“So what are we watching?” Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Shirts glances at the television screen. It’s paused to the opening credits of the episode I was about to play before Dean showed up.
“Solange,” I answer.
He wrinkles his nose. “What’s Solange?”
“It’s a French soap opera I’m watching so I can learn to speak the language.”
Dean snickers. “You know there’s a French department at this college, right? Classes you can take?”
“Yeah, where all you do is conjugate verbs and learn how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is. I’m all about immersion. If I hear people talking in French for long enough, I’ll pick it up a lot faster.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How’s it going so far?”
“Not great—” He snickers again “But I’m only on season one,” I protest. “I’m sure after a few more seasons, I’ll be fluent.”
Dean looks at the screen, then back at me. I can tell he’s debating whether he made a grave error by coming over tonight. But he surprises me by saying, “All right. Catch me up. What’s this show about?”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“As a heart attack.”
“Really?” I beam at him, because this is the first time anyone has offered to watch this show with me. My friends refuse to, though to Hannah’s credit, she did manage to sit through the pilot. Afterward, she informed me that she’d rather have crows peck at her eyes than watch the next episode. Honestly, I don’t blame her. It’s not a good show. I know this. But what started off as a language exercise ended with me getting totally hooked. It’s like crack to me now.
“Okay, so that’s Solange.” I press play, and a gorgeous redhead with massive boobs and a teeny waist appears on the screen.
“Ah,” he says. “The titular character.”
“You only used that word because it has tit in it.”
“Obvs. Tits are great.”
I sigh. “Anyway, Solange is dating Sebastian—”
“Sebastian, huh? That’s my middle name.” He pauses. “Well, one of them,” he amends.
My brow furrows. “How many middle names do you have?”
“Two. My full name’s Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis.”
I shake my head in dismay. “What is wrong with your parents? Why would they give you so many names? Did they want you to get made fun of in school?”
That makes him chuckle. “Trust me, it’s nothing compared to some of the dudes at my prep school. This one guy I played lacrosse with had six middle names.”
“So you’re saying it’s a rich person thing? Cram as many unnecessary syllables on your kid’s birth certificate?”
“Naah, it’s usually done to acknowledge the grandparents or some other wealthy relative.” He shrugs. “Sebastian is my grandfather on my dad’s side, Kendrick is on my mom’s.”
I guess that makes sense. But man, his full name is a total mouthful.
As something catches my eye, I quickly point at the screen. “See that guy lurking in the corner? The one with the mustache? That’s Antoine. He’s stalking Solange.”
Dean gives a mock gasp. “The plot thickens!”
I give him the finger. “But, in the last episode, we found out the reason he’s stalking her, and it’s not because he wants to jiggle down.”
“Jiggle down?”
“You know, fuck her.”
“Right.” His lips twitch like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “So why’s he creeping on her then?”
“Because her mother paid him to.” I lower my voice, then feel like an idiot, because it’s not like Solange can fucking hear me. “Oooh, and get this. Last episode there was another huge twist. Solange’s colleague from the modeling agency—oh, there she is.” On the screen, a stunning blonde enters the restaurant and sashays her way to Solange’s table. “That’s her mother,” I inform Dean. “Solange’s mother is pretending to be her colleague!”
He frowns. “How does that work? They’re the same age.”
“Nope,” I say smugly. “This is where the cosmetic company comes in.”
Dean looks utterly lost. “What cosmetic company?”
“Beauté éternelle. I looked it up, and it stands for Eternal Beauty. Solange’s family owns it. Oh, and her father and uncle are big-time plastic surgeons. Anyway, Solange thinks her mother ran off when she was a kid. Well, her mother did run off, actually. But after the dad died, Marie-Thérèse came back to the French Riviera and blackmailed the uncle into doing plastic surgery on her, so now she looks like a totally different person. Solange has no idea that she’s spent the last six months working with her mother.”
“Allie.” Dean leans forward and fixes me with an eerily somber stare. “This show is fucking stupid.”
“I know,” I say sheepishly. “But it’s addictive. Trust me, one episode of this crap and you’ll be hooked.”
“Sorry, baby doll, but I can pretty much guarantee that’s not gonna happen.”
*
Dean
It happened.
God help me. I’m into this show.
I came over tonight with the single-minded purpose of working the charm and convincing Allie to get naked with me again. Instead, I’m sipping on a margarita, I’ve just watched two hours’ worth of a French soap opera, and now I’m texting Logan to let him know I won’t make it to Malone’s. Because…God help me…I want to know what happens next.
