Chapter 9
CHRIS
This is going fan-freaking-tastic, Christopher Jones.
I requested my usual table, tucked away in the corner, with soft light and the best view of the city’s skyline.
The perfect first date spot. Or so I thought.
But when I glanced at Jules, ready to catch an impressed look on her face.
Nothing. Not even a flicker. Maybe she wasn’t the “ohh and aah” type.
Or maybe she was still processing the Jessica Rogers shitshow. Probably both.
I pulled out her chair like a gentleman, trying to reclaim some control of the night. The hostess handed over the menus.
“Someone will be right with you, Mr. Jones.” She said, tossing one last flirty look over her shoulder. Subtle, but I caught it. Did Jules? If she did, she was playing it cool. Good. If she planned to get mad at every woman who flirted with me, this whole thing would be dead in the water.
“So, if you like fish, you have to—”
“You slept with Jessica Rogers?” Jules cut me off mid-sentence. I blinked, and before I could recover from her directness, she continued, “She’s twelve.”
I gave a sheepish half-smile. There was no easy way out of this, but hey, if we were going there…
“She’s twenty-two.”
“Exactly. She’s a child,” she shot back. I swear I saw a glimpse of amusement in her eyes. “But, honestly, she’s gorgeous. You should call her back.”
I hesitated, trying to read her face. Was this a trap?
I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on a date with someone whose birth year started with “19,” let alone someone with a regular job and a normal life.
The truth was that Vanessa was right. My dates were pretty damn predictable.
Models, actresses, and a tennis player who at least kept things interesting.
But Jules? Something told me this was going to be anything but predictable. And I couldn’t help but grin at the thought.
Eager to steer the conversation back on track, I leaned in, trying to sound smooth.
“As I was saying…You should try the salmon. It’s fantastic.”
But Jules was far from done.
“So, what was Jessica Rogers trying to warn me about? Are you a psychopath, or…?”
I laughed nervously. “Do you ever do small talk?”
“No.” She said with a straight face, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What’s the script here? Should I ask about your family, then? Or maybe go for the classic ‘What’s your favorite color?’”
She was smiling now, like she was genuinely having fun watching me squirm. Damn, I loved that smile. And the way her eyes crinkled and almost disappeared when it was a real, unguarded one. I couldn’t help but smile back. This was far from a typical date conversation, but I was kind of loving it.
“My favorite color is blue. I have a mom, a dad, and two brothers. Boring. So... ask away. Whatever you’re curious about.” I said, leaning back a bit, letting her take the reins.
“Alright,” she grinned. “Will you tell me your script to win the girl over?”
There it was, that little emergency light going off in my brain. It felt like a trap. She wasn’t wrong; I had a bit of a script. I mean, most guys I know have one. But you don’t admit that, right?
She laughed, leaning back.
“It’s okay. I used to have one too. Like… a hundred years ago when I was last single, pretending to be all ‘mysterious’ and ‘seductive.’”
Oh, I wanted to hear the script so bad. But I’d rather have cannonball Jules than mysterious Jules.
“Alright, you got me,” I admitted. “I guess I do have a bit of a… script.”
“Did I ruin it with all the questions?”
I shook my head, leaning forward slightly.
“Nah, don’t worry. I’m pretty good at improv.”
Jules laughed, and the sound loosened the last of my nerves.
“Good,” she said, still chuckling, and I found myself looking at her a little too long, studying how her eyes shifted in color under the soft restaurant lights.
Earlier, they’d been light and warm, almost like honey.
Now, under the glow of the chandeliers, they were deeper, like melted chocolate.
I must’ve been looking for too long because she flushed, her cheeks pinking.
I cleared my throat, snapping myself out of it.
“What was your script like? How do you win the guy over, Jules?”
She was looking at me, her cheeks still faintly red.
Maybe I hadn’t quite managed to dial back the stare like I thought I had.
Or maybe I’d made her nervous with the question.
Touché. Her smile softened as she looked at the view, debating whether to answer.
Then she turned back, locking eyes with me.
“I usually go straight for the personal questions,” she said with a grin. “Get the guy talking about his childhood traumas and leave him so stunned he can’t shake me off his mind for weeks.”
“Only weeks?” I teased.
“That’s all I need for my adorable personality to make them fall in love.” She shot back, laughing.
“Well,” I said, leaning forward a little, “I’ve never fallen for anyone in a few weeks. My childhood traumas have only ever been discussed with certified psychologists, and, as you’ve noticed, I don’t get easily shaken by personal questions. Hollywood, remember? I eat that stuff for lunch.”
She looked at me and her lips parted as if she were about to say something, but she wasn’t sure if she should.
Come on, Jules. Say it.
“But then again,” she finally did, her eyes flicking across the room to where Jess was posing for a fan by the elevator, “you don’t usually date women like me, do you?”
She was 100% right. No, I hadn’t dated anyone like her. Not in a long time, maybe ever. And if she only knew the whole story…
“You’re good,” I muttered.
