The One That I Want Page 10

  He leveled a speculative gaze at me, his jaw dropping open and then closing again. “Okay,” he said finally. “I misjudged you when we met. You misjudged me when I sent the flowers and the tickets. No more assumptions, Julia Meriwether Crane.”

  The voices and footsteps behind us were closing in now.

  Dane leaned toward me, tugged at my sleeve, and motioned toward the red EXIT sign at the other end of the hall, which led to the back door of the radio station. “Meet me at the corner of Western and Spring in ten minutes. Look for a dark-blue Lexus. It’s my rent-a-car for the month.”

  “What? No. We’re not leaving here together—”

  “You’re right. We’re leaving here separately.” He pointed to the speckled floor tiles we were standing on. “But, I’m picking you up and taking you back to my old neighborhood, just for a couple of hours, I promise, so we can talk uninterrupted. I know a great place.”

  My head swirled with a funnel cloud of thoughts that both conflicted and were just plain confusing. “But why would you want to—”

  “A million reasons. The question you should be asking is why wouldn’t you want to go to a place that has the most amazing brownies in North America.”

  “Brownies?” I squinted at him. Was this about food? Because it seemed to be about a whole lot more, but I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it.

  “See,” he said with the unmistakable tone of triumph. “You’re intrigued, aren’t you?”

  More like speechless. I stared at him, mute for a moment but, yes…undeniably, intrigued. I nodded, but I also said, “Dane, there have to be scores of people here who—”

  “Want to talk to me?” he said, finishing my sentence. “Maybe. But I’m done talking to most of them for today. We, however, are not done with this conversation yet.” He motioned between us with his fingers. “I said no more assumptions. I’m a man of my word, no matter what that skanky chick from the Tinseltown Buzz said about me or whatever fiction about my life they’ll run next week in that crappy little tabloid everyone knows as the Hollywood Kerfuffle.” He grimaced. “Ten minutes. Will you meet me, Julia? Please?”

  “Don’t you have to perform tonight?”

  “Nope. The theater’s dark on Monday.”

  “I’m told getting into cars with strange men is dangerous.”

  “True,” he agreed. “And I may be a strange man, but I’m not a stranger to you anymore, am I?”

  I didn’t answer this. I thought I’d had enough of dealing with men for a while. All of them, with all of their issues. But this was a pretty unusual circumstance. It also wasn’t a “date” or anything. It was just a conversation. With the movie star I’d always dreamed of talking to in person. And though I wasn’t going to admit it to Dane, no, I didn’t think of him as a stranger.

  The people behind us were talking loudly, probably trying to get Dane to turn around and chat with them. The door back into the reception room suddenly swung open and a reporter lady I hadn’t seen earlier said, “Oh, good! Mr. Tyler, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I had a few more questions about—”

  “Just a moment, please,” he told her, never looking away from my face. Waiting for my response.

  I bit my lip and nodded. “Fine,” I whispered. “But you’d better not be exaggerating about those brownies.”

  He laughed. “I’m not.” And then turned back to his adoring public and the always insatiable members of the press.

  I walked down the hallway in a daze and pushed open the door leading to the stairs and the street below. Was I really going to go somewhere and have a private conversation with my film idol? I never would have imagined—

  “Jules,” a voice behind me called.

  Kristopher. Oh, damn.

  Walking past Dane Tyler and the crowd in the hall, Kristopher shot the actor a distrustful look and trailed me to the exit door. “Leaving already?” he asked, blocking my retreat.

  “I’ve been here for a couple of hours,” I informed him. “It’s time for me to go.”

  “Saw you talking with the big movie star,” he said with fake jollity. “Looked real…friendly between you two.”

  To me, his words had the uncomfortable ring of an accusation. My defensiveness rose in response.

  “Yes, well, it was pretty loud in the reception room. Were you in there?”

