“Me?” I say in surprise, looking at him over the tops of my glasses. “What about me?”
“Well, I don’t know yet,” he laughs. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Or, better, yet, why don’t I take you to dinner tonight so we can discuss you in detail?”
He’s coming on a bit strong, but maybe that’s just how they do it in LA. Still, my Spidey-sense is tingling at his charming lines, and I’m about to quiz him a little more when the door swings open and Jake walks in.
“Don’t you ever knock?” I ask.
“The museum has an open-door policy.” He stares at Dylan curiously, like he’s a space ship that’s just landed in my office.
“Well, as you can see, I’m kind of busy right now.” I blush. OK, so maybe drooling over one guy just days after making out with the other isn’t exactly normal Lizzie behavior, but what am I supposed to do? A handsome stranger just appeared in my office to flirt. You don’t look a gift hottie in the mouth!
“Clearly. I wanted to talk with you about the World War II section of the show.” Jake finally looks over at me. “But I can come back later. I’m Jake Weston,” he says, holding out his hand to Dylan.
Dylan gives him a wide smile, standing up and shaking Jake’s hand firmly.
I really like a man with a firm grip. Have I mentioned that already? Probably.
“Dylan Mandeville. And you’re not interrupting at all—I’m just trying to convince Lizzie here to have dinner with me tonight.”
“Dinner?” Jake raises an eyebrow. “I would think Lizzie’s far too busy with planning the show.”
“What are you, anyway? My social director?” I turn back to Dylan with an exasperated smile. “I’d love to have dinner with you, Dylan,” I say sweetly, mentally warning Jake to not even think of screwing this up for me.
“Great!” Dylan says warmly. We’re practically beaming at one another and Jake is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll call you later,” he says before walking to the door and closing it behind him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss at Jake, the moment he’s gone.
“Just looking out for you,” he answers with a weird look.
“I don’t need you to look out for me!”
“Fine,” he says, walking to the door. “But it’s a mistake.”
“What? You leaving? I don’t think so.”
“No,” he says, his hand on the doorknob. “Your date with Mr. Hollywood. Those LA guys are bigger players than I am. He just wants to get in your pants. Did he mention the strike?”
“Nope,” I say, relishing the word on my tongue. “He’s been travelling for work. He probably hasn’t even heard of it.”
“Bullshit, he’s just playing it cool. No way he doesn’t know. Surprised he hasn’t tried to buy the film rights to your story yet,” he adds. My heart sinks. What if he’s right? I thought Dylan might be a blank slate when it comes to my viral humiliation.
“So what if he does?” I rally. “If he knows he’s not getting laid, then maybe it makes his dinner invitation even more promising. He said it himself, he’s looking for authenticity, a woman of substance. Not everyone is looking to fall into bed at the drop of a hat.”
Jake smirks. “I never said that. Some of us like it up against the wall.” He winks and closes the door behind him, before I can throw a pen at his head.
My phone vibrates with a text. Dylan.
“Meet me at the top of the Empire State Building. 8 PM.”
I beam . . . Now here’s a guy who understands romance! And what could be more romantic than meeting at the Empire State Building, the setting for classic films like Sleepless in Seattle and An Affair to Remember, not to mention the location of countless first kisses and romantic proposals of all kinds?
I’m finally about to find out. Hell, I don’t need a grand gesture—just as long as Dylan doesn’t show up in sweatpants with a 40 of beer in a brown paper bag, he’ll have most of my dating prospects beat.
Bring it on.
16
Lizzie
When I get off the subway, the Empire State Building is glittering in the darkness. I know it’s a cliché, but every time I see it, lit up in the night sky, I remember exactly why I moved to New York in the first place. My stomach is full of butterflies as I walk through the revolving glass door to the elevator that races up, up, and up without stopping, so fast that my head spins.
When I step out onto the observation deck, it’s crowded with people, and I look around, craning my neck past the throngs of tourists looking out over the city lights. Then I see Dylan, stepping out of the crowd with a bouquet of roses in his hands. Sure, it’s a little cliché, but the classics last for a reason. I smile and greet him there right in the middle of the deck.
“You know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” I tease, clutching the bouquet to my chest and breathing in the sweet scent.
“I try.” He smiles, and I notice that he’s dressed as nicely as he was this afternoon, if not more so, since he’s pulled a dark grey sweater over his dress shirt and switched the loafers for shiny black shoes.
“You’re an absolute vision,” he says, and grabs my hand. Then he twirls me around like we’re on a dance floor, so fast I almost stumble. When the world stops spinning, I see people are watching; one couple even starts clapping loudly. I flush.
“People are looking,” I whisper, feeling self-conscious.
“Probably staring at how beautiful you are.”
OK, that line is just . . . cheesy. Mega-cheese. Stinky brie levels of cheesiness, and any other time I would be rolling my eyes, but somehow, Dylan is looking at me so sincerely, he almost pulls it off.
“Let’s check out the view.” He takes me by the arm and leads me over to the railing. “It’s the only thing that’s maybe more stunning than you right now.”
This guy is like a walking Hallmark card. But before I can protest, he directs me to the corner edge of the platform where the city is spread out before us like a twinkling diamond necklace.
I sigh happily. “I love this view.”
“Me too.” When I look up, he’s ignoring everything except me, staring so deeply into my eyes that I’m wondering if I smeared red lipstick on my face or something. I reach up and rub my cheek just in case.
“So, tell me more about Hollywood,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Making movies sounds so exciting! I’ve always wondered what it’s like.”
He waves away my question with one hand as if it’s a fly buzzing around his face.
“Let’s not talk business tonight.” He moves in closer, resting one hand on my arm. “I meant what I said this afternoon—I want to hear more about you: your hopes, your dreams, your thoughts about the future. Who is Lizzie Ryan? What does she feel?”