3. TAKEOUT
The weekend passes slowly, my regular routine uninterrupted. Once my roommates stop teasing me about “Bentley,” as they call Ciro, it’s just me and my phone tucked close at all times.
I keep going through our conversation, seeing where he blew it and where I lost it. The date went so well for so long. He’s such a great guy, and then, out of the blue...
I could probably have stopped him right away. It would have worked. I mean, he did apologize once I spelled out how off-putting his sex-chatter was.
Our date didn’t end on a good note, but I still want him to call me. I could call too, of course—this is the twenty-first century. Maybe I will. Just not in a while, because I’m not desperate.
Then again, Ciro has no part in my grand plan. I don’t need a guy. My life is complicated enough as it is, and a new guy is the opposite of maintaining Status Quo.
By Wednesday, Frieda’s complaining about how boring I am. “You’re, like, anxious, Savannah. It’s not that actor dude still, right? They’re all assholes, which he more than proved on your date.”
I fill two glasses with ice and pour Sprite over it. Then I dry the glasses clean and straighten to scan the restaurant with my eyes. My focus ends on Ciro’s booth from last Thursday. Tomorrow it’s a week since I met him.
“I’m such a loser. I can’t believe myself, Frieda.” I groan and stick my hands into my apron pockets. “But you should have seen him at the restaurant. He was so attentive and interested. He hardly even talked about himself. It was all about me, and every little thing I said he found interesting.”
“And see, that’s odd. Guys loove to talk about themselves. Their jobs or whatever.” She throws her hands up. “He’s not even on Facebook, Savannah. With his name, he should be easy to find, but there’s straight up no one with that name. Doesn’t it make you wonder if he made it up?”
“No, it doesn’t, because I processed his credit card myself, and Ciro Silveira is definitely his name.”
“Yeah, well.” Frieda scowls like she does when she thinks hard, a black strand of hair escaping her ponytail and hitting her nose. She blows it away, eyes brightening. “He has an alias. An artist name.”
“Of course. How did I not think of that?” I feel a smile ease on. It sinks again though, because what good does it do me? “Now all we have to do is guess it and read all the dirt on him.”
A low snort escapes Frieda, and I can’t help joining her. We work to keep our crack-up from the customers.
“Time to make a list of possible names.”
“Right. Then we search da internets,” she jokes. Frieda punctuates her statement with fingers running over imaginary computer keys, important frown between her eyes.
“I have an idea. If you get his picture, we can Google him by photo.”
“He’d have called me by now if he were still interested. But I can lurk in an aisle of his local supermarket and hope he pops by sometime. Except he probably has a housekeeper for that.”
“Hey, it’s worth a try.” Frieda bobs her head. “There’s a Ralphs and a Vons at the foot of Hillside. You might want to divide your time equally between the two.”
My laughter flows a little too free, so when Il Signore calls me to his corner, I’m prepared for a reprimand.
Dark, bushy brows meet me. They’re so low they almost conceal his eyes. Signor Brocelli reaches my shoulder, but his no-nonsense demeanor makes up for his stature. He has no issue running this place with an iron fist.
“Savannah, I have a delivery for you.”
“A what?” We don’t do deliveries.
“A delivery. Laylah is packing it in the kitchen. It should be ready any minute now. Do you have your car?”
“Yeah, but...?” This is all new. Plus, a few of my colleagues, especially the kitchen guys, would’ve been ecstatic for a trip outdoors, and even Il Signore knows I’m not fond of driving. I can’t ask Why me?, though, without breaching employee-boss protocol.
“Bene. Frieda!” he barks, and my friend scurries over. “Take Savannah’s tables and let Charlotte know if it gets busy. Savannah has an errand.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m winding up Hillside, passing mansions set at a comfortable distance from each other in the yellow dust. I’m to press a buzzer on a gate number fifty-four—which I do—and deliver to a Marissa Brandt.
I’m let into a long driveway that ends in front of a no-nonsense, square three-story with a garage on the opposite side. It looks like it’s made of concrete. It’s huge and not very inviting. Is this someone’s home?
I’m busy thinking about Ciro and his Hillside funkis bunker when the door opens and he’s right there, in grey slacks, a black tee, and barefoot.
“Ciro?” I thought I remembered everything about him, like the low, musical murmur as he says my name, but I hadn’t made his eyes justice. Tonight, I can’t see any flecks of gold or silver in them. The base color isn’t even the pale green I remember. Is it the light or are they full-on aqua?
“Savannah, come in. You have our food?”
Who’s Marissa Brandt?
“This is crazy,” I say.
“It is?”
“Yeah, Il Signore never does deliveries. His whole point is to slow the dining experience and make people relax.”
“Is that your boss?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, everyone can be bought.”
“Nuh-huh, not me.”
“Just in the business world.” Ciro lifts and drops his shoulders, narrowing his eyes. “And I’m not in the business of buying people.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to read me with those slits or if I’ve offended him, so I play safe. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you— I’m just...” I pull in a breath. He’s filling the hallway with his presence. “I’m just...”
