My ankle isn't broken, thank God. But it's a bad sprain. And my wrist is sprained, too—though only mildly. The rest of me is just bruised, but those two injuries are going to put me out of commission for a couple of days, maybe longer.
Dante stays with me the whole time at the ER, even though I know he probably has plenty of better things to be doing. He gets a couple of phone calls while we're there, but they go the same way as the phone call he took during our cake consultation—both end with him tersely insisting he'll send pages as soon as they're ready. In spite of everything, I find myself curious about these conversations, about the business he's always kept so private from me. His big movie just launched. Shouldn't he be on top of the world right now?
I manage to bite my tongue until we're on the car ride home, and then my curiosity gets the better of me.
"It looks like Cataclysm: Earth had a great opening weekend," I say. "The newspaper in the waiting room said it broke all kinds of records."
He glances over at me, his expression unreadable. "I didn't realize you were paying attention."
"It's hard to miss it," I say with a shrug. "Are you working on a sequel?"
This time, he can't seem to stop himself from slipping into a scowl. "What are you after, Ash?"
"Nothing. Just wondering." I gaze out the window at the passing houses. "This movie's a big deal."
"And I'm damn near sick of promoting it." There's no ignoring the bitterness in his voice. "I'd prefer to talk about something else."
"Fine."
We don't speak much on the rest of the ride home. I should have known he'd avoid my questions. But any annoyance I feel at his responses dissolves when we reach my house. The hospital gave me a crutch to use until my ankle heals, but Dante's having none of it. Without a word, he lifts me in his arms again, and he carries me all the way inside to my bed. If he's angry at me for prodding—or for taking up his entire day with my injury—he doesn't show it. Instead, he's unspeakably gentle—tender, even—as he settles me down on my comforter.
"Are you hungry?" he asks as he carefully props my leg up on a pillow.
I nod, afraid that if I say anything this sudden fluttery feeling in my chest will overwhelm me.
Dante heads into the kitchen to find us some food, and the minute he's out of earshot, I pull out my phone and dial Jack. It's a little awkward with my left wrist in a brace, but I manage. He picks up on the second ring.
"Among the living, are we?" he says cheerfully. "I was just about to give you a call. How's that hangover treating you?"
"Jack, Dante's here," I hiss.
"Whoa, seriously? At your house?" He laughs. "Sounds like our little plan went well. What ridiculous excuse did he give you?"
I'm more than willing to give Jack every last detail later, but Dante could walk back in here any second, so I need to be brief.
"I fell in the shower," I whisper quickly into the phone. "It really screwed up my ankle. And then he called and I thought it was you and I ended up blurting out everything before I realized my mistake. He insisted on taking me to the ER."
"Shit."
"And now he's in my kitchen making me food and I have no idea what to do."
"Jesus, Ash. I hope they gave you some good drugs. You're going to need them."
"I need to get him out of here," I say. "But I don't think he'll leave unless he thinks I have someone here to help me."
"You know I'd normally be there for you, Ash, but I promised Evan I'd go to his brother's birthday dinner after work."
"I know. I wasn't asking you to come, I just—"
I cut myself off as Dante strides back into the room. Damn it. No time to hash out a plan.
"Thanks for checking up on me," I say sweetly into the cell. "I'll see you later. I love you."
On the other end of the call, Jack snorts a laugh. "Still working the jealousy angle, I see. I think you'll manage him just fine. I'll call you back on my next break, I just—Mike! Where are you going with that? That needed to be at Studio E two hours ago!"
I hang up, not wanting to impose on Jack any more than I already have. When I drop the cell on the nightstand, Dante is watching me, his jaw rigid.
"That was Jack," I say.
"I gathered." His eyes have darkened, and he's standing a little too still.
"He's going to come by as soon as he can."
"Mm," he replies, his mouth a hard line. He moves toward me—slowly, like a great cat stalking its prey—until he stands right over my bed. "But he's not here now."
My breath catches in my throat as he reaches out, and panic rises in my chest as his fingers brush my cheek.
"Where's the food?" I squeak.
His fingers still, but his eyes still burn bright. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in their depths, standing out against the darkness of his gaze.
"You don't have any food in your fridge or pantry," he says, the words rolling slowly off his tongue.
"I usually just eat at the bakery," I say, pulling back. "I don't cook or bake much here. But I'm really hungry."
He withdraws his hand—but not before I see a flicker of something in his eyes.
"I'll order you something, then." He pulls his cell out of his pocket.
"You don't need to do that. I can order it. You've done enough already, and I'm sure you have lots to do today."
"And who will answer the door when it arrives?"
"I've got a crutch now," I remind him. "And Jack—"
"Will get here as soon as he can, I know. And when, approximately, will that be?"
I don't have an answer ready, and he takes full advantage of my silence.
"I'll wait with you until he gets here," he says, still staring at me. "And in the meantime, I'm getting us both some lunch."
This is an argument that I know I'll never win—at least in my current condition.
"Fine," I concede, adjusting the pillow below my ankle. "But you should probably leave after that. I'd rather not have you and Jack get into a fight when he gets here."
"Why would we fight?"
I shake my head. "Don't be an idiot."
There's a spark in his eye now, but that darker emotion is still there, too, making him look all the more devilish. "This conversation isn't over, Ash. But I'm going to go ahead and put in an order. Do you have a taste for anything?"
