We almost blow off Milan’s, but looking out on the city after our bit of aerial silks experimentation, we decide to go out anyway.
“I should get a blond wig,” I say. I head to the bathroom to let down my braids, which are fuzzy and wild after our tussle.
“The paparazzi are relentless,” Blitz says, coming behind me to play with my wavy post-braid hair. “And I like you just the way you are.”
I lean back against him. We’re both in white robes. He lifts the sleeves to inspect my wrists.
“No burn marks? No pain?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ve practiced.”
He leans against the sink. “You really want to go back to Jenica’s to work on this?”
I shrug back at the mirror, trying to fix my smudged lipstick. “We could look for someone else,” I say.
“No, I’ll call over there. Somebody was training that girl. And I’m not sure how many places do aerial work.”
He heads to the bedroom to get dressed and I fuss with my hair. I constantly appear in pictures now, and I don’t look anything close to as glamorous as those finalists. I frown at my reflection. I want to be more versatile. And I want to be me. There has to be some middle ground somewhere.
I scrub the lipstick off entirely and go back to a more subdued color. The mascara and liner are fine, bulletproof stuff given to me by the makeup artist in LA. The rest of the makeup suitcase he left behind is a mystery to me — foundations, concealers, blushers, eye shadows, color correctors. I have no idea why I would ever smear yellow on my eyes or green on my cheeks.
I close the case.
Blitz returns with a siren red dress. “We should probably play it down tonight, but I can’t help it. I love you in this so much.”
I take the dress from him. “It’s Valentine’s Day!” I say. “I’m happy to wear it.”
“Will you keep the bra with, you know, the hearts?” He makes random gestures toward his own chest.
“This dress is a halter, so no bra at all,” I say.
He falls back against the wall. “I love it even more now.”
“I can keep the white underwear, though,” I say.
He closes his eyes, his hands moving to swiftly button up his charcoal shirt. “I’ll think about it the whole time.”
“I could take them off under the table like in that Fifty Shades Darker movie,” I say. “I saw the clip.”
Blitz claps his hands over his crotch. “Say no more or we will never make it to the restaurant.”
I laugh. “Now shoo. I have to get ready in case we are seen again.”
“Odds are high,” he says. “But we’ll do our best.”
I nod and go back to the mirror. This is just the way it is. We got caught unprepared at the dance store, but this time, I’ll be ready for it.
~*´`*~
Milan’s is an Italian restaurant downtown near the Riverwalk. Blitz calls for Ted so we won’t have to rely on the valet and can make a quick getaway if needed. He navigates the streets lined with happy couples holding hands and heading for the river.
“Good call not doing an actual Riverwalk restaurant,” Ted says. “We need a place we can pull up to, and most of those require a walk to get to the entrance.”
“I know,” Blitz says. “We’re pretty stuck for a while.”
“We really need a fourth person,” I say. “So Ted can stay behind the wheel and the other one can scout ahead.”
Blitz laughs. “TWO bodyguards. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Well, you sort of wanted to get mobbed before,” I tease.
Ted glances at us via the rearview mirror. “I’m sure the girls go nuts,” he says.
“Now it’s all about the rematch,” I say. My phone is in my hand. I’m watching for any signs that we’ve been spotted. Lots of people are speculating about where we’ll go. Milan’s has been mentioned, but just as one of about fifty possibilities. One of them is McDonald’s. I laugh.
“What?” Blitz asks.
“Somebody knows about your addiction to fast-food French fries,” I say, showing him the Tweet.
“We should say I’m there,” he says. “Wearing a Spurs cap. Odds are good some poor fellow will get surrounded before they figure it out.”
“We’ll be there in three,” Ted says. “Just have to get through these two lights.”
“So far, so good,” Blitz says. “Man, taking you out to dinner is a major expedition these days.”
“We could spend our weekends in some other city and still not miss the private lessons or the dance class,” I say.
“But there’s Jenica’s,” he reminds me.
“Oh, right.” We need to train. “Any word today on what the producers are doing?”
“Nope,” Blitz says. “And I don’t much care. They can figure it out without me.”
“Here we are,” Ted says. We pull up to the valet, but Ted rolls down the front passenger window. A twenty-ish young man in a red Milan’s polo shirt leans in.
“We need this couple to get in and out as inconspicuously as possible,” Ted says. “There’s a lot of foot traffic right here.”
