Then again, my outfit wasn’t appropriate for anything other than a dinner date—a dinner and a “let’s go back to my place” date, and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression; especially after saying I wanted to take things slow.
I went back to my mom’s office to search for one of her tacky aprons so I could cover up the most revealing part of my dress, but I heard knocking at the door. I hastily combed through a few more of her cabinets, hoping she’d left a spare one behind, but it was no use.
I walked out to the front and braced myself before opening the door.
I didn’t say hello when I saw him. I couldn’t.
The word was locked in my throat and all I could do was stare at his face and the faded black shirt that hugged his muscles in all the right places. I tried to mouth “good evening,” but every sense of functionality seemed to have fled my brain all at once.
He didn’t say anything to me either, and I could literally feel his gaze wandering over my body.
If I say, “You can have me right here, right now” would he think I was classless?
“Interesting clothes for cleanup work,” he walked inside, keeping his eyes on me.
“I didn’t know I had closing duty tonight,” my voice was apologetic. “I was already wearing this when I stopped by.”
“Oh…You had a date earlier?”
“No, not at all. My assistant brought me some clothes from New York and I wanted to feel pretty for a change.”
He looked relieved. “You look stunning all the time, even when you’re drunk…Where do you want me?”
This was a bad idea…a very bad idea…
“Selena?”
“Um, the kitchen?” I motioned for him to follow me past the rubber double doors. “I guess you can clean out all the stoves and the warming ovens.”
“Okay,” he picked up a few sponges and cleanser bottles and walked over to the far end of the room.
We both went about our specific tasks, allowing the music from the dining room to be the only sound between us.
I wanted to talk to him, to engage in some type of conversation, but I wasn’t sure what to say. For the first time in my life, I was actually second guessing my every move when it came to a guy.
I settled for stolen glances of him every so often, turning back around whenever his eyes happened to meet mine.
We’d been cleaning in silence for two hours when I felt him standing directly behind me.
I turned around. “You’re finished already?”
“Yes. What else do you need me to do?”
I need you to stop smiling at me…
“Polish the utensils but…I was going to suggest we take a break for a while,” I moved out of his reach—to the other side of the huge table that stood in the center of the room.
“Sounds fair,” he laughed at my not-so-subtle movement. “I know this is random, but what’s your favorite thing to eat?”
“Very random. My favorite thing to eat? Spinach and ricotta gnudi.”
He smiled and tilted his head to the side. “No it’s not, but you’re a very convincing person.”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?”
“No, but I know you’re not telling me the truth,” he smiled even wider.
How does he know?
“Fine. My favorite food is spaghetti, but crepes and yogurt are my number one favorites for breakfast.”
“Interesting,” he rubbed his chin. “Why do you feel like you have to lie about something so simple?”
“Are you sure you’re not a reporter? I could use a good story about myself right about now. Would you like a quote about animal welfare? How not to save pigeons, perhaps?”
He laughed. “I’m in business. I can easily tell when someone’s lying to me.”
What a load of crap…
“Oh. Well, sometimes I like to pretend that I’m someone else—like one of the characters I’ve played in a movie. I tend to take on their personas, including their favorite things to eat and do. So, spinach and ricotta gnudi was what my last character liked to eat every day.”
He looked into my eyes and grinned, “Try again sweetheart.”
Can he really tell I’m lying?
I sighed. “If you must know, when I became a celebrity, I learned that people expected me to be more than what I was. They expected me to be well-read, well-traveled, well-everything, you know? But I wasn’t…So, I came up with a bunch of things that sounded impressive and I stuck to them. I changed everything about myself and people seemed to like me more...”
I remembered overhearing my first publicist on the phone, telling her friend that my public interviews were “disgustingly dry.” She said I was “boring,” “lacked the star power to be relevant long enough to make a pea-sized dent in the industry,” and that I was “a dull Southern girl who should go back to her farm and leave the industry to the professionals.”
I fired her five minutes later, but I took her advice. Within a few months’ time, I transformed myself into “Selena Ross,” the well-traveled, well-read, and well-dressed woman who could charm any guy she wanted with a simple smile and calculated bite of her lip.