Page 43 of Win Big

“Oh my God.”

It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive, straight down Wilshire to West Hollywood. I circle the area around the restaurant a few times and can’t find anywhere to park. As I’m driving down a side street, I spot a church with an empty parking lot and hang a right into it.

“Is this okay?” Everly asks.

“Sure. It’s a church. It’s not Sunday. It’ll be fine.”

We stroll down the street toward Melrose, turn left, and there’s Rossignol.

“This is beautiful.” Everly eyes the vine-covered exterior.

Inside, the area on our right is dark and seductive, a fire burning in a low fireplace, patrons lining the bar, where a bearded bartender is shaking up a cocktail.

The hostess seats us right away in the dining room, which is warm and elegant, with dark wood floors and furniture, and white tablecloths. A small lamp glows on each table and we’re seated against a brick wall with creeping figs climbing up it.

“This is lovely,” Everly says when we’re settled, gazing around the room.

I smile in satisfaction. “Had to be somewhere good enough for a princess.”

“I’m not sure I like that nickname.”

“It’s better than Vagina Hunter.”

She drops her head forward, shoulders shaking. “Okay, yes.”

We order wine after a short consultation with the server, who seems very knowledgeable, but make no move to look at dinner menus yet.

“So.” Everly looks at me directly. “How was your day?”

“It was . . . busy.”

“So I understood, since you couldn’t do the photos today.”

“I had some personal stuff I had to do. It’s done.” I adjust the cutlery on the table. “How about you?”

“Busy also.”

Well, that’s pretty superficial conversation. I’m aware that my reluctance to share certain parts of my life makes it difficult to be... close. That’s okay, though, because I’ve never wanted to be intimate with women I date. Basically, I just want to have a good time.

But with Everly, I feel... guilty for not opening up. Heather and Owen are a big part of my life, but that also means opening up about a part of my life I don’t want to talk about. Ever. So I don’t go there.

“Your father calls you Evvie.”

She blinks. “Yes.”

“That’s cute.”

One corner of her mouth lifts. “I guess.”

“I’m not going to call you that.”

“Ooookay.”

“If you don’t like princess, I can call you... Cutie.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“Cutie Patootie.”

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