Dean is wearing his favorite Tom Ford suit and that’s a problem.
Not because he doesn’t look good in it. He absolutely does. Dean is the hottest guy in existence, and I’m not saying that as his girlfriend. Like, objectively, I don’t think a better-looking man exists. And he looks good in anything. Swim trunks, sweats, khakis—he’s a walking catalogue model. But when this man puts on his designer suits, it’s dangerous.
As it is, I’m having a tough time controlling my libido at the sight of that wool and silk blend jacket stretching across his broad shoulders. The crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal the strong column of his throat.
But the fact that he’s wearing his special occasion suit and had arranged for a romantic dinner at the penthouse tells me I’ve messed up. Big time.
What occasion am I missing, damn it?
It’s not my birthday. I don’t think it’s our anniversary either, although that date is trickier to pinpoint because we’ve got a few options. There’s the anniversary of when we hooked up for the first time, which I don’t count because we were both drunk. Granted, not drunk enough not to know what we were doing, but I can’t have alcohol tainting a special day.
Personally, I consider our anniversary to be the first time we had sober sex, which occurred a few weeks after the drunken night. Either way, neither of those dates were in the spring.
Maybe we’re celebrating the anniversary of when we got back together after I broke up with Dean that one time? Ugh. But I’m pretty sure that was in April. Today is May 5.
Wait. Cinco de Mayo maybe? Do we celebrate that now?
I feel like the worst girlfriend in the world.
“Are you going to speak?” Dean asks cheerfully.
Which is when I realize it’s been nearly four silent minutes of me lost in my thoughts, trying to figure out why we’re having dinner. I’m such an asshole.
“Sorry.” And then, because I’m always honest with him, I clasp my hands on the tablecloth and say, “I fucked up.”
Amusement flickers in his green eyes. “Okay… How so?”
“I don’t know why we’re here!” I wail.
He chuckles. “Like on Earth? The universe? Is this an existential thing, Allie-Cat?”
“No, I mean here at the penthouse. You called and said to meet you here and told me it’s a special occasion and I should dress up. And now I’m wearing this dress, and we’re sitting at this table, and I don’t know why. Is it for Cinco de Mayo?”
“Cinco de Mayo?” His forehead creases. “I mean, no, but we could start celebrating that if you want.”
I huff out a miserable breath. “Did I miss our anniversary?”
“No. That’s in October.”
“Thank you! So you also count it from the first time we had the real sex?”
“Yeah.” He starts to laugh. “The real sex.” Then he grins. “Can we just enjoy this dinner, please? It’s not an anniversary. Just chillax. Look, I got your favorite bread.”
He got my favorite everything. There is an obscene amount of pasta on this table. Grilled zucchini and mushrooms over fettuccini alfredo. Baked ziti in a rose sauce. Penne and spinach-stuffed chicken baked in mozzarella-laden tomato sauce. My mouth waters as I try to decide what I want to try first. Normally I wouldn’t allow myself to carb load during filming, but it’s our last week on set and I don’t need to watch my weight anymore.
I haven’t eaten since I got home from the studio hours ago, because Dean said to make sure I have an appetite. So I dig in, piling pasta on my plate. Dean doesn’t follow suit. Instead, he watches me eat until I finally shift in discomfort.
“Are you just going to sit there watching me eat? That’s weird.”
“What’s weird about it?”
“It’s weird! Pick up your fork and eat something.”
He obeys, albeit rolling his eyes while doing it. His throat dips as he swallows a piece of bread. It’s from our favorite bakery around the corner from our apartment. I think they bake it in a vat of garlic and oil, but I don’t care.
“Soooo good,” I mumble through a mouthful of bread.
Dean’s watching me again, this time with hooded eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Except I know exactly why. Because my mouth is full, and he’s totally picturing me giving him a blowjob.
“I’m picturing you giving me a blowjob,” he says.
I almost choke on my pasta from laughter. “God, never change, babe.”
“I don’t plan on it.” He pauses. “Actually, scratch that. Not all changes are bad, right?”
“I guess not.” I think he’s referring to the fact that The Delaneys is ending and I’m going to have to find something new. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better about work, though. I already told Ira to send me as many scripts and treatments as he can. I’m sure a meaty new role will come along.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course. But I wasn’t just talking about career changes. I meant other changes too.”
Where on earth is he going with this?
He takes a small sip of his water, then wipes his mouth with a linen napkin that probably cost more than half the furniture in my dad’s house. It always feels so surreal when I come to this multimillion-dollar penthouse. And don’t get me started on the Di Laurentis mansion in Greenwich, which has an honest-to-God skating rink on the grounds, and more than one pool.
