Page 15 of I Think He Knows

And just like that, I sweep all my thoughts about Carter not feeling what I feel back under the carpet. Right back where they belong.

6

CARTER

I’m sitting opposite one of the sexiest women on earth.

At least, according toPeoplemagazine. And I’m very aware that several men in the restaurant would, as Anthony would say, give their left testicle to be in my current position.

They’d be welcome to switch spots with me.

Because despite whatPeoplemagazine says, when I look at Freya DiMauritz, I see a woman who is objectively gorgeous, sure, but her beauty stirs up zeroanythingin me.

We’ve been making painful small talk since she arrived—mostly about burrata (which we both like) and caesar salad (which we both agree tastes best when the dressing is made fresh with egg yolks). So basically, we’ve been going over the restaurant menu.

Like I said,painful.

She also ordered something named a “Porn Star Martini” inthattone of voice. One disbelieving glance at the menu confirmed that this is, apparently, a real drink.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. These things are delicious… and dangerous,” she says in a breathy voice, blinking her long lashes at me in a way that I’m sure is meant to raise my blood pressure. She keeps her eyes on me as she takes a big gulp of yellowy liquid. All I can think is that it reminds me of Lana Mae’s hilarious pineapple juice incident that I’ve never let her live down.

I wonder how her date is going.

While Freya films a video for her social media, I can’t help but shoot Lana a quick “How’s the date going?” text. You know, casually checking in.

But in reality, it’s all I can think about right now. She hasn’t dated in so many years and now she’s on her, what, seventh date (oh, who am I kidding? Iknowit’s her seventh date) in just a couple months. I wish I knew why. What changed for her?

She seemed convinced at the dress shop earlier that I was going on my own date this evening, but she’s wrong (and it isn’t the only thing she was wrong about—shedidlook great in that dress). This dinneris a work meeting set up by our managers, and it’s the first time we’ve ever met in person. Freya’s looking to move away from her squeaky-clean Disney Channel star image, and being seen with me is apparently just the ticket to achieve that. In turn, Elena figured that proximity to Freya would be good formyimage—a few paparazzi shots of us looking cozy together would give the media something to talk about other than my now-infamous altercation.

Not that I care a dime about my reputation. I’d ruin it again in a heartbeat if I had to.

But my being considered for the role of a lifetime in thisIf Onlymovie is hanging in the balance of my public image, which is also hanging by a thread.

So here we are. Smoothing appearances to keep everyone happy.

I take a sip of my old-fashioned. Set the glass down. Wipe my hands on my pants. It smells like a bizarre combination of butter and bergamot in here, the scents of freshly prepared gourmet food mingling with notes of designer perfume.

It’s kind of giving me a headache. Or maybe it’s the fact that everyone in the place is rubbernecking, surreptitiously—and not so surreptitiously—looking at Freya and me like we’re goldfish in a bowl.

I know how lucky I am to do what I do for a living, and how lucky I was that one random audition to be an extra in some random movie ultimately set into motion what would eventually become a very successful career. Well, it was a matter of luck and taking on some pretty odd roles in my early days in LA (which are way too hilariously embarrassing to revisit, trust me). But no matter how many years go by, I’m still not used to being on the receiving end of such stares.

Freya is apparently much more skilled at this; she doesn’t seem to notice the gawking one bit. But as she holds out her glass and indicates that I should try a sip of her drink, it occurs to me that she also doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo about this evening’s not-a-date status.

“No, thanks. I’m good with my drink.” I give Freya a pleasant smile.

“Have you seen what I can do with these?” Her green eyes gleam as she reaches over the table for something, and in the process, gives me an eyeful of cleavage.

I avert my eyes in a polite, gentlemanly fashion because, despite what the tabloids might say, I’m not quite the “hit ‘em and quit ‘em Hollywood bad boy” (their words, not mine) that constantly sleeps with supermodels. Sure, I’ve done my fair share of casual dates and dinners and dalliances, but the majority of the media stories that romantically link me to other stars are fabrications. Like last summer, when I apparently had a “steamy weekend affair” in Palm Springs with a pop star I’ve literally never met. I was in Omaha at the time, wrapping up filming on a post-apocalyptic zombie movie, and the only action I got that weekend was an undead actress attempting to eat my brains.

Those stories always seemed harmless to me. Ridiculous made-up crap that people could choose to believe or not. Stories that, according to Elena, were actuallygoodfor my career progression.

Until they weren’t.

Truth is, I find it difficult to date seriously because, while there are lots of wonderful women out there, I don’t ever enjoy their company as much as I do Lana Mae’s. In fact, spending time at home in Atlanta with Lana and Legs is better than any date I’ve ever gone on.

This past visit home was particularly good, and I’m sad to be back in LA this evening. Spending time with Lana energizes me. She’s like a battery charger for my soul.

“Carter?” Freya prompts.