Marie-Thérèse and Antoine hooked up in the last episode, which ended with a crazed Marie-Thérèse holding a letter opener to his throat—when there was no previous indication that she had any sort of beef with Antoine. Or hell, maybe there was and we just didn’t pick up on it because we don’t fucking speak French.
“I still don’t get why she has a grudge against Solange,” I admit as Allie hovers over the coffee table to top off our margaritas. The wide neckline of her shirt shifts to one side, providing me with a view of one bare shoulder and the swell of her left boob.
I’m about to comment on how the sexy view is much appreciated, then think better of it. I promised I wouldn’t hit on her tonight, and if I break that promise she might kick me out before I find out why Marie-Thérèse tried to kill Antoine.
Allie flops down beside me, and I give myself a mental high-five because she didn’t leave a foot of distance between us this time. We’re inches apart now, which tells me she’s starting to warm up to me.
“I’m not sure either. I haven’t figured out the whole backstory yet. I think it has something to do with Solange’s father loving his daughter more than his wife,” Allie muses. “There were some flashbacks in the earlier episodes that heavily implied he wanted to jiggle down with his daughter.”
“Kinky.”
She snickers.
We go quiet as the next episode picks up exactly where it left off. Antoine manages to subdue Marie-Thérèse, and the two proceed to argue for ten minutes. Don’t ask me about what, because it’s in French, but I do notice that the same word—héritier—keeps popping up over and over again during their fight.
“Okay, we need to look up that word,” I say in aggravation. “I think it’s important.”
Allie grabs her cell phone and swipes her finger on the screen. I peek over her shoulder as she pulls up a translation app. “How do you think you spell it?” she asks.
We get the spelling wrong three times before we finally land on a translation that makes sense: heir.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “They’re talking about the father’s will.”
“Shit, that’s totally it. She’s pissed off that Solange inherited all those shares of Beauté éternelle.”
We high five at having figured it out, and in the moment our palms meet, pure clarity slices into me and I’m able to grasp precisely what my life has become.
With a growl, I snatch the remote control and hit stop.
“Hey, it’s not over yet,” she objects.
“Allie.” I draw a steady breath. “We need to stop now. Before my balls disappear altogether and my man-card is revoked.”
One blond eyebrow flicks up. “Who has the power to revoke it?”
“I don’t know. The Man Council. The Stonemasons. Jason Statham. Take your pick.”
“So you’re too much of a manly man to watch a French soap opera?”
“Yes.” I chug the rest of my margarita, but the salty flavor is another reminder of how low I’ve sunk. “Jesus Christ. And I’m drinking margaritas. You’re bad for my rep, baby doll.” I shoot her a warning look. “Nobody can ever know about this.”
“Ha. I’m going to post it all over the Internet. Guess what, folks—Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis is over at my place right now watching soaps and drinking girly drinks.” She sticks her tongue out at me. “You’ll never get laid again.”
She’s right about that. “Can you at least add that the night ended with a blowjob?” I grumble. “Because then everyone will be like, oh, he suffered through all that so he could get his pole waxed.”
“Your pole waxed? That’s such a gross description.” But her eyes are bright and she’s laughing as she says it.
Christ, she’s so pretty. And sexy…so goddamn sexy. I wonder why I never noticed it before, but I guess it’s because every time I saw her prior to Friday night, she was glued to her boyfriend’s side.
The moment I think about Allie’s ex, her phone buzzes. Speak of the devil.
“What does he want now?” I have trouble hiding my irritation, but she’s too distracted by the text message to notice.
She tilts the screen toward me, and my annoyance grows. So can we meet up 4 coffee? it says. I really need 2 talk 2 u.
“Say no,” I advise.
Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. “It’s…hard.”
“You have no problem saying no to me.”
“I didn’t date you for three years,” she points out.
I gently take the phone from her hand and set it on the table. “Okay. You ready for some real talk?”
She nods shakily.
“Sean is going to keep texting you. He’s going to keep emailing and calling and doing everything in his power to win you back. You want to know why? Because you’re smart and funny and smoking hot, and he knows he’s a total idiot for letting you go.”
Surprise fills her eyes.
“He’s going to keep at it. Which means you need to learn to ignore it.” I study her face. “That is, if you’re serious about moving on.”
