My little explanation makes me feel better for now, makes me feel like I’m not going downright crazy and crushing on some obnoxious blonde who curses the day I was born.
After tonight, my little fixation will be a distant memory—I’m sure of it.
And if it isn’t? If I’m wrong and this doesn’t work?
I might be fucked, but not literally, and not by Melrose.
“I CAN’T TAKE MY eyes off you tonight.” Robert McCauley reaches across the table, his Rolex glinting in the candlelight, as he places his hand over mine. His phone dings, but he ignores it. “You’re stunning. Just radiant.”
“Thank you.” I reach for the diamond chandelier earring dangling from my left ear and offer a gracious smile.
Fortunately I was able to reach out to Robert this past week, apologize for whatever it was my crack-smoking roommate said, and convince him that I still wanted him to take me out. He was hesitant at first—which leads me to believe there might be more to the story than either of them are sharing—but I insisted we try this again and he finally agreed.
Earlier tonight, while Sutter was engaging in his post-work shower ritual, I packed my shoes and dress and makeup and Uber’d it to Gram’s house to get ready. I couldn’t afford to risk Sutter throwing another wrench in my plans.
Robert’s phone goes off a second time, and this time his mouth presses flat and he forces a breath through his nose. “I’m so sorry, Melrose. I should take this.”
Excusing himself, he leaves me alone at our romantic table-for-two and disappears into a hallway lined with indoor trees that leads to the restrooms. Ordinarily I’d be offended that a man would take a call during a date, but Robert is kind of a big deal in this town. He’s in-demand. Highly sought-after. People’s livelihoods and careers rest in his very hands. I’d be an ego-driven fool to take this personally.
I reach for my wine, finishing off the final sip, when he returns. His hand brushes my shoulder as he makes his way to his seat.
“I’m so sorry about that,” he says.
“No worries at all.” I place my empty chalice in front of my clean dessert plate. “Believe, me. I get it.”
Robert extends his hand across the table, covering my fingertips. “I love that about you.”
When our server comes by with the check, Robert wastes no time reaching for his black Amex. I can only guess what kind of damage we did tonight—multiple courses and a bottle of wine that probably cost more than most people make in a month.
“I’m going to make a phone call first thing in the morning,” he says, gray eyes crinkling in the corners. “Guillermo del Toro has a project that you’d be picture-perfect for. Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.”
A rush of excitement floods my body.
He has no idea how long I’ve waited to hear words like that … and it’s more than a career shortcut … it’s a confirmation that I’ve got talent, that I’ve got that certain something and someone who’s seen it all … sees it in me.
Validation. That’s all it is.
Sweet, sweet validation.
Anyone who’s been in the industry long enough knows how rare it is to land an endorsement like that from someone like him.
Robert signs the check with a platinum-colored pen he retrieves from his inner jacket pocket, and we make our way to the valet stand. While we navigate through a sea of white table cloths, pale pink roses, and flickering tea lights, his hand never leaves the small of my back.
When his Maserati arrives, he waits for me to get in first before climbing into the driver’s seat. I’m not sure what comes after this. We’re dressed far too nicely to catch a movie, and Robert doesn’t seem like the bar fly type.
I like to think he spends his evenings in his quiet mansion in the hills, listening to jazz standards or studying classic films, maybe making phone calls to people who can make things happen in this industry, or hosting a few of his mastermind friends, dreaming up future projects.
Robert pulls into traffic, shifting his car into gear after gear as we speed through the streets of downtown L.A. under a canopy of palm trees, city lights, and twinkling stars. Tonight feels magical, otherworldly, in a way I can’t explain—like this was meant to happen just like this.
“Have you ever been to the Chateau Marmont?” he asks, one hand on the wheel as he weaves between two Range Rovers.
“Once. My grandmother hosted a dinner there a few years back.”
His car crawls to a stop at the next red light, and he glances my way, wearing a confident half-smile. “Thought we could head that way, maybe get a couple of drinks? I’m not ready for tonight to be over.”