Chapter 23
EMILIA
“That was the longest standing ovation the audience has ever given after a show since I’ve been here,” Mrs. Woodard tells Mr. Vega and me.
I’ve been trying to maintain some distance from him when we’re at school. Ever since Finger Night, two nights ago. But she summoned us to join her at the snack table after the performance. I keep inching away from him, nevertheless.
“It was fantastic, just fantastic,” she continues.
“Yes, bravo.” Miss Farrell says to Alex, squeezing his arm before turning to me. “It was so cute.”
As she walks away, she mutters in passing, “Well-played.” As if we’re competing for Ryder’s dad and I won this battle but she plans to win the war. Puh-lease. I’m winning all the battles and the war.
“The kids are the ones with the talent,” Alex says to my principal. “And Miss Stiles did most of the heavy-lifting.” He puts his hand on my back for half a second, and I have to swallow a lusty groan.
“But Mr. Vega was the one who got everyone excited.” Literally. All of us. “He deserves all the credit.” And a Tony Award for Best Direction of My Clitoris.
It might be my imagination, but Mrs. Woodard narrows her eyes at me and looks back and forth between Alex and me a couple of times.
“Well, it was a great success. Thank you to both of you for your time and effort.” She pops one last bite of white chocolate truffle into her mouth before saying, “Now I have to go pretend to be happy to see some parents. Happy holidays. Enjoy your vacations.” She pats us both on our shoulders and walks away.
Without looking at each other, Alex and I reach for little paper plates and napkins, piling snacks onto them and trying to act like we totally didn’t do something naughty in this very room less than forty-eight hours ago.
“Ryder did great tonight.”
“I know. He keeps telling me that.”
I laugh. “I especially enjoyed his ad lib about Mr. Scrooge’s itchy underpants making him extra grouchy.”
“I’m very proud.”
“Did you get some of it on video for his mom?”
“Yup. Already sent it to her.”
“Good.”
We saunter over to the end of the long table and start mumbling while holding food in front of our faces and facing away from each other, like old-school spies.
“I have never seen anyone look so hot while holding a Rice Krispies treat with a Rudolph face on it,” he says. “Stop it.”
“Well, I’m not going to stop eating this treat, so deal with it.”
“Fair enough.”
“You smell like a Christmas cookie that went camping in a damp, sexy forest.”
“Thank you? There was an unfortunate incident involving my son and a few things that he thought I should smell like. Apparently, Cheyenne told him that women like it when men smell like vanilla. So he got a bottle of vanilla extract from the kitchen, poured it into his hand, and then slapped my bare chest with it when I was getting dressed to come here. And then he sprayed me with cologne to try to cover it up. You like?”
“It makes me want to sit around a campfire and eat you up,” I say, waving at Poppy’s parents across the auditorium.
Alex covers his mouth and coughs, choking on a Santa Oreo.
“You okay?”
“Never better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Speaking of… Ryder is going to a sleepover at my friend’s house tomorrow night. How’d you like to come to my place for dinner and whatever?”
Now I’m choking on a tiny glob of marshmallow-covered Rice Krispies.
Alex rubs my back.
“You okay?”
I nod, eyes watering. “Yes.”
“Yes, you’ll come to my place?”
I nod, clear my throat, and catch my breath. “What’s on the menu? Barbecued man meat?”
“I had a vegetarian meal planned, actually, but the man meat is definitely on the table.”
“Okay, I’m going to go talk to someone else now.”
“Was it something I said?”
“Yes. It was.”
“Congrats again on the show!” he calls out as I walk away from him with my thighs clenched together.
I’m going to text Franklin right now and tell him to start picking out an outfit for me to wear tomorrow night.
As I stand on Alex’s doorstep, holding a bottle of wine, I wonder if it was a terrible idea to wear the same skirt that I wore to the Griffith Observatory.
It’s a warm evening and not at all windy.
I do love this skirt, even though it sometimes behaves like an asshole.
Franklin insisted I wear it, despite what I’d told him about my Santa Anas experience.
When the door opens and I see Alex’s jaw clench as he stares at my outfit, I consider offering to wash the dishes for Franklin for all of next year too.
“Hi there,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Come on in.”
I step inside his home. It’s contemporary and fairly nondescript on the outside, as are many homes in this neighborhood.
At least that’s how it looks from the street.
But I catch my breath as soon as I see the interior.
I feel like I walked into an Instagram post. Franklin would totally approve of this space.
