“You look very handsome,” she says in a soft voice, almost as if she’s nervous to be giving compliments, as if she’s not used to it.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “I hope you’re not tired of hearing it from me.”
She shakes her head in answer, a small smile tugging at her lips, and all these little gestures remind me that this really is a first date. But the moment is shattered when the waiter appears.
“Can I start you off with something to drink?”
I turn to Jill. “Belvedere and soda?”
She smiles instantly. “You remember.”
“Of course.”
“And are you going to have Glenlivet on the rocks?”
“You remember too,” I say, and I tell myself not to read anything into it, but it’s too late. It already makes me want her even more. All of her. I turn to the waiter and give him our drinks order. He leaves.
“I remember everything about having drinks with you at Sardi’s,” she says in a sweet voice that damn near melts me.
“You do?”
She nods, and I wait a beat, thinking she’ll tell me next that it was because I cast her, because I gave her her first big break. But instead, she says, “Because I was with you.” Then her hand is on my shirt, and she traces lazy circles around one of the buttons, whispering in my ear, “I want to kiss you, but I’m afraid to do it in public.”
“Why?”
“Because I worry if someone might see us.”
“And so what if someone does?”
“Davis,” she says in a chiding voice.
“What? I don’t know why it’s a big thing.”
“Maybe not to you. But to me it would be,” she says and there’s the slightest note of hurt.
“Why?”
She pulls back to give me a curious look. “Really? You can’t figure it out?”
“No. Maybe you could just say it,” I say, a bit irritated.
“I don’t want anyone to think I got the part in the show because I’m sleeping with you.”
It dawns on me that she’d want to protect her reputation as a rising star. I get it. I do. Still, it’s a reminder that actresses put their careers first. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why I’m chasing a woman who has erected so many barriers for me—from her job to her love of another man.
But I’m doing it because she’s worth it. Everything about her, from her talent to her beauty to her gorgeous heart, is worth all the obstacles. She makes me want to clear every single one.
“You’ve already made it,” she continues. “You have three Tonys, an Oscar, you have producers probably falling at your feet to have you direct. I’m just starting out, and I want to have a long career in this business.”
“I guess I don’t worry that much about what people think about my private life. And I don’t think you should either,” I say, and then, because I can’t resist pointing out the flaw in her logic, I add, “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Not yet,” she says, and her hands are still on my shirt. I glance down at the way she’s tracing the buttons, as if she’s dying to take my shirt off.
“But if you don’t want anyone to think that, then why are you touching me like this?”
“Because it’s hard for me to keep my hands off of you.” But she says it in a brusque voice as she turns away to pick up the menu. This woman is hot and cold, and almost impossible to read.
“Let’s figure out what to order,” I say.
After the waiter brings our drinks, Jill orders the wild salmon with green beans and I opt for the sautéed filet of sturgeon. I hold up the glass. “To the long and ridiculously successful career I know you’re going to have.”
She smiles, softening once more, then clinks her glass to mine. “And to dinner.”
Her eyes stray, and she looks at my hand. She takes a drink, puts her glass down, and reaches for my hand, tracing a soft finger across the scar. Her tone shifts to a more serious one, as if she’s let go of the sexy Jill and now she’s a more emotional one.
“You said this happened when your parents died. You punched the glass window of the door. Can I ask what happened to them?”
I like that she’s direct. That she’s asking me without hesitation in her voice because I don’t want her or anyone to feel sorry for me. “They died in a car crash one February night. They were in the city. They were huge theater fans—that’s where I got it from—and had actually been seeing a play the night they died. It had started snowing, and my dad was driving them home to where we lived in Westchester. A car coming the other way lost control on an ice patch, and they died instantly on impact. Police came later that night. Told me what happened,” I say, and as I recount that awful night, my chest tightens, remembering opening the door to be greeted not by my parents, but by the solemn-faced officer come to bear bad news. It’s been more than a decade since that night, and I’ve dealt, I’ve managed, I’ve moved past it the only way you can—to go through it. Still, the memory is like a knife reopening an old wound, letting it bleed out yet another time. “I didn’t believe it at first.”
“You were in shock,” she says softly, and there’s something in her voice that says she knows the feeling all too well. She runs her finger across the scar.