The guy nods, looking at the sidewalk and the people streaming by behind him. “You can take them around the block and into a small lot where the employees park. There’s an entrance with a small red awning.”
“Perfect,” Ted says.
When the valet steps back, Ted pulls away from the curb.
“Huh,” Blitz says. “Nobody told me about the private entrance last time.”
“You didn’t ask,” Ted says.
“And you used a word with more than two syllables,” Blitz says, clapping Ted on the shoulder. “You’re all growed up.”
Ted shakes his head. “Be nice to me or I’ll Tweet your location myself.”
Blitz laughs. “I always knew my antics in high school would catch up with me. But you guys are the only ones I trust these days.”
Ted turns the wheel as we make the corner. “Nobody would have guessed that skinny little pipsqueak Benjamin Castillo would end up more famous than any of us.”
“Just goes to show you can’t count anybody out.” Blitz sits back and takes my hand. “I think this is going to work,” he says.
“All depends on who’s inside,” I say.
“It’s a pretty upscale place,” Blitz says.
“Blitz fans come in all shapes and bank accounts,” I say.
We drive through a parking lot toward the back of the building. There are two doors. One double-wide metal delivery door, and another pretty wood door with a red awning, just like the valet told us.
“This is better,” Ted says. He pulls up to the awning and hops out.
Blitz lifts the back of my hand to his lips. “You look dazzling. Here’s to nobody noticing but me.”
“Agreed,” I say. “To quiet times and just us.”
“And good food,” he adds. “Your aerial stunts made me hungry.”
Ted opens the door. We’ve just stepped out when the door beneath the awning opens. A uniformed man stands there.
“Good evening, Mr. Craven,” he says. “I didn’t see you on tonight’s list.”
“It’s under Preston Rivers,” Blitz says. “We’ve inspired a bit of a following lately.”
“Understood,” the man says. “Give me just a moment and we’ll relocate Mr. Rivers’s reservation to a more private spot in the restaurant.”
“I’ll be close by,” Ted says and heads back to the car.
We wait on a small bench in the back corner of the restaurant. The dining area is designed for privacy, with multiple walls and large plants throughout it. After a moment, the man returns. “This way, please.”
Our seat is set apart from the others, a round booth in a corner with high walls. But we do pass several tables to get to it, and it’s clear several people have recognized us.
I slide into the booth. “Let’s hope none of them have Twitter,” I mumble as Blitz sits next to me.
“You can’t get in here without a reservation. We might have people stop by, but a mob can’t get to us.”
I’m more rattled than I thought I would be. Maybe we should have stayed in. But we can’t hide in the hotel forever.
“Surely everyone is having their Valentine’s dates and not worrying about where we are,” I say.
“Sure, unless you don’t have a Valentine’s date and want to wreck someone else’s.”
The wine steward approaches and Blitz orders. The waiter brings bread, and we start to settle down. Each minute that passes makes it more likely we’ll have a peaceful meal.
“This is good,” Blitz says, dipping bread in olive oil and lifting it to my lips. His thumb runs along my cheek as I bite it.
Yes, this is fine. We’ll be fine here. I force myself to be calm.
We order prime rib and pasta and everything we’ll have to work off tomorrow. The restaurant is full of quiet murmurs and the clinking of silverware on fine china.
Dinner goes along easily and with no disruptions. We were right to come here.
The waiter has just brought us an impossibly beautiful crème brûlée to share when I feel Blitz’s hand tighten around mine on the seat. “Here we go,” he says.
I turn to follow his gaze.
And freeze.
It’s Giselle. Holding her phone.
“Just a quick selfie,” she says, leaning down to snap a quick picture of herself and Blitz.
He tries to lean away, but she’s fast. I can see from the image that she’s left me out.
“Giselle,” Blitz says. “What are you doing here?”
“Just making sure my Valentine doesn’t try to go the whole day without me!” Her voice is high and fake.
Blitz’s words are low and threatening when he says, “I’m not your anything.”
My face is hot and I can feel the food we just ate sitting heavily in my belly. I’m so angry I could actually stand up and punch this woman.
She stabs at her phone a moment. “You really should start using a different fake name when you get reservations. It only took my team fifteen minutes to find this one.”
“Why are you even in San Antonio?” Blitz asks.
