It took me hours to decide what to wear tonight. I ended up in a cocktail dress of sky blue. And Jack looks impeccable. He probably spent as much time as I did stressing about tonight. Getting in with Dante Fontaine and his celebrity connections will drastically help my friend's career.
We both agreed that there's no reason for Jack to lie about his job—or for either of us to lie about anything except our relationship. The fewer tales we have to spin, the easier it will be to keep everything straight. And I'm not blind to the fact that Jack is doing me a huge favor by going along with this—however much I'd like to tell myself he talked me into it—and if he can make a few useful connections along the way, all the better.
But even my best friend's reassuring hand on my arm doesn't help my nerves as we knock on the door.
It's answered by a man in a white tuxedo jacket. The man politely informs us that refreshments are available on the back patio, but that we should avail ourselves of the entire first floor while we're here.
"Don't mind if I do," Jack says quietly to me as we make our way into the crowd. And crowd is definitely right—when Dante said this would be a small gathering, I expected a couple dozen people at most. But there are at least twice that number here already, and I suspect more will arrive as the night unfolds.
I scan the other guests as Jack and I move toward the patio. I recognize a number of them—actors, pop stars, supermodels, and other celebrities—but my eye doesn't find the one person I'm looking for.
It's strange being back in this house. Stranger still to be here under these circumstances. I've walked through these rooms dozens of times before, but now it feels like I'm a stranger here.
Jack is just as alert as I am, and more than once he squeezes my arm and points out someone famous. I can already see his mind working, planning out how he's going to approach them later. I wonder what they'd say if they knew I once dated Dante—that we'd made love on that sofa by the fireplace, or that he'd taught me delicious things with his tongue on top of that glass table in the dining room? Even now, I hardly believe it happened. Our relationship was so far removed from the outside world that it feels like a dream.
We've reached the patio now, and as we step outside, Jack drops my arm and instead places his hand against my lower back. It's awkward to have my best friend touching me in such a subtle, intimate way, and it's all I can do not to giggle, in spite of the tightness in my stomach.
"You're a terrible actress," Jack mutters, but he's smiling too.
"I never claimed to be a good one," I respond. I've never been good at hiding my emotions, which is probably why it's next to impossible for me to keep any secrets from Jack or Mama Pat or anyone else who's around me regularly. But I'm going to have to do better tonight—at least if I want to keep my dignity.
But a quick scan of the patio reveals that Dante isn't anywhere to be seen. Part of me relaxes, and another part is even tenser than before—I think I'd almost prefer to know exactly where he is. I don't want any surprises.
"How about a drink?" Jack says.
"I've never wanted a drink more in my life."
Dante's patio looks more like something you'd see at a resort than at someone's house. There's a large glass-tiled pool that's lit in shades of violet and red, and twinkling lights hang from the palm trees overhead. Not far from us, there's a large cabana-like structure sheltering a full bar. Only at the home of one of the Fontaines.
Before long, Jack and I are armed with liquid courage—him with a scotch on the rocks and me with a chocolate martini.
"Let's stay out here," I suggest. There's a lovely breeze rolling off the ocean, and my head feels a little clearer away from the crowd inside. Plus, thanks to the huge windows, we have a great view of the party both inside and out. Whenever Dante makes an appearance, I plan on spotting him before he spots me.
"Any sign of him?" Jack says.
"Not yet."
"What about one of his brothers? Or Emilia?"
"Nope." I've been looking for them too, but there's no sign of any of the Fontaines—or the woman caught up in their drama.
And as the night rolls on, I'm beginning to wonder why we bothered showing up at all. Dante is still nowhere to be seen. Jack, to his credit, is a great sport, and he keeps up our little act quite well. We take turns touching each other—I've adjusted his tie so many times that I'm surprised I haven't accidentally pulled it off his neck—and when that gets dull, we start a game where we point out the different celebrities we'd try to hit on under different circumstances.
But I can tell that even Jack is getting a little restless after an hour, and I know that he's anxious to do a bit of real mingling. This is his chance to get his face in front of people he might be working with someday.
"Why don't you go circulate," I say finally. "Make some connections."
He cocks his head. "And leave you alone?"
I take a sip of my martini—a vanilla bean one this time. "I'll be fine. Dante obviously isn't here." I'm beginning to wonder why he insisted that I come.
"You can come with me," Jack says. "Don't you want to meet Stacia Fischer?"
"I'm fine," I insist. "I don't want you to worry about flirting with me while you're trying to network."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm a big girl. I can handle a few minutes on my own." I take another drink. "Just get your butt over here as fast as you can if you see me in trouble."
"Of course." He puts his empty glass on a nearby table. "Text me if you need me." With that, he's off through the crowd, and I'm alone by myself in a quiet corner of the patio.
And I manage to stay that way for some time, tucked away in the shadows at the far side of the pool, sipping at my drink and watching the party unfold around me. I'm glad to be alone, but now that Jack isn't here to distract me, it's hard to keep my memories at bay.
Dante and I spent quite a bit of time by this pool. We often studied out here—there was something about the sun on my skin and the ocean breeze in my hair that made me feel both calm and energized at once. And Dante always claimed that he did his best work outside. He used to sit in that lounge chair beneath the cabana and scribble away at his latest script. He always preferred to write his first drafts by hand—he said that the words flowed better through a pen than through a keyboard.
I think that might have been when I realized I was in love with him—the first time I saw him bent over his notebook, his eyes bright as they followed his pen across the paper. It was like I was watching him pour his soul onto the page.
