She didn’t answer my question. She just held the door open and let me inside.
Her apartment was different from what I’d imagined. It was airy and spacious. Everything was white. Large windows encompassed the far wall, and a freshly painted fire place sat in the corner.
I noticed there was no furniture in the room, only tons of unopened boxes.
“Would you like some water?” she asked.
Before I could answer, she disappeared. She came back seconds later wearing a different shirt. She avoided my eyes and handed me a bottle of water.
“Thank you. This is a really nice place. I had no idea movie critics did so well for themselves.”
“More like people who return their really expensive engagement rings,” she sighed. “Most movie critics live modestly.”
“I see…Is there a reason you keep running from me?”
“Running from you? What do you mean?”
“Every time I’ve tried to talk to you, ask you out, and more recently kiss you, you run away. Just so you know, I don’t give up easily.”
Her jaw dropped and she turned away in an attempt to hide it. I wasn’t going to say another word. It was her turn.
“You’re getting married,” she finally looked at me.
God, not this again! Just tell her!
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Writing more than likely.”
“Can I come back over around eight?” I glanced at my watch. “You know, since you said I only have five minutes with you tonight?”
I took the blushing and silence to be a yes.
“It looks like you’re still unpacking things,” I walked over to the door. “Can you take out all your pots and pans before tomorrow night? Maybe we could make—”
“I only have two.”
“What? Why don’t you—”
“I don’t cook.”
“Oh. I guess I’ll bring my things over then. I’ll cook for you.”
She tucked her lips in to avoid smiling. I wanted to push her against the door and kiss her, but I held back.
“Good night Melody.”
“Good night. Thank you for the Skittles.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I floated through the next day. All I could think about was my date with Melody later.
Joan had to snap her fingers several times to get my attention during my tuxedo fitting. I was too busy dreaming about how the night would go, hoping we could spend more nights of the week together.
“Mr. Sterling!” Joan screamed.
“What?”
“Mr. Giornetti is trying to ask you how the sleeves feel.”
“Oh,” I shook my arms. “They feel great. This is a really nice suit.”
Mr. Giornetti smiled and took a step back. “I’m very particular about my work, Mr. Sterling. I want to be sure that this is the best suit I’ve designed so far. Will you be able to do another fitting once I’ve properly sewn the sleeves? Mr. Sterling?”
“He’ll be here,” Joan sighed. “You can go over potential dates with me.”
After the tuxedo fitting, Joan had the driver take me to New Jersey to buy food for the night. I didn’t feel like dealing with paparazzi while grocery shopping.
“Do you know if she has any food allergies?” Joan placed a turnip in the shopping cart.
I wonder if she likes Italian food…
“Can I authorize a double raise for myself?”
Is that too romantic? Does that make it seem like I’m desperate? Why am I so nervous? This can’t be normal...
“Oreos and Cheese Nips?” Joan shook the cart, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“What’s that Joan?”
“All you have so far are Oreos, Cheese Nips, and a turnip. And the turnip is mine.”
“I’m so sorry Joan. I’m out of it. I’m never been this nervous and—”
“What do you plan on making?”
“I was thinking something Italian?”
“Too romantic.”
“French?”
“We’re in a grocery store, not a specialty market.”
“American?”
“Nothing says ‘I like you’ more than a greasy hamburger.”
“Come on,” I laughed. “Help me out here.”
“Fine. Go back to the car.”
“But I—”
“Trust me. You won’t be much help anyway.”
I laughed and walked down the condiments aisle. Only a few fans approached me and asked for my autograph. The cashiers waved and took pictures with their phones.
I mixed the glaze for our chicken as Melody sat quietly on a barstool. She was dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans but she still looked sexy.
Would she get mad if I suggested that we just skip dinner?
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a Southern woman who couldn’t cook,” I smiled.
“My mom tried to show me all the time when I was growing up, but it was boring to me. How’d you learn?”
“My dad. He was a cook at a diner for a long time. He used to steal the seasonings and ingredients we couldn’t afford.”
“He died?”
“Yeah. Lung cancer.”
“Oh...”
“Don’t look so sad. He died happy,” I poured the glaze over our food and sat across from her. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Candy.”