The Resistance(90)

“Very funny,” I say, getting my purse from the bar. “I see you changed clothes.” I walk past him and flick his arm. “Not too shabs yourself. C’mon, let’s go.” Grabbing a jacket on our way out, we head to the street where his Jeep is parked. “No top today?”

“Do you want the top on?”

“Look, I know I’m not an ‘Official’ date, but I’d still like to arrive wherever we’re going without the crazy hair,” I say, pointing at my head.

“Good point. I’ll put the top on.”

I stand on the sidewalk, tapping my foot impatiently. I actually don’t mind the top being down, but I like giving him a hard time like he does me. I also could have offered to drive my car, but when he steps up on the running board and stretches to snap the vinyl in place, I appreciate the view. Then he reaches across the roll bar and his shirt rides up. Since his jeans hang low, his abs are exposed. My gaze follows up and over each muscle that’s well defined and keeps him modeling. No one works that hard if you don’t want to show it off, and getting paid is a bonus. I have a feeling he’s very good at his job.

He claps his hands, proud of himself, and says, “Doors and all, fancypants. Now get in. I’ve worked up an appetite.”

“That didn’t take much.”

He rubs his belly, unknowingly teasing me with another hint of skin. “I’m a growing boy.”

… And my mind goes to the gutter.

I slide into my seat, staying close to the flimsy canvas door and holding tight to the seatbelt after buckling up. He’s my neighbor. He’s my friend. That’s all. I remind myself.

The hostess takes us to a table for two against the far wall. Looking over the wine menu, I decide on a pinot noir. After we order, I ask, “I’ve seen this place before, but I’ve never been here. Do you come here often?”

“It’s my favorite Italian restaurant. I like that it’s a mom and pop shop, everything is homemade.”

As much as I don’t want to, when I look at the man sitting across from me, my mind flashes to Dalton and I wish it was him. I grab a long, skinny breadstick and start munching, hoping to distract myself, but the candle on the table, the dim lights above, and the Italian music sets the scene for a romantic date. It’s hard not to get caught up in it. He’s my neighbor. He’s my friend. That’s all. I remind myself… again. “How’s the photography?”

The waiter brings our drinks and takes our dinner orders. As soon as he leaves, Danny says, “It’s going good. I’ve got a shoot in Cabo next week. I had a model drop out last minute. You want to fill in?”

I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

By his expression alone, the serious face, I can tell he’s not. “Not kidding at all.”

I take a big gulp of wine, then shake my head. I start to give him thirty reasons I’m not model material, a list that’s like a daily running tally. “I’m not that tall and I have flaws that I refuse to speak of on the back of my legs. I pretend it’s not there, but I know it is. It taunts me. And then—”

“You’re very beautiful, Holli. I know you can rock a bikini and there are no flaws. Trust me, I’ve looked.”

Always the charmer. “Why are you still single, Danny?”

“Because I want to be.”

I tilt my head and glare. “For real.”

“The truth is that the girl I like is currently unavailable.”

“Interesting.”

“Tragic really.”

His gaze lays heavy on me and I feel my cheeks heat. I look down, spinning the glass by the stem and watch as the wine rolls up the sides like a wave before sliding back down. When I look back up, I say, “You’re such a flirt.” I laugh to break the building tension, but fortunately our plates arrive doing a better job of it.

As he speaks with the waiter, I take the chance to look at him, really look at him.

He’s handsome, like worthy of a fifty-foot billboard on Sunset handsome. He keeps saying he’s not interested in modeling anymore, but the modeling industry isn’t ready to let him go just yet. The dimples that reveal his charm, even before he opens his mouth, are there when he looks at me and the plate of spaghetti I ordered. “That looks good,” he says.

Holding eye contact, I reply, “Yeah, very good.”

With a knife and fork in hand, he narrows his eyes and points at my food. “We still talking about food? You seem distant.”

“Food. Right. Yeah.”

“Food. Right. Yeah,” he teases. “Seriously, what’s going on with the caveman speak?”