“Because you are, of course!” she says merrily. She lifts her phone again. “I’m hearing that you didn’t smile in that shot. Please do better this time.” She holds up her phone.
“Just stop,” Blitz says. “I’m going to have you kicked out of here.”
“Good luck with that,” Giselle says in the false, bright voice. “I think the maître d’ likes me. He did admire this dress.” She stands up and turns for him, running her hands down her waist and hips. She’s in a red dress too, form fitting and plunging low.
It’s actually remarkably similar to mine.
She recognizes this about the same time I do. “Did Blitz pick that out for you?” Giselle asks. “His taste runs a little racy. You do seem a little innocent for the look.” She clucks her tongue. “Blitz, Blitz, Blitz. You are corrupting her, aren’t you?”
“That’s enough, Giselle. You’re not welcome.”
But Giselle isn’t through. She squeezes onto the seat. “Nobody’s heard from you about the producer’s decision. You only have a few weeks until rehearsals begin.”
Blitz’s jaw clenches. “I’m not taking calls right now.”
I keep my mouth shut, but my mind is whirling. They made a decision? Why don’t we know what it is? Normally Hannah would be here and forcing Blitz to listen to her.
“Well, your manager is trying to reach you,” Giselle says. Her phone buzzes, then again, then again. She picks it up and smiles. “And your public is waiting.”
I have a feeling I know what she’s done. Told Twitter where we are.
“Why can’t you just move on with your life?” I ask her.
Blitz tries to bite back his smile, but I can see he’s pleased that I confronted her.
Gisselle swipes her finger across her screen. “Because it isn’t time yet, dear. Blitz, you really need to school her on Hollywood politics.” She sets the phone down on the table with a slam that startles a waitress passing by with a tray.
“I’m not interested in politics,” I tell her. “We’re just here having a quiet Valentine’s dinner and you’re ruining it.”
“You know, I had a few dinners ruined by Blitz myself,” Giselle says. She looks at the crème brûlée, still perfect and brown inside its lovely white and silver dish. She picks up Blitz’s spoon and cracks the top. “Don’t get used to having him all to yourself. He belongs to his fans.”
She shoves the spoon in the dish and tries a bite. “Sugar rush,” she says. “So fattening.” She glances at my dress. “You better watch that figure.”
With that, she slides out of the booth and flounces away, her hips swinging. A waiter stops to let her by and she blows a kiss at him.
“Great, just great,” Blitz says, tossing his napkin on the table.
“Are you going to call Hannah to ask her the situation?”
“Obviously I’m still involved if I’m expected at rehearsals in a few weeks.” Blitz pulls out his phone. “And rehearsals mean dance numbers, and obviously Giselle is still in.”
I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist. “This can all wait for tomorrow,” I say. “Let’s forget them for a moment.”
Blitz nods and shoves his phone back in his pocket. “I can’t believe she just showed up here.”
“In a matching dress, no less.” I’m still smarting over that.
Blitz slides his arm around me and pulls me close. “Everybody loves a red dress on Valentine’s Day,” he says. “I’ve never even seen the one she was wearing. Giselle is good at poking people where it hurts.”
“You still have that naked picture of her?” I ask. “Because I have a caption or two to add myself.”
Blitz smiles and kisses my forehead. “I adore you, Princess. You go straight for the jugular.”
I do, I realize. That isn’t good. I can’t fight Giselle on her turf. She was right. I don’t know anything. And I don’t want to know.
Blitz waves at the waiter and pushes the spoiled crème brûlée away. “Bring us another,” he says.
I press my hand to my belly. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Are you kidding?” Blitz asks. “You are perfect.” He turns to the waiter. “Bring all three desserts out.”
The man nods and walks away.
Blitz drags me close to him. “I don’t want you schooled in the Hollywood game. I don’t want you skipping simple pleasures because somebody tries to shame you. I don’t want you listening to anything but your heart.”
“But you have to get back there,” I say. “You’ll be in LA again.”
“We’ll find out what they have in store for us tomorrow,” Blitz says. “We’ve got a secret back exit out of here. A top-notch bodyguard who knows how to use inconspicuous in a sentence. And we have each other.”
He leans in to kiss me. I know he’s right. Giselle might blow up Twitter and get a chanting crowd to fill the sidewalks outside. But we have workarounds. And people on our side.
And we definitely have impenetrable, unbreakable us.