She picked up the menu, still wearing that damn smirk. Maybe I should’ve gone with the private closed dining area instead of the one with the view. At least then, I could’ve gotten up and kissed that smirk off her lips. The thought alone was enough to make me adjust in my seat.
“You said you have two brothers?” She asked while flipping through the menu.
“Yeah,” I answered, watching her more than my menu.
“Are they movie stars too?”
“God, no. That’d make my…” I stopped before I said too much. Damn, she was good. Ten minutes in, and I was already on the verge of spilling details about my family, which I never did. Ever. I’d spend years cultivating the kind of privacy that made my Wikipedia page a total snooze.
She gave me a look, as if she knew she was onto something.
“Pop stars?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nope,” I said, leaning back like I wasn’t bothered by the subject. “Oldest brother’s a gastroenterologist. The youngest one owns a chain of restaurants back in Boston.” I held her gaze, daring her to continue, and her grin only widened.
“So, no shared passion for the performing arts?” She teased, tilting her head like she was getting warmed up.
“Not even close,” I laughed, and the way I did gave too much away.
“Were you the drama club kid in school? Or did the acting thing come later?”
“Oh, I was 100% that kid,” I admitted. “Drama club, tap dancing, the whole thing.” I didn’t mind sharing that part. The internet had already gotten a hold of every yearbook photo and every local newspaper review from back then. At this point, it was old news.
“And your brothers?” She pressed, setting her menu down and looking at me like she had all the time in the world.
“What about them?” I said, playing dumb, but she wasn’t buying it. “They weren’t exactly art kids, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Sure, but how were they in school? Straight-A types?”
I laughed, really laughed.
“Nope. Both jocks. Football players.” Her damn spell almost made me keep talking.
About how sports were basically our family religion, how Sundays were all about football in my house, how I’d be the odd one out, coming in late from rehearsals, still in costume, only to hear my dad’s favorite sarcastic line: “Watch their footwork, Chris. It might help your tap dancing.” But I caught myself.
Instead, I cleared my throat and looked down at the menu. “We should order.”
“Yeah, of course…” She noticed she’d hit a boundary and decided not to push past it. But she wasn’t looking at her menu. She was looking at me, right through me, like she knew exactly what I was going to say and didn’t.
When she went back to the menu, I noticed something was off. Her eyes flicked between the pages and the room, never stopping anywhere for long. Every so often, she’d slip her heel off, then back on. Over and over. I leaned in, lowering my voice.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Maybe it was the restaurant. Too much, too soon. Maybe I said or didn’t say something that touched a nerve. Or maybe her shoes were killing her. Whatever it was, she was far from comfortable, so I suggested, “We can leave if you want.”
“No, no.” She said too quickly, and I didn’t believe her for a second.
“Seriously,” I pressed. “If you’re not comfortable…”
“I’m fine…” She started, but the quiet murmur from a nearby table interrupted her.
I didn’t need to look. I knew the drill. A couple of people had recognized me, and the ripple effect had begun. From the corner of my eye, I could see a young woman leaning toward her parents, whispering:
“He looks older in person.”
My jaw tightened, but I let it go. I’d heard worse, and most days, I barely even noticed.
But I guess it was all new to Jules. I could see her discomfort in her breathing.
Her eyes darted toward the whispers, her foot slipping out of her shoe again.
I didn’t consider that she wasn’t used to constant attention, even in spaces that were meant to be private.
Our eyes met, and I saw she was trying to figure out if this kind of thing made me uncomfortable—listening to people dissect me from a distance.
I kept my face as calm and neutral as I could, hoping it might ease her nerves.
I wasn’t doing a good job, or she was even more insightful than I thought, because she seemed to know that, at some level, it still bothered me, yes.
We were silent for a minute before she leaned in.
“You know what…”
I set my menu down, giving her my full attention.
“Yeah?”
Her eyes flickered toward the back of the room.
“I saw a door back there. I think it leads to the roof.”
The roof?
I brought her here for privacy and because I knew exactly what to expect from this place. I was not about to wander into unknown territory. Her excitement was already fading with my silence.
She waved it off with a quick, “Ignore me.”
Her hazel eyes held a glimmer of disappointment that completely wrecked me.
I would have emptied my bank account, handed over the keys to all my cars and houses, hell, even the clothes off my body right there if it meant wiping that look off her face. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded that last one at all.
“No,” I said, locking eyes with her. “Let’s go to the roof.” She didn’t say anything, but her face lit up, and damn if it didn’t make me grin. I waved over a server. “But you’re eating the salmon!” I told her.
The waiter arrived, and I kept my tone as breezy as possible. “We’ll have two Maple Soy-Glazed Salmons served on the roof. And my usual bottle of wine.”
The poor guy blinked.
“The roof is not part of the restaurant, sir.”
I gave him my most confident smile, the one I usually saved for getting out of parking tickets.
“Just let your manager know Chris Jones needs two salmon and a bottle of wine served on the roof.”
The server looked like he was weighing whether his pay grade covered this level of weirdness, but I didn’t wait for his answer. I got up and turned to Jules, who was trying—and failing— not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.