Lola is giddy.
And it’s amusing as all hell, but damn, this woman is easy to please. One little dress and a nice dinner, and she’s high on life. I like that about her.
She’s not materialistic as far as I can tell, but she’s taken to being pampered rather well.
And she looks stunning tonight. My heart nearly stopped when I saw her. Little sex kitten that she is, decked out to the nines in Versace. I’ll have to thank the personal shopper I hired to make her feel like the heavy metal goddess she is.
I wanted to treat her to a nice night before our guitar lessons start because I’ll be taking those seriously, and she’ll likely hate me when she realizes how demanding a teacher I’ll be.
So yes. Maybe I am sweetening her up a bit.
Lola orders a bottle of champagne, and the waiter pours our glasses and sets the bottle in the ice bin next to our table.
“Are we celebrating something?” I ask her.
“Yes. Life!”
We cheer at that, and we both take a sip. Then she speaks again. “And I quit today.”
“You did?”
She nods. “I realized I’m worth more than shitty customers. I have some nice clients, but I think I’m done with that, you know? I was hesitant to move on. Work . . . it’s been my safety blanket this past year, and I was hesitant to let it go. But it’s time.”
We cheer again, and she laughs, and my heart somersaults when her smile reaches her eyes. She’s genuinely, incandescently happy tonight. I did that. For some reason, I’m mighty proud of that.
We’re on a second glass of champagne when the waiter brings our salads, and Lola is all smiles for him too.
“Can I ask you something?”
She looks up at me from her salad.
“Sure.”
“Why do you only want to be called Lola tonight?”
“It’s like a stage name—”
“Like Iggy?”
“Sort of. I mean, I’m turning a new leaf. I’m learning who I really am, and I just want to be undeniably me tonight. Feel what it’s like to be Lola without all the damned baggage, without all the worries.”
My brows furrow together. I want to ask her what her worries are about, but I want tonight to only continue to bring out her smiles and laughter, so instead, I change the subject. “Speaking of who you really are. We start lessons tomorrow.”
Lola perks up. “We do?”
“Yes. Intensive. You’re going to take this seriously,” I say, but it’s not a question. It’s an order.
Lola’s hand bunches into a fist, and she screams as she punches the air, “Fuck yes!”
I laugh because either she is oblivious or doesn’t care that diners from several tables over are staring at us now, eyebrows near their hairlines. Lola couldn’t be more perfect.
We eat our steaks, and Lola rambles on animatedly about her favorite guitar solos, making lesson requests that have me rolling my eyes. She’s getting so ahead of herself. We need to start with the basics, but her enthusiasm is encouraging. She’ll likely be an excellent student.
By the time we leave the restaurant, photographers are lined up next to either side of the entrance. They are yelling questions about my date and who she is. We push past them and duck into the limo.
When I look over at Lola, she’s breathing hard, her palm pressed to her chest.
Security.