Chapter 18
It’s been just over a week since we had the win with the behind-the-scenes photo, and we seem to have hit our stride, because it’s been sort of smooth sailing since then.
I say sort of, because Luke and I have been treading lightly, not wanting to be overly confident about the situation quite yet.
Translation: We don’t want to jinx it.
But so far, so good. Since the table-read picture, we’ve posted photos from a wardrobe fitting—spoiler-free, of course—and Victoria even let us post a short video of Bailey and River doing a choreography rehearsal for an upcoming fight scene.
She nixed the video of them rehearsing lines, saying it was too much.
At our weekly mandatory meeting over Zoom, she commended us for doing a good job. It wasn’t so much a compliment as it was a Please keep this up, but I took it as one anyway.
The fans are eating up everything, though.
The online chatter has been moving away from Bailey and River and back to their characters, and even You Oughta Know didn’t have too much to say about the posts.
She grudgingly admitted in her annoying, nasally voice that she wasn’t celebrating anything yet, but that she was watching.
Luke and I both reported her account for being obnoxious.
It won’t do anything, because that’s not a reason accounts get shut down, but it felt cathartic.
Luke and I have been working together every day this past week, coordinating posts and gathering ideas.
The more we work together, the more it’s feeling like old times.
But better somehow. With two years of experience under our belts following Luke’s departure from Harrow it’s just that Colin will be one of them.
I think I’ll pass on a night of method acting and whatever else she and her fellow aspiring thespians do for fun.
We say goodbye, Sam a little grudgingly, and I drive the twenty minutes it takes to go four miles in this town, arriving at Alma Rosa with only five minutes to spare.
I have to park on the street and pay, since the tiny lot at the restaurant is full. Which takes me another four minutes and means I’m barely on time as I walk up to the entrance of the building with its faded blue exterior and string lights hanging across the roofline.
The smell of garlic and onions and freshly baked tortillas fills the air, and my stomach rumbles. I’ve barely eaten all day.
“Are you Claire?” says a tall man with dark-brown hair and even darker brown eyes, standing just under the Spanish tile awning as I approach.
Oh, wow. He’s handsome in his dark jeans, a well-fitted button-down left untucked, and clean white sneakers.
“You must be Chris,” I say, holding out a hand for him to shake.
That’s right, his name is Chris. I looked it up before I left and said it a bunch of times in the car on the way over to put it to memory.
He grasps my hand in his, which is firm and warm. Also, he was waiting for me when I got here. Very prompt. We are off to a good start already.
It would be good to have Sam here, just so she can see this handsome man, and what I’m sure is a hopeful face from me, so she’ll forget about Luke Wilder entirely.
“Should we go inside?” Uh . . . Chris asks. His name is Chris. Dang it. He points toward the entrance to the cozy-looking restaurant.
“Sounds great,” I tell him.
We walk toward the door, and I reach for it, wondering if he’ll cut me off to grab it himself . . . but he doesn’t. He lets me open it, a rush of cold air spilling out.
It shouldn’t annoy me. I can open my own doors, obviously. But it rankles a little. It doesn’t help that I’m suddenly picturing Luke. Smiling at me as he holds the door, gesturing for me to go inside first.
Nope. We are not thinking about Luke right now. We are thinking about . . . um . . . Chris.
Dammit.
We walk inside, and he asks for a table. We’re promptly seated at a wooden table toward the back of the restaurant, which is well decorated with mismatched clay-colored tiles on the floor and terra-cotta-painted walls.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says as we settle in, after a server—an older gentleman, probably in his fifties—poured us some water. Chris did not ask for room-temperature water, and that feels like a good omen for the night.
Someone else brings us a bowl of chips and two kinds of salsa, which I don’t touch because it’s on my no-list for first-date foods. Too many chances of spilling salsa or chip crumbs in . . . unbecoming . . . places.
Obviously, this knowledge comes from experience.
“Thanks for . . . um . . . inviting me,” I say, and then let out a nervous-sounding laugh.
Why do I feel rusty? It’s only been three weeks since my last date. I’m Claire Archer, the master of first dates. I’ve been on . . . a lot. Why do I feel strange in my own skin right now? Like I’ve forgotten everything?
“So, Claire, tell me about yourself,” Chris says, his eyes on me, a soft smile on his face.
Right. I know how to answer this one. I’ve done it many, many times.
I tuck some strands of hair behind my ear. “Let’s see. I’m from Burbank, originally. But I currently live in NoHo. What about you?”
“Santa Monica,” he says.