The dark hardwood floors are shiny and warm, and the furniture and décor are tasteful but inviting and comfortable.
There are so many big windows, it’s probably filled with natural light during the day.
It feels pretty masculine and grown-up, but there are toys and children’s books here and there.
Ryder’s shoes are lined up by the front door.
It’s a man’s home, but the boy’s presence is deeply felt.
I can just picture the two of them hanging out together here.
I don’t know why I’m tearing up, but it just feels really nice to be in this space.
“Welcome,” he says. “You look really good.”
“Thank you. I really love your house.”
“Thank you… Would you like me to put that bottle of wine somewhere, or should I just bring you a corkscrew and an extra-long straw?”
“Oh.” I didn’t realize I was clutching the bottle to myself. I hold it out to him. “This is for you.”
“I love Malbec. I’ll open it up and let it breathe.”
“Should I take my shoes off?”
“Actually, I was planning on eating outside, if that’s okay with you.
” He gestures for me to follow him. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt and flip-flops.
So casual, but he has the most beautiful feet I have ever seen attached to a human male.
They might even be sexier than his earlobes.
“That looks great,” I say, all husky-voiced. “I mean that sounds great.” I somehow manage to tear my eyes away from those beautiful sexy feet.
Holy shit, his kitchen is beautiful and sexy too.
I just want to climb up onto that long, tiled countertop and take a nap.
Or maybe I want to do other things on there.
There are beautiful Spanish ceramic painted plates displayed on the walls, fruits piled high in one gorgeous brightly colored bowl.
It’s like how I feel when I walk into an Anthropologie store.
I want everything and I want to move in.
Except Anthropologie stores never make me this horny.
And I don’t know, maybe I’m focusing a little too much on the house because I don’t want to obsess about the man who owns it.
The one I’m probably going to have sex with soon.
Yes, I make lists and do mental inventories to calm myself down—so what?
But I love it. I love the furniture and the tiles and the earlobes and the feet. “I love all of it,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, uncorking the wine and then picking up a serving tray that’s already filled with small plates of food. Tapas-style. “You’re welcome to hang out here anytime. Come on.”
I drop my shoulder bag on the kitchen table and follow him through the patio door to a wraparound porch.
There’s a built-in nook that’s decorated Moroccan-style, with lanterns and beautiful pillows.
Beyond the deck is a small private yard with a teepee toward the back of it, between two beautiful olive trees.
Several rugs and pillows are spread out on the grass in front of the tent, and there are strings of lights around the trees and the rugs.
It’s magical.
I want to say so, but there’s a lump in my throat.
“Hope you don’t mind sitting on the ground,” he says, placing the tray on a low table at the center of the rugs.
The table is already set with plates and cutlery and wineglasses and an open bottle of wine.
“The skunks don’t usually come around until later.
We should probably eat fast, though.” He grins at me. “We’ll have dessert inside.” He winks.
I finally realize there’s soft music playing out here. There must be built-in outdoor speakers. I settle myself cross-legged on a flat pillow on one side of the table and arrange my flowy skirt around myself like a princess.
I’ve gone from feeling like I’m in an Instagram post to feeling like I’m in a fairy tale. The kind of naughty fairy tale that I never knew I wanted to live in. But I want to live here.
Alex pushes up his sleeves, revealing more of his delicious forearms, and sits down across from me.
He pours us each a glass of wine and then holds up his glass. I pick up mine.
“To winter break,” he says.
“To winter break.”
We clink glasses, and I take a big gulp of much more expensive Malbec than what I had brought and lick my lips.
“So, Ryder’s at a sleepover?”
“Yep. At my friend Nico’s house. Our boys are the same age.”
“That’s nice. Does he know I’m here?”
“Nope.”
I take another sip of wine and put the glass back down. “I’d like to keep this under wraps… Do people still say under wraps?”
“Only the really cool people. And I agree that we should.”
“Even from Ryder, I mean.”
“I know what you mean. I think he’s actually pretty good at keeping secrets. And I think he’d be really happy to know that we’re seeing each other. But yeah. Let’s be discreet.” He smiles at me.
I can’t stop smiling at him.
“This food looks amazing.”
“Help yourself.”
I keep smiling at him. “Are you hungry?”
“Not for food.”
We stare at each other for a hot second. His jaw tightens again, and then we both stand and he scoops me up into his arms, carrying me back to the porch.
“It’s so beautiful out here, though. Thank you for setting it up. I feel kind of bad.”
“Well I promise you’re gonna feel really good in about thirty seconds.”