“Flustered. It’s okay.” He relieves me of the bags of food and guides me inside with a hand at the small of my back. “I did order a waitress, though. I hope that doesn’t make you feel bought.”
“A waitress?”
“Yes, you. And a companion for the evening, who’s also you in case you wondered.” I look up to catch his smirk as he passes me a corner-of-the-eye glance. “Am I treading too close to buying people with that?”
“Renting. You’re renting me,” I joke too, because I can do this. “I’m your renta-girl for the evening.”
“Not my call girl?” His stare is devious. “I did call for you, and you’re a girl.”
Agh, why does he do this? And right away too. It’s like all of his jokes center around one thing. Unfortunately, the smoldering side effect is that it makes me extra, extra aware of his virility. The man reeks of it.
I’ll never say this out loud, but I wonder if he’s all talk and no action. He could be the worst, flaccid lay you’d ever have. I suppress a titter.
On the second floor, he lets me through a baby gate at the top of the stairs, and I find myself at the mercy of what must be Princess. She snorts and slurps, licking me wherever she reaches while trying to rear up on her hind legs. Her efforts are in vain. She’s a tad front-heavy.
“Oh goodness, you’re cute,” I coo. “You’re a… hmm.” I twist my lip between my teeth, angling my head back to her owner. He wears a proud papa grin until I break the news to him.
“I’m sorry, but that shelter fooled you. That is not an American Bulldog. She’s all Pitbull, through and through.”
“Shit.” He cradles the bridge of his nose in mock disappointment. “Are you sure?”
I sink to my knees to hug her, but then I’m knocked over by her exuberance. Princess isn’t exactly ladylike as she hips my face, then French-kisses me so hard Ciro has to intervene.
He pulls her off me, a fist clenching some manly spiked collar. Princess’ body wiggles, a prolongation of her tail as she waits for me to pick up where she left off in our kiss fest.
“So, American Bulldog, huh?” I let him lead me into his kitchen, which is restaurant-sized with all stainless steel and slate-colored marble.
He shows me a barstool by the counter. Pulls out a bottle of rosé wine and starts on the cork. “Meh, people are so afraid of Pitbulls. I always lie to new people.”
“White lies are one of your things? Nice.”
His face becomes serious. “No. I do my best not to lie, because it doesn’t get me anywhere. I just end up in trouble. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to reveal the truth, ugly as it might be, than to paint things pretty when they’re not.”
“Oh.” My hand is on top of Princess’ head.
I half-expect his irises to change with his mood, but they’re still aqua, my favorite color. There’s pain in them, just the smallest hint. My eyes sink from his sincere expression.
“We’ll eat on the terrace.”
His terrace is vast and lush with plants so green they’re out of their element in this desert climate. A small table for two presses against the banister, from which we have an astonishing view of the Valley.
I was ready to perform my waitress duties, but he isn’t letting me. He’s quite the waiter himself, actually, shaking out a black napkin and extending it over my lap.
“No wine for me, please. I’m driving,” I say.
“A half glass?” His voice warms my abdomen. Silky and mid-level deep, it’s as if he caresses me with it, and I don’t want to say no. Princess’ stare is pleading too, and I’ve already decided she’s getting my leftovers. Not sure how Ciro will feel about that, so to be on the safe side, I’ll wait until he takes a restroom-or-kitchen break. By the looks of her, Princess will inhale the food so fast there’ll be no proof of our crime.
“It’s like suburbia twinkles more than the stars,” I say and accept the glass Ciro holds out.
Sinking into his seat across from me, he lets his stare glide over the Valley. “You’re right. The city lights drown out the sky. It’s light pollution. Someday, I’ll take you to my cabin in Montana. We’ll go in the winter so you really get to experience dark nights and bright stars. The moon looks insane there.”
“Of course you have a cabin in Montana.”
Eyes twinkling, he enjoys that I tease him.
“Is it the size of your funkis bunker, your little cabin?”
He chuckles softly, stretching a hand out to pet Princess’ head. She curves into it, and I suddenly want to be there with her, getting a taste of his touch. “Naw, it’s not as big as my house. I wanted it easy to take care of so I don’t have to bring Mrs. Brandt or anything.”
“Marissa Brandt?” I ask. “That’s who I was delivering this food to.”
“Mrs. Brandt keeps my house neat. And orders food.” He emphasizes the latter with a nod.
“How old is Mrs. Brandt?” I ask before I think better of it.
He arches a brow as he lifts the bottle to me again. I’ve already drained my half a glass, and I really want more. But work.
“I have you for the rest of the night,” he says, reading my thoughts.
“Ohhkay.”
I accept while he tells me Mrs. Brandt is an older Hispanic lady married to her Gringo husband for decades. She works for Ciro to get out of the house now that her hubby has retired. Apparently, he doesn’t stop talking.
“So you took her in because you’re so nice?” I totally wink at him, a full glass of wine later. I’m now in happy-territory. I can say anything, even to gods.
“Exactly. I’m a saint.” He winks back, thick lashes seeming to flutter over his eyes before he stands to find a dimmer on the wall. The lights lower around us. With sure, sinuous shifts, he accommodates himself in the chair again and speeds up my heart.
