Sugar Sweet Sin

From Bad to Worse

"No," I say quickly. "But I don't really think it's my kind of movie." I consider how that sounds. "Not that I'm not willing to compromise..."

"Disaster movies aren't really my thing, either," he says. "But I've heard this one breaks the mold. My sister loved it, and she hates action movies."

"I..." There's no way I'm going to go see Dante's movie, but how do I get out of this without sounding difficult? "It just doesn't sound like a very good date movie, does it? What about a comedy?"

"I could do a comedy," Dean says, but he doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic. "I'm not sure there's anything good playing right now, though. But I can look up the listings." He pulls his cell out of his pocket, but he pauses when his internet browser pops up. "On second thought, how about a drink? My buddy told me about a place just around the corner."

On the one hand, sitting at a bar means having to come up with more conversation. On the other, it gives me access to alcohol. I'd still prefer a movie, but it's clear that Dean isn't really interested in anything besides Cataclysm: Earth, and I'd go home before sitting through a two-hour reminder of the man I'm trying to forget.

"That sounds great," I say.

It's only a few minutes away. When we get there, Dean says, "Chris says celebs come here all the time. He spotted Stacia Fischer here once."

A jolt of warning moves through me, but I force myself to smile. I can't avoid every place where there's a remote possibility that Dante—or another member of his family—might show up. This is L.A.—I'd end up sitting home by myself all day. Besides, Dante's off on that press tour, isn't he? There's no reason to worry.

"That's exciting," I say.

The bar is small, but I can see immediately why it's popular among celebrities. It's nicer than your average hole-in-the-wall joint but still a far cry from one of those trendy, upscale lounges that seem so popular these days. It's cozy and comfortable, a nice spot for a post-dinner drink.

Dean leads us to a table by the window—which is tinted so that we can see out but people can't see in. I slide into my seat, careful not to jostle my ankle. When the waitress comes by, we decide to split a bottle of wine. And then we're left staring at each other.

Okay, so maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Now I have to come up with more things to talk about, and though Dean is perfectly nice, he's not exactly a big talker. I've given up on drawing out any of his passions—if there's anything in his life that makes him light up with excitement, he doesn't seem particularly interested in sharing it tonight.

I wonder if that lack of passion extends to the bedroom, I find myself wondering. Or would having sex with him be merely pleasant like everything else about him?

There certainly was a connection between passion inside and outside of the bedroom where Dante was concerned. At first glance, on the surface, Dante seems reserved. In perfect control. But I know from experience that beneath that controlled exterior, an intense inferno burns. I've seen the real Dante—the one the rest of the world never gets to see. There's a fire in him, a depth of feeling that is usually only visible through his scripts. But I've seen that depth of emotion in his eyes. Felt it on my skin. Heard it in his words. He and I seem to bring out the wildness in each other.

But there I go, thinking about Dante again. Bad Ashlyn.

I force myself to ask Dean about his current work projects. He looks grateful to have something to talk about, and he quickly launches into a story about one of his clients. As he speaks, I let my eyes wander over him. From his lovely blue eyes... down his straight nose... along his strong jaw... and finally lower to where the muscles of his throat move in time with his words. If I zone out, I can pretend he's giving an impassioned speech about his pet cause, or discussing his plans for getting his dream job, or even telling a hilarious, lively story about an adventure he had back in college. But it doesn't help much.