Page 58 of Whiskey Splash

I stare at the number she sent me, contemplating what to do. Does Desmond even want to hear from me? When he snuck me out of his hotel room, maybe he was hoping that would be the end of it. He probably only gave Arie my number before our date and now—

My phone buzzes and I look to see my sister’s message.

Arie:You’re overthinking! Call him already!

Esme:Okay! Go cook some food or something, geez! I’m sure something is burning in the kitchen.

Arie:I’m giving you ten minutes. Then, I’m texting Desmond your address.

Esme:Ha. Ha.

Arie:You think I’m joking? Go ahead and test me, I double-dog-dare you.

Esme:Good night!

I program Desmond’s number into my phone and stare at it. I stare at it so long the water of my bath turns cold and all the fizzing colors mix together and turn brown.

Hit call, you chicken. Just click the damn button!

I decide to text him instead.

Esme:This is Esme. Just checking that Arie gave me the right number. Hope you’rewell.

I stare at the phone for a long moment after I hit send.Hope you’re well?What’s wrong with me? Am I a doily-crocheting grandma? Geez. Of course, he’s fine. He’s not worried about some damn photos online. This is a normal day for him. It’s nothing out of the ordinary in the life of a celebrity.

I wait to see if he’ll say something back, staring at the blank screen of my phone like a damn teenager. Several minutes go by and I put the phone back on my side table and slip down under the water till I’m up to my chin. The water is chilly now as I wrap my arms over my chest. It’s fine that he’s not responding. He’s busy, of course. Duh. He’s probably on set, strapped to some crane contraption and fighting that radiation monster with a light saber. His phone is probably in his trailer and he won’t even see that I texted for several hours. Or maybe he’s seen it and he just doesn’t care.

Which is fine.

I get out of the tub, sopping wet, grabbing my towel and stepping out. I haven’t even covered myself when my phone rings, the harsh sound cutting through the quiet and echoing against the tile of the room. I look at the screen and it’s Desmond.

My slippery wet hands bobble with the phone as I try to accept the call and not drop my phone into the water basin. I press too many buttons, my towel hanging precariously around my body as I head for my bedroom.

“Um, hello? Hi?” I practically shout into the phone as I try to catch the call and make sure I don’t miss it.

“Esme, hey.” The purr of his voice through the phone is just as sexy as when it’s in person and I hate that a piece of me is over-excited to hear it, perhaps even forcing me to admit that I miss him.

God, I’m acting like such a teenage idiot, imagining there’s something between us when I barely know him. When we are definitely not a ‘we.’ When‘we’ is nothing more than two consenting strangers who just happen to have a positively inhumane attraction to one another, that the romantic in me wants to write it in the stars like a delusional crazy person.

“Yeah, um, hi,” I say, sitting down at the edge of my bed with my wet hair dripping down my back. “I got your uh, your number from my sister. She said you gave it to her and, uh, yeah …” I trail off lamely. Note to self: stop watching all romantic comedies, STAT. They create unhealthy expectations about the world and turn you into a babbling idiot.

“I’m so glad you texted!” he says, not letting the awkwardness seep in and I brighten. “I’ve been asking Arie all day for your number, but she wouldn’t give it to me.”

“Wait, you have?” I say, sitting up confused.

“Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“And double-wait, my sister didn’t actually give it to you? That’s a first.”

“She said you needed space.” I smile into the darkness of my room, realizing she was protecting me, making sure I wanted to talk to him.

“She’s a good sister.”

“Are you—?” he pauses, leaning into the discomfort “—all right, I mean.” His voice is soft and genuine, reminding me of that hug in the bathroom. His tentative voice is like his arms, testing before enveloping me.

“I’m …” I lie back on my bed and look up at the prisms and crystals that hang from my ceiling. They’re dark now with no light and rainbows to refract, cold fists of stone. “I guess so. I’m okay, I didn’t see anything online.”

“Nothing has been put up online,” he insists, and I imagine those hands cupping my face, pleading for me to believe him. “I’ve had my people monitoring all the normal sites all day.”

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