Wariness crawls up my spine as I study Dean’s face. He’s acting strange again. One of his big hands moves from the table to rest at the top of his abdomen, as if he’s about to slide it down to his pocket and—
Holy shit.
Oh no.
He’s not actually going to…
When he reaches into his pocket, I realize, oh yes he is.
Suddenly it all clicks in my brain. Fancy dinner with all my favorite dishes from our favorite spots. Our dressy clothes. This penthouse. I know for a fact Dean’s mom is in the city, which means he must’ve sent her back to Connecticut in order to clear out the place for us.
Dean’s hand is about to emerge from his pocket when I stop him with a sharp, “Don’t.”
He freezes. “What?”
“Is this a proposal?” I demand.
The sheepish gleam in his eyes is all the confirmation I need.
“Dean.” It’s a warning.
“What?”
“Why are you doing this? And tonight of all nights?”
Confusion clouds his face. “Why? Because it’s Cinco de Mayo? Fuck, I didn’t realize you cared so much about—”
“I don’t care about that! I care that we’ve had a bunch of conversations about this subject. We talked about it, Dean. We agreed marriage and kids and all that stuff was something we’d discuss in the future.”
“It is the future,” he points out. “We’ve been together four years.”
Frustration sticks to my throat, making it difficult to speak. Along with it comes a burn of irritation that I know I probably shouldn’t feel, but…seriously? Had he not listened to a word I said during all those discussions? I told him I wasn’t ready. And I’d reiterated it just before Tucker and Sabrina got married, because I suspected something like this would happen, that the wedding fever would infect all the boys. The four of them are ridiculously close and tend to copy whatever the other does. Like, Garrett gets into a serious relationship in college, and the next thing you know, Logan is professing his love to Grace on the radio and Tucker’s knocking up Sabrina. So yeah, I’d made sure to clearly articulate my feelings to Dean.
And it bothers me that either he wasn’t listening or decided to completely disregard my wishes.
“You look pissed,” he says warily.
“I’m not pissed.” I tamp down my annoyance. “I just don’t understand why you would plan this whole thing when I made it clear I’m not ready to take that step.”
“I figured you meant you weren’t ready for, like, the babies. The wedding.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t see what the big deal about an engagement is.”
“Because it’s all tied together for me. An engagement is a step toward a marriage, and a marriage is a step toward a baby, and I don’t want any of that right now.”
“So you’re telling me if I pull out this box that’s in my pocket and I ask you to marry me, you’re going to say no?” His tone is as flat as his expression.
There’s a strange clenching in my chest, making my heart contract. I never anticipated having to answer a question like that. I figured when he proposed, it would be because we were both ready. And he would know we were both ready, because I always, always tell him where I’m at emotionally. Apparently he just chose to ignore it.
“I would say…maybe?” I stammer. “I don’t know, Dean.”
“You would say maybe?” His voice is like a knife’s edge. Eyes dark and glinting. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
My jaw hardens. “And I can’t believe you didn’t listen when I said I wasn’t ready to get engaged.”
Dean takes a breath. He looks at me for a moment. I glimpse the pain in his eyes, and I know I hurt him. But he masks it quickly, his expression shuttering as he grabs his still-full wineglass and drinks half of it in one gulp.
Still gripping the glass, he meets my gaze again. “Do you love me?”
I stare at him in disbelief. “You know I do.”
“Do you see yourself with me in the future?”
“You know I do.”
“But you don’t want to marry me.”
My frustration returns in full force. “You know I want to marry you. Just not right now.”
“What difference does it make if it’s now or a year from now?” he challenges.
“Do I seriously have to explain it again? I literally just told you how I feel about it. You’re just choosing not to listen!” I draw a calming breath. “Every time we talked about it before, you said you were okay with waiting.”
“Well, maybe I’m not okay with it. Maybe I want to get married. Soon.”
“And it’s always about what you want?”
“No, apparently it’s always about what you want.”
“Oh, bullshit.” Now he’s just being an ass. “We compromise all the time. Our relationship has always been fifty-fifty, Dean, and you know it.”
“What I know is that I wanted to propose to my girlfriend tonight, and she doesn’t want to hear it, so…fuck this.”
He slams his wineglass down and scrapes back his chair. Doesn’t even look my way as he gets up and heads for the doorway.
“Dean!” I yell after him.
But he’s already stalking out of the opulent dining room. A moment later, I hear the ding of the elevator that leads to the Heyward Plaza Hotel below us.
I sit there staring at Dean’s empty chair and wonder what the hell just happened.
