believe he’s changed. “I trust you, Dalton. I do.”

He stands up, still holding my hand tightly in his. With a kiss to my head, he says, “Thank you.”

We’ve been asleep for hours when I feel the bed move and the warmth of Dalton pressed against me disappears. Rolling over, I sit up when I hear him rummaging downstairs in the fridge. I head down to join him. The fridge door is wide open and he’s standing next to it. “What’re you doing down here?” I ask, rubbing one eye.

“I was hungry,” he says with the leftover lasagna pan in his hand. “Want some?”

“That’s why I buy the family size. Let me get you a plate,” I say, taking it from him. I serve up two portions and heat his up in the microwave first, then set it in front of him at the bar. “It’s good cold, but better warm.”