He slides his elbows forward on the table top. “I know your past. I know about your life in the Valley, your jobs, and how you like your world to be predictable. Your mother sounds on the impulsive side though, the opposite of you.”
“Ha, you could say that.”
He twists his dreamy mouth, thinking. Plump, full, pink—god it’s pink. He opens his hand and takes mine while he considers his next words. I remain calm on the outside, even when he draws small circles with a fingertip in my palm. Thank you, wine.
“Is it too early to ask how you like your sex?”
I suck in a breath, because yes, it’s too early. Is it ever the right time unless you’re an old married couple that needs sex therapy? Briefly, I think of runaway trains without drivers; call me old-fashioned, but most people kiss first.
“You’re blushing. It must be a sensitive subject for you. It is too early, isn’t it?”
Flecks of gold has surfaced in his irises, and I wonder if it’s from interest or excitement. My abdomen heats again as my gaze draws to his neck, the dip at the center of his collarbone and the expanse of golden skin where a button remains open.
“Of course not. After all, we’re on a second date. Isn’t it time we talk about sex?” I roll my eyes.
He bites his lip, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier. Oh wait, he adds a tilt of his head, causing his bed-do to lend stray locks to gravity. They shine in the low light.
“I think she’s mocking me.”
“Maybe.” I suck in more air. “How about you give it ten dates? I mean, if you’d like ten dates or whatever with me.”
“I’d like twenty. Forty. A hundred. But I’d like more than that. I’m not into just dates.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. Except, “Who says that? You don’t even know me!”
“I know enough to know I want to be with you. So this is about you, Savannah. You’re not sure yet.”
“And you find that strange? We’ve hung out for a total of five hours.”
“Six and a half if you count Mintrer’s,” he calmly corrects.
“Exactly.”
“Savannah.” He squeezes my hand. Gets up and pulls me to my feet. His eyes are on me, and I’m probably displaying all my thoughts in rapid succession: incomprehension, insecurity, heat, anger, confusion, and some misunderstood form for exhilaration.
“Come here.”
Everyone knows this isn’t normal boy behavior. Not normal means abnormal means girl cut into pieces and stuffed in shoe boxes under his bed. Or it just means that he has issues. Hardcore issues, like drugs, alcohol, mental institutions, rehabs, and jails.
And here’s Savannah, all elated. My heart flies up there with deep red, feathered wings, flapping like a mother, and all because of a man professing that he wants “more” with me.
The music sieves out from small, hidden speakers. It surrounds us softly, and if a guy were to break a girl’s determination, it’s in a setting like this. Mintrer’s is romantic, sure, but this is gleaming city lights, the scent of sage, the shimmer of flickering candles, and absolute privacy. The only set of eyes here are bright, gentle, and don’t look away while you consider pushing him away.
He glides his hands up my back and pulls me close to the calm sway of the music. His leg presses between mine, joining us. He sighs against my ear when I start to move with him.
“It’s nice to dance with you. I’ve wanted to feel you in my arms since the first time I saw you.”
I shake my head a little. “Why do you like me? I don’t get it.”
“Because you’re not like everyone else. You’re beautiful, genuine, kind—you moved to a place not of your choosing for someone you love. You’re an open book, telling me everything I want to know about you, but then you clam up on details I couldn’t have predicted. I like it all—you’re anxious. I bet you overthink your moves until you miss out on opportunities too.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You don’t?” The words are a tender against my ear. We dance, bodies aligned like we’ve done this before. I close my eyes and let him rock me, his breath moving in and out of his chest, flowing with and complementing my own.
“And you’re sexy. So, so sexy. Oh I could do things to you.” Ciro leans his forehead against mine, and I can’t move away. “It’s that timid, knotted-up side of you. You’re different to my regular girls.”
“How are they?”
“Most have been from work. There are no misunderstandings when you date a colleague. Same schedules, same expectations.”
“Actresses?” It’s my first mention of his job. “And makeup artists, maybe?”
“Mostly talents.”
“Like, movie stars?”
“I guess you could say that. But I blow through girlfriends.” He kisses my cheek gently.
“Why? You’re that hard to be with?”
“I guess. It’s why I don’t waste time dating. I want to start my relationships as full-on relationships. I want to be your boyfriend, and we’ll move from there.”
We’re not swaying anymore. I’m in his arms, and I’m not sure who stopped first. He pulls me closer, so close his heart meets mine through the fabric of our shirts, and for the first time I notice his scent. Pine, musk, pheromones. But it’s the undertones of warm skin that unravels me.
“Did you just ask me to be your girlfriend?” I croak.
“I did.”
“I don’t have time for—”
“I’m a busy man too, Savannah. We make time. That’s what people do.”
“Do I even know your name? Is your name really Ciro Silveira?”
He’s kissing my neck. Oh god. Oversized butterflies taking flight!
“Yes, Ciro Anthony Silveira is my name. Portuguese father. American mother. Now you know all you need to know about me.” There’s humor in his voice.
“That’s not enough.”
“Really, it’s the best part.”
“You’re not exactly selling yourself as a boyfriend.”
“I can make you come so hard you can’t stop screaming.”