I'll admit it—it took a while for me to recognize his brilliance, to get past my preconceptions about him. I'd worked my butt off to get into that film program, and in waltzed Dante, the crown prince of Hollywood. Everyone in his family is in the business. He never needed film school to build connections or get his foot in the door like the rest of us. All he had to do was use his name and his money.
Dante was older than the rest of us, most of whom started the program right out of college. But that didn't seem to bother him. Nothing did—and he got a lot of attention during his time there. Some students blatantly flirted with him, others saw him as a networking opportunity, and still others seemed to harbor a fair bit of jealousy and resentment for him. I guess I fell into the "resentment" category, but at least I was quiet about it. Mostly I just pretended he didn't exist—until we were partnered up for that short film project.
I was furious. But no matter how much I begged, our instructor refused to assign me a different partner. I was convinced I'd be settled with twice the share of the work—after all, Dante hadn't had to lift a finger for anything in his career before—or worse, be steamrolled into doing things his way. He wasn't used to people telling him no.
Instead, Dante surprised me. His passion for the craft was breathtaking, and after I opened my eyes to the truth, it was really no surprise why someone like him would be in the program. He lived for his art. Soaked up every bit of knowledge he could. And as my judgments melted away, I wasn't even remotely prepared for what came next.
My eyes fall closed, and I shiver. I'm not prepared for this, either. My martini is empty, but rather than head back to the bar for another one, I find myself turning toward the ocean behind me. There's no reason for me to be here if Dante isn't. This was a stupid idea, either way. What did I expect would happen? That Dante would see me with Jack and explode with jealousy? What then? Mama Pat said I might find closure, but I should have known this was the wrong way to go about it.
I slip out of my heels and head down the stone steps to the beach below. A soft halo of light from the house and patio spreads across the sand, but the ocean is in near darkness. The moon is only a sliver tonight, but for some reason, I find that calming. I leave my shoes by the steps and make my way toward the water.
I was expecting to find some other people down here, but it looks like I'm the only one trying to escape the company and noise above—or maybe the only one not wearing designer clothes that might get ruined by surf or sand. Maybe later, after the alcohol has been flowing a little longer and it's creeping into the early morning hours, couples will venture down here looking for a little privacy. But for now, I appear to have this stretch of beach to myself.
The water is warm around my ankles. The foam tickles. The breeze is stronger out here, and it sweeps the loose strands of my hair away from my face. I can feel it tugging at my carefully constructed bun of curls, and I suspect I'll have to make a trip to the ladies room to fix it when I head back up.
But for now, I'm content to just be with the ocean and the wind and that little crescent of moon. I step in a little further, letting the water come up around my calves. Out here, my anxiety about coming here tonight seems almost silly. Dante's just a man. It doesn't matter what happened between us—I survived, and I'll continue to survive, and convincing myself otherwise is ridiculous.
Another step. The water's almost to my knees now, and I have to tug up the hem of my dress when the next wave comes in.
"Are you trying to reenact The Awakening?" comes a deep, velvety voice from behind me.
I jump half a foot in the air—and at the same time, try to spin and see who managed to sneak up on me. The result is that I land funny with my legs twisted partway around, and I lose my balance immediately, falling ass-first into the next wave.
Water rushes over my head. Up my nose. Down my throat. A pair of hands grabs at me, but I wrench myself out of their grasp and climb to my feet, coughing and sputtering. Ocean water pours down my body, sliding over the satin of my dress. My bun has come partially undone, and my hair clings to my neck and cheeks. I push it out of my eyes and spin again, trying to find the asshole who scared the crap out of me.
As I cough up the last of the seawater, those hands are on me again—strong, steady hands. Familiar hands.
"Are you all right?" comes that deep voice—a voice I'd know anywhere, even if I can't make out the features of the figure standing in front of me in the darkness.
Dante.
Dante, who couldn't be bothered to show up at his own damn party. This is who sneaked up behind me when I thought I'd finally found a moment of privacy. Immediately, rage boils up in me.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" I say, ignoring the jolt of pain in my ankle as I shift my weight. "You scared the crap out of me!"
"I'm sorry," he says, and there's a hint of wicked amusement in his voice. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's not polite to sneak up on people," I snap. Beneath the anger, I feel something else—a sudden panic that threatens to drown out everything else. I wasn't prepared to run into Dante out here. Without Jack. With my hair sopping wet and my dress sticking to my skin. My anger is all I have, so I cling to it.
"Why aren't you at your party?" I demand. "Why are you skulking around out here by yourself?" It's not until the words leave my mouth that I realize he might not be by himself. Oh, God—please don't let him be down here with Emilia. I glance back at the house, but I don't see any other dark figures on the beach. And Dante doesn't contradict me.
"I could ask the same of you," he says. "Why are you down here by yourself?"
"It's not my party," I say. "I just needed some air."
"By yourself?" His voice drops as his fingers tighten on my waist. "What happened to that boyfriend of yours?"
My chest tightens, and I pull myself out of his grasp, wincing again when my weight comes down on my ankle.
"Jack's mingling," I say quickly, ignoring the pain in my leg. "He enjoys these big parties more than I do. He's probably wondering where I've run off to." Not that I can go running back in there like this, looking like I was just dragged along the ocean floor.
"I'm surprised he left you by yourself." I can hear the slight smile in his voice. "But that's all the better for me."