“Twelfth of April, 1945, eighteen days before Hitler, which I hated for Roosevelt, he deserved to know the fate of his nemesis.”
“See,” Easton reclines, seeming satisfied as I blow a wayward lock of curly hair out of my face. Hair Easton set loose a mile marker into our drive before tossing the tie out the window. Sensing my distress to keep from feasting on my hair, he leans in and tucks the cascading lock behind my ear.
Thanking him, I push my plate away and rip open another lemon-scented packet to clean my hands.
“You sure you’re good?” He glances down at my sparsely covered plate, “Or should I order another beer and reload the trough?”
“I can’t fit anything else into this mouth,” I declare in surrender, and when my word choice strikes me I roll my eyes, my couth unreachable. Ripping my bib off, I take a sip of beer.
“Feel Like Makin’ Love,” Easton delivers, and I reject a little of my beer on a cough.
“Pardon?”
“The song,” he muses, not missing a second of my discomfort. “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I? Who’s it by?”
“Bad Company.” He smirks, pun fully intended.
“Another zinger, impressive. You know, as much as you hate media, you’d be an amazing radio host. Your dry sarcasm is undetectable on delivery sometimes, so you could insult half your guests at will.”
“Hard fucking pass,” his features twist in clear disdain and I decide to dig a little further. His musical knowledge was expected, considering his upbringing and the company he’s grown up with, but not at such an astonishing level.
“How far back does your mental library go?”
“Roaring twenties, but mostly thirties and up.”
“Wow,” I say, pulling out my wallet and lifting my card.
“Hell no,” he argues upon the sight of it, and I glance over to see his nostrils flaring in irritation.
“This isn’t a date…and anyway, I think I ate the equivalent of someone’s salary in crab,” I declare through a laugh.
“You maxed out your AmEx to be here,” he reminds me.
“Wait…I said that out loud?” I ask in horror.
“Yeah, I think you might not be aware of just how much you’ve said out loud.”
“Easton,” I sigh. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Fuck if I know,” he fires back, his candor making me laugh. “But I’d pay an annual salary just to witness you do that again,” he gestures toward my destroyed side of the table.
“You know, you’re really a nice guy on the B-side of that mastered A impression of a total asshole.”
“Well, as far as I can tell, you’re still a terrible journalist,” he declares as he places his card on the table, tossing mine back toward me like it’s useless. “You haven’t asked more than a few questions today, most of them trivial.”
He’s calling me out, and I don’t know how much longer my bullshit pretense is going to hold up.
“Oh, they’re coming.” I sass with a bitter edge.
“Uh huh,” his smirk deepens as my eyes narrow, though I’m feeling the opposite effect.
“Laid,” he speaks up, “by James.”
“Now you’re just showing off. You win, Easton.”
“Yeah?” He cocks a sculpted black brow. “What’s my prize?”
“A queasy passenger.” I palm my stomach as it roils. “Look, if we’re going to continue to hang, I probably need a shower and wardrobe change. That bib proved worthless, and to be frank, my breasts are covered in butter.”
He barks out a laugh and I smile back at him while our waitress picks up his card.
“Full, sweetheart?” she asks with a smile, looking between us. She’s a little older, I gauge early-forties, and has kind, warm eyes and a sweet disposition.
“Yes, ma’am, and please know we’re tipping a hundred percent,” I smirk over at Easton, costing him double, “sorry about the mess I made.”
“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it.” Gathered plates in hand, she hesitates briefly. “But if I may say,” she looks between Easton and me. “It’s been my pleasure. My daughter is around your age,” she flicks her gaze at Easton, “and I pray every day she meets a man who can make her smile the way that you are her.”
I speak up at the same time Easton snakes the compliment. “He’s not—”
“Yeah? Thanks. It’s our anniversary.”
And you thought you were a deceitful shit.
“Oh?” She says, her grin broadening. “I can get the chef to whip up something—”
“I’m so stuffed,” I interject, tossing Easton a warning look, “but thank you, that’s not necessary.”
“I’ll be right back,” she says, taking Easton’s card.
“Thanks for lunch, honey,” I spout sarcastically when the waitress glances back, seemingly smitten by the two of us.
In the next instant, Easton’s out of his chair, his fingers curling around my neck as he pulls me in. “My pleasure. Come here, baby.”
“Easton,” I hiss, just before he presses his full lips against mine. He holds the kiss a second longer than hoax-appropriate before gliding his tongue in a smooth sweep along my lower lip. I gasp against his mouth before he abruptly releases me.
“Don’t want to shatter the illusion for her,” he whispers thickly, easing back into his seat as a heavy, potent pulse starts between my thighs.
“You can’t do that,” I scold, rather unconvincingly.
“That’s a word I refuse to acknowledge.”
“ButIhavecrabbutterbeer breath,” I mumble incoherently.
“And a perfect fucking mouth,” he whispers in reply, an admission that comes far too easily as his gaze lingers on said mouth. Retrieving his glass, he casually tosses back the rest of his beer, like he didn’t just assault me.
“Smooth,” he whispers as our waitress nears the table. “Rob Thomas and Santana.”
Easton breaks our stare off and thanks her, his long lashes flitting over his cheeks as he tips her and scribbles his signature. The sight of it has my stomach churning for an entirely different reason.
He kissed me.
He licked me.
I want a repeat, or at the very least, a do-over.
“Ready?” he asks as he stands and tucks his wallet back in his jeans. Feeling seduced for a plethora of rapidly accumulating reasons, I simply nod.
Instead of bringing me back to the hotel to change, Easton and I end up standing outside the entrance of the Museum of Pop Culture. I glance up at the structure of the connecting buildings, which look like nuclear plants smothered in colorful, ghost-edged blankets.
“You’re intent on making me a tourist,” I harrumph.
“Well, technically, you are, and this is an epicenter of a lot that interests you,” he shrugs as he pulls my hand into his warm grip. “Come on.”
Minutes later, we’re walking past a theatre-sized screen with an abstract reel playing as he guides me along highly polished floors. As we bypass a story-tall, inverted tornado sculpture made up of musical instruments, I release his hand and lift my phone to take a snapshot. Easton turns back and catches me, an amused glint in his eyes.
“What?” I shrug, “might as well go all in and finish with a T-shirt from the gift shop.”
Simpering, he jerks his chin in silent command. We soon enter a section of closed-off rooms with glass displays full of worn instruments and other paraphernalia, many solely dedicated to one music artist or band. A few minutes later, the two of us stand side by side, staring at Kurt Cobain’s green sweater.