“Yep.” When he doesn’t reply, just looks at me, assessing, I blurt, “I saw you talking to Mallorie. Are you two close?”
He rubs his forehead, smiling like he knows something I don’t. “I wouldn’t say so, not especially.”
“I think I caught something about her dog’s bladder infection.”
Dash snorts, shaking his head. “She’s married to one of the seniormost animators at Disney, a woman who’s my mentor out in Burbank. She usually works out there, so I’m a friend of her and her wife.”
“How old is her wife?”
“I think maybe pushing sixty.”
“Mallorie is a lot younger.”
“Not really. She’s forty-nine.”
I gape. “What about the house’s owner—er, hostess? How old is she?”
“Sara? She is young.”
“How’d she…?”
“Get where she is?”
Dash shrugs. “Talented and well-connected.”
“Oh.” With nothing more interesting to add, I confess, “I had too much to drink.”
“Did you now?”
He leans back in his lounge chair, and I have a memory of another starry night, with Dash lying down and me sitting beside him on his roof.
“I was nervous,” I say, noting that the deck has cleared out. There’s only one guy on the other side of the space, leaning on the balcony and talking on his phone.
“How come?”
How come I’m nervous, I remind myself; that’s what he asked just now. That little voice inside your head that keeps your mind on track? Mine is currently drowned in alcohol.
“Don’t ask me that,” I tell Dash, wagging a finger at him. “I’m not sober enough to talk to you.”
His eyebrows arch as he tucks his hands behind his head. “No?”
“Nope.”
“You want me to go inside?”
I don’t—but there is alcohol inside. “You could go get me another drink.”
He frowns. Then he gets up. “Be right back.”
Dash returns with orange juice, and I notice as he steps onto the deck, spilling light across the cement floor, that the man who was talking on his phone is gone now. It’s just Dash and me.
I take the orange juice. Dash reclaims his chair beside mine. I can’t read his face. I’m too drunk to think high-level thoughts.
“You don’t have to sit out here,” I manage.
“I could use a breather.”
I look him over, surprised anew by how damn hot he is. “You’re Mr. Social. I guess you always were. I wasn’t.” I smooth my fingertips over the pattern on my dress and sigh. “People make me super tired.”
“You’re in a sorority, though. I saw on your CV.”
“That’s true. Different, though.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know…” I look at his strange, familiar-not-familiar adult Dash face. “I guess because I know the rules.”
“Not here?”
It takes me a second to discern what he means. “Definitely not here.” I bite my lip. “You’re here.”
“There aren’t any rules with me, Amelia.”
“Just Amelia,” I say, wagging my finger again. “None of that old nickname shit.”
He nods.
Then somehow, I spill my orange juice. Dash is by me, dabbing the hem of my dress with a napkin. I lean back, needing to get away from the heat of him, the smell of him. But my hand didn’t get the memo; I grab his arm and look into his hazel eyes.
“I can’t believe this happened,” I say drunkenly.
“What?” His voice is rough.
“You’re my boss.” I give a bitter laugh.
“I’m not your boss, Amelia.”
“Partner, then.” My head feels unsteady, so I blink a few times. “I thought you were overseas.”
“For a year. And that was a while back.”
“I saw that somewhere…” I murmur, feigning casual; I hope he can’t tell from my face that I know because I stalked him online. “Did you like it?” I ask as he leans back away from me, one hand holding wadded napkins.
“Yes—I did.”
His voice is strange. I’m too drunk to know exactly how. Stupid Amelia. Leave it to me to get drunk and chat up Dash. I lean toward him, rubbing my finger over the scar I saw near his temple at work.
“How’d you get this?”
He leans subtly away from me, so my fingertip is touching air. “Hit it on something in the gym.” His voice sounds rough.
“By accident?”
“Fighting.”
“Why were you fighting in the gym?”
“Krav Maga. We were sparring.” He stands slowly, then sits back on his chair. His face, I notice, is excessively neutral. The kind of neutral that isn’t really neutral.
I sit up, leaning slightly toward him. “Is that karate?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you show me some moves?” I giggle.
He gives a low laugh. “Not here.”
I get up, then plunk myself down at the bottom of his chair. I lean toward him and let my dumb thoughts flow out of my drunken mouth. “I liked it when you were sitting with me on my chair…”
Eleven
Dash
I don’t know how often Ammy drinks or what she had tonight, but woman is hammered. I wouldn’t pin her as the type to get drunk at a work gig, but if she doesn’t drink often, it could have been an accident.
In fact, I’m betting on that.
She’s got that drunk look that’s a combo of surprised, relaxed, and chatty as she perches on the feet end of my chair and leans over my legs.
“I’m cold, Dash. Why is it windy out here?”
I sit up, tug my jacket off. “Here.” I drape it over her shoulders, and Amelia wobbles as she gets her arms into it.
Her eyes shut. “Smells good.”
One look at her wrapped in my coat, and I know my dick can’t handle this shit. Not for long. I shift, moving my legs off the chair and leaning on my knee, my body already oriented toward the door.
“You wanna go soon?” I ask. “You can catch a ride with me.”
“Maybe I should.” She peeks at me through her lashes. “I get sleepy when I drink.” She blinks, then wrinkles her nose. “Did you drink water?”
“Yeah.” I’m surprised she noticed.
“You don’t drink?”
I lift a shoulder. “Only once or twice a year.”
“Why not?”
Another shrug, even as my chest aches. “Don’t care for it too much.”
“You used to.”
“That’s true.” Now it brings back memories best avoided.
Amelia leans her head onto one shoulder, her coppery hair falling across her moonlit cheek. “You’re a mystery, Dash. Mr. Mysterious Boy Next Door.”
“What do you want to know?” I wait, silent and still, hoping she’ll ask me why I left her. Despite the lack of drink for me tonight, I feel like I could tell her the whole fucked up story now, while she’s not fully present. Light spills over the balcony at that moment: a waiter stepping through the door.
I note a few shorter glasses on his tray. “Water?” I raise my brows.
He hands one to me.
I pass it to Ammy. She takes it without a word, and has a small sip. I watch as she folds her hands around it.
“Cold…”