She nods again, resolute this time. “I am.”
“Then move the fuck on, babe. You can’t run to your friend’s boyfriend’s house or hide out in the dorm every night. Tell the guy you don’t want to talk to him, and then go out and find yourself some distractions. I can help you, if you want.”
“Let me guess,” she says dryly “You volunteer as sexual tribute?”
“Nope. For once, I’m not talking about sex.”
“What do you suggest then?”
I grin. “I think you need to live the Life of Dean.”
“Huh. Okay. So I should throw on some hockey pads, let a bunch of behemoths smash me into the boards every night, and reward myself with a never-ending string of casual sexual encounters. Got it.”
I lean in and tug a strand of her hair. “Don’t be an ass.”
“My apologies.” She smiles. “Please, tell me more about the Life of Dean.”
My hand travels across her smooth cheek to grasp her chin. “Look at me, Allie-Cat. Does it look like I have many problems? Are you ever going to find me moping in my room or stressing out about trivial bullshit?”
“No,” she says slowly.
“I’m an overall happy person, right?”
Her suspicious gaze locks with mine. “Yes. But how is that even possible? Nobody is happy all the time.”
“It’s absolutely possible.” I rub my thumb over her lower lip. Her lips are so fucking soft. I’m dying to kiss them again. “You want to know my secret?”
“Mmmm?” She sounds distracted. I stroke her lips again, and I’m gratified when her breath hitches.
“I do what I want, when I want it. And I don’t give a shit what other people think about me.”
That gets her attention. “Sounds nice, being able to do what you want all the time. Sadly, that’s not how life works.”
“You make life work for you, babe.” My fingers travel down her slender throat, skimming over her pulse point. “What do you want, Allie? Tell me one thing you’ve been dying to do but haven’t gotten around to doing.”
Her forehead furrows as she thinks it over. “Well. I’ve been wanting to start a new cleanse, but I keep putting it off.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“I go on these juice cleanses a couple times a year,” she explains. “It sucks, because you’re stuck on a liquid diet for two whole weeks, but you feel so much better afterward.”
“You’re a fucking weirdo. Pick something else. Something normal.”
She pauses, deep in thought again, and then her expression brightens. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to salsa dance.”
Fuck. That’s such a chick thing to say. “Then do it,” I tell her.
She chews on her lip again. “I don’t know… I mentioned it to Sean once but he didn’t want to take lessons with me, and I was too embarrassed to go alone. I looked into it and found out that if you show up alone, they pair you up with a random partner.”
“So what? It’s an opportunity to make some new friends.” I shrug. “I think you should sign up.”
“Are you offering to take salsa dancing lessons with me?” Her expression is hopeful.
I snort. “No way. I only do what I want, remember? And I do not want to salsa dance. But I think you should.”
“Maybe I will,” she says thoughtfully.
“That’s the spirit.” I give her chin a teasing pinch. “Stick with me, kid, and your entire life will change for the better. That’s the Di Laurentis guarantee.”
Allie heaves out a sigh.
“What?” I demand.
“I can’t decide if you’re being sincere or if you’re trying to get in my pants again.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Who says it can’t be both?” When that gets me another sigh, my voice becomes gruff. “I’m being sincere.”
“Wow. I think you actually mean that.”
For some reason, her careful scrutiny has me shifting uneasily. And I’m suddenly wholly aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt. She is too, because those big blue eyes drift lower, focusing on my abs before she wrenches her gaze away. The air between us seems to crackle. Allie’s pupils are dilated, and there’s no mistaking the rapid flutter of her pulse in the center of her throat.
I know arousal when I see it. Little Dean knows it too, and he promptly thickens behind my zipper.
“Allie…” My voice comes out hoarse.
She’s off the couch before I can blink. “Annnnd it’s time for you to go.”
She sounds overly cheerful, and I can tell she’s struggling to control the same waves of desire that are practically swallowing me whole.
When I remain seated, she frowns deeply. “Shirt up and go home, Dean.”
“Allie.” Slowly, I rise to my feet. My mouth is full of gravel as I say, “I want—”
She whips up her hand. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I mean it, it’s time to go.”
I want to ask her how long she’s going to keep fighting this, but since I know it’ll only piss her off further, I keep my mouth shut and do what the lady asked—I leave.
On the drive home, I resign myself to another night of getting up close and personal with my right hand.