"There's a menu for a good Chinese place on the fridge," I say, willfully ignoring the way he lingered over the word taste. "My favorite dishes are circled."
As soon as he leaves, I grab my phone again. Calling Jack again isn't an option, but I intend to try Mama Pat—she should be able to get here long before my friend, and that means I might be able to rid myself of Dante sooner rather than later. I don't trust myself alone with him—not with the looks he's been giving me.
Right as I hit the call button, though, I remember that it's her granddaughter's first birthday today. Mama Pat stayed an hour late yesterday to work on the cake, and she spent most of that time beaming and telling me stories about little Daisy. There's no way I can call her away from that, no matter how desperate my situation.
With a sigh, I return the phone to the nightstand. So much for escaping Dante's company anytime soon.
Admit it, I think. You like that he's taking care of you. You like that he rushed over here to make sure you were okay.
Yeah, but how much does that really mean? I haven't seen or heard from him in three years. And though I was the one who ended it back then, it was his actions that made me take that step. Sometimes I wonder if it was all just a passing fling for him. If I only imagined the intensity of our connection.
You didn't imagine last night, I tell myself. But I still don't know what the hell to do about it.
When Dante returns, my heart leaps into my throat. For the first time since he showed up this morning—hell, since he walked back into my life—I allow myself to really look at him, to face the demon who broke my heart.
His dark hair is slightly ruffled, and I wonder if it fell that way on its own or if he's been running his hand through it. He used to do that—run his hand through his hair—while he was working, thinking his way through a problem in his script.
And I used to run my fingers through his hair when we were making love.
My belly warms as I let my eyes drop to his face, to that strong mouth with those eager, demanding lips, and then up to those rich, mesmerizing eyes. He's looking back at me, watching me take him in, and in those eyes I see things I don't want to see. That I'm not ready to see.
Why is he doing this to me?
I turn and grab a book from my nightstand, but that doesn't stop Dante from returning slowly and deliberately to the side of my bed.
"The food has been ordered," he says, his voice too low for such mundane conversation.
"Mm. Thank you." With my good hand, I flip the novel open to the page where I left my bookmark.
"Ashlyn. I told you our previous conversation wasn't over."
"The one where you were pretending you didn't intentionally cause a scene with my boyfriend last night?" The word boyfriend still feels weird on my tongue.
"I didn't cause a scene," he drawls. "I simply did what any man would do when a woman needs help."
My eyes are still on my book. "Jack could have helped me."
"But he didn't."
Anger surges through me, and my eyes finally snap up to his face. "Because you didn't give him the chance."
Dante's gaze catches and holds mine. "He wasn't there with you on the beach. I was."
"And you're the whole reason my ankle is sprained in the first place."
"You know that was an accident. And I've done everything I can to make amends for that, in spite of your rather amusing efforts to shame me out of it."
"I'm not shaming you!" I snap. His presence so close to me is making me nervous, shaky, but I refuse to break his gaze. "And can you stop hovering?"
Without missing a beat, he sinks down on the bed beside me. "Is this better?"
Not in the least. He's even closer now. So close that I'm having trouble thinking. So close that his hip presses against my thigh. So close that his fingers could reach any part of my body.
"You're provoking me on purpose," I say.
One corner of his mouth tilts up. "You always were easy to provoke."
"Well, stop. I'm not yours to provoke anymore."
There's that dangerous darkness again. "You're this Jack's to provoke?"
"Jack doesn't need to provoke me. And what the hell is that look for?" I suddenly remember the words he murmured to me last night before handing me over to my friend: You'll never convince me that man gives you even half of what I did.
"It's just that I never expected you to end up with a guy like that."
"A guy like what? You hardly even talked to him last night. You don't know anything about him."
"I've seen him around. He works for Fairlake Films, doesn't he?"
For a split second, panic seizes me—Does he know this is all a ruse?—but if he does, he would have led with that. Dante isn't one for games.
"Yes, he works there. Why does it matter?"
His leg shifts, pressing closer to mine. "It doesn't."
My heart is in my throat. I swallow it back down. "Then what's your point?"
"In our earlier conversation you seemed to suggest he would fight for you. Is that true?"
My answer is a reflex: "Of course he would. You saw how angry he was last night."
Something flashes in his eyes. "That wasn't anger. At best, that was mild annoyance."
"And this is ridiculous."
I try to open my book again, but his hand covers the page. "You're not avoiding this conversation, Ash."
"Well, I'm certainly not going to sit here and listen to your opinions on my boyfriend." The more times I use that word, the more naturally it rolls off my tongue—even though in my gut it feels dead wrong.
"He's not right for you."
"You're not right in the head."
"I'm serious, Ash."
"Forgive me if I don't trust my love life to you. I've already made that mistake once."
That shuts him up—at least for a moment.
"I don't care whether you think he's right for me," I continue, glad to finally have the upper hand. "As I said back at my bakery, I've moved on with my life. I don't require your opinions anymore."
Dante's hand is still spread against my book, and he presses down until I've lowered the novel to my lap.
"I still have opinions," he says, his voice lower, rougher than it was a moment ago. "Especially where you are concerned."
"I don't—"
"You need a man who can match you," he says. "Your temper. Your emotion. Your passion. This Jack doesn't match you."
"And you're an expert on this how?"
He leans dangerously close. "You know how."