Page 12 of Your Rule to Break
“How the fuck do they do that?” I ask, dipping another fry in the soup. All of a sudden I’m calculating how many fries are left compared to the soup ratio—I don’t want to use a spoon.
Emilie replies, “It doesn’t make sense but I love it. You know?” Another fry from the plate bites the dust before I can blink.
When we both reach for the last fry, it’s like the press gods have shined their nosey light upon us, because a photographer is getting shots at our table. Typical for an event like this—let everyone eat and as the food wraps up, come out of the woodwork to get the PR shots.
“It’s like that Disney movie! The one with the noodle and the dogs,” I joke. Lines crinkle the corner of Emilie’s eyes as she lets out a small laugh but doesn’t give up the crispy potato.
“I’m the lady.” She leans in, her eyes golden in the dim light. “And you can be the tramp.” She pops her lips at the end, hitting that P hard. It makes me laugh and tip my head down, giving her the perfect opportunity to snatch the last fry.
Shaking my head in defeat, I joke, “You’re cold.”
She shrugs her shoulders and finishes her drink. Like clockwork, Tori is at the table with fresh drinks for both of us: an Aperol Spritz for Emilie and a vodka soda with orange for me.
“Look how cute we are. A couple with the same garnish.” I shake my head, teasing, before picking up the rocks glass. I feel the bubbles on my nose before the smooth vodka and light citrus hit my tongue.
“Meant to be, I guess.” Her hand reaches over and squeezes mine, her fingers soft and nails painted her usual inky black. Emilie moves her fingers back and forth over my knuckles before catching my eyes. When she raises her eyebrows and a corner of her lip in a smile, my stomach bottoms out.
The way it sometimes does when she looks at me like that. She’s got one hell of a smirk and, fuck, if that red lipstick doesn’t make me think of where she could leave smudges on me...
Stop. This isn’t legit.Plus, Emilie isn’t the type of woman to waste her time on someone like me, romantically at least. I'm the fun friend, a good time, the one you call when you need a break from the heavy.
I’m just the guy who couldn’t keep my mouth shut. This whole fake dating thing seems like it could be fun—certainly no regrets here—but it feels there’s more at stake than me showing up as a plus one. Maybe Emilie wishes I would’ve left it alone, or that someone else would’ve stepped in?
“Do you know her?” Emilie asks, interrupting my self-deprecating rant.
I look to the woman who is clearly approaching our table. I shake my head. At first, I think she works for Trivium, but she’s not wearing a uniform.
She walks right by our table, leaving a folded up piece of paper near my drink glass.
“What in the world?” Emilie laughs and leans forward. “What does it say?”
I open the wadded up piece of paper to find a scribbled phone number.
Emilie sits back and shakes her head. “Does that happen a lot?” she asks, looking to see if the woman is around.
“Sometimes,” I tell a little white lie.
I leave out the part where, when I go out with the team, I sometimes get so many numbers that I'll draw one out at the end of the night, and that’s who I go home with.
I don’t think Emilie would be impressed with my version of phone number roulette. I mean, sometimes I embarrass myself when I think about it. Part of me knows I’m smarter than the antics and it’s always louder than the part questioning my plan for an end game.
Finishing the rest of my drink, I take the unsolicited phone number, ball it up, and put it in the leftover ice.
“That’s cold, Zack,” Emilie jokes, barely able to stifle her laugh when she takes a drink of her spritz.
I laugh at her cheesy pun, put my head in my hands, and peek through my fingers at her. She’s chewing her straw, glowing, and looks so unbothered.
Why would she be? No one saw it happen and this is just for looks.
Right?
“Ready?” I reach myhand out for Emilie to take. I turn to find her a step or two behind me, her legs on display thanks to that fucking bluedress. The one she’ll be wearing in my dreams, which may or may not involve her removing it slowly. Not that I'll tell her that.
The press buzzes about twenty feet from us. They’re outside the front door of the restaurant, perched and ready for their shots. At openings like this, there are only a couple floating around inside. It’s like an unspoken deal: we’ll let you eat, with minimal disruption, but be ready for the exit, baby.
She slips her fingers in mine right before we walk out the front. The contact warms me from the inside but puts my brain on high alert. How is it that this is the first time we’ve done this? It’s effortless and not at all like we committed to being in a fake relationship a week ago.
You’d think with today’s technology, we’d get rid of the incessant click of cameras. How haven’t we fixed that? It’s a barrage of clicks, flashes, and the occasional snap from the asshole who needs more of your attention.