  “For a bit,” he said. Then he glanced at his watch. “Hey, got any plans for dinner? I was thinking of grabbing a couple of sandwiches at the deli, or maybe going somewhere more romantic, and—”

  “I’m sorry, Kristopher. I do have plans. I need to meet someone in just a few minutes actually.” I noticed Dane had disappeared from the crowd down the hall. He did say he was a man of his word. If he told me to be ready in ten minutes, I was guessing that wasn’t just an estimate on his part. “I have to get going now. Perhaps another time?”

  Kristopher crossed his arms. “What are you doing?”

  Jeez! None of your damned business.

  “Getting dessert,” I said simply.

  He snickered in apparent disbelief. “After all of The Gala pastries in there?” He pointed in the direction of the reception room. “Why?”

  “Because I want to,” I said with finality, realizing the instant the words were out of my mouth that they were one hundred percent true. I did want to talk with Dane for a little longer—brownies or no. “See you later,” I said to Kristopher.

  I pushed my way past him to the landing, headed down the stairs, and exited onto Western.

  My ex-high-school boyfriend wasn’t quite as easy to shake as I’d hoped, though.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, his long legs having no trouble catching up with me and matching my stride.

  The parking lot for the radio station and for several of the local businesses skirted the sidewalk next to us. At the corner of the lot was the intersection of Western Way and Spring Street.

  “Where are you going?” he asked me as I race walked right past my vehicle.

  I didn’t have to give him an answer, though, because just then a speedy dark-blue Lexus zipped out of the parking lot and idled at the corner. Dane was in the driver’s seat. He revved the engine impatiently— just for effect, I more than suspected—and motioned for me to hurry.

  A little laugh escaped my lips as I skipped toward the car.

  Kristopher did not look remotely amused but, then, he wasn’t in on the joke.

  I waved him off with a pleasant, “Gotta go! Talk to you soon,” and hopped into the passenger seat of Dane’s rented car.

  Kristopher squinted after me and got as far as saying, “Is that Dane T—?” before Dane hit the gas and we sped away.

  Literally.

  The guy was driving at least twenty miles above the posted speed limit.

  I glanced over at him, his eyes crinkled in good humor.

  “So, did I interrupt an important conversation back there?” he asked lightly.

  “No. To be honest, I was glad to get away.”

  He grinned. “Thought so. The look on your face was one I recognized. I’ve been there. Often.” He slowed down for a stop sign, almost deigning to actually stop. “Now, we need to get you a taste of these brownies. They’re orgasmic.”

  Over the sound of the car stereo, which was, interestingly enough, set to 102.5 LOVE FM, I wasn’t sure if I’d misheard his comment. “They’re, um, organic?”

  His grin broadened. “That, too.”

  Chapter Eleven

  He wasn’t lying about the brownies.

  “Oh. My. God,” I murmured after taking my first bite. The burst of buttery batter plus real milk chocolate, which played hide and seek with thin ribbons of caramel, melted together on my tongue, creating a sensation that fit my notion of Nirvana.

  “I told you I was a man of my word.” Dane looked smug, but deservedly so. “Best in North America, right?”

  “I’ve never tasted better,” I admitted.

  The Lovin’ Spoonful Bakery,
located in an unfashionable section of Highbury Park, matched the picture-perfect definition of a hole-in-the-wall joint. The brick veneer looked hastily constructed. The stone steps were crumbling. The paint had begun chipping on the walls and door. Everything about the place should have said “dilapidated”…except that, on the inside, it wasn’t.

  The shop was absolutely teeming with customers. All locals, from what I could tell. And they’d packed the place until it was standing-room only.

  It provided an interesting contrast to our afternoon tea at the radio station. The reception room had been sardine-packed as well, but the vibe was entirely different. I realized why after only a few moments: No one was pestering Dane or trying to get his attention in any way. No one asked for an autograph or the answer to any personal questions. Considering the number of individuals per square foot, there was no invasion of privacy. None at all.

  In fact, the only person who approached us was the owner—an elderly gentleman with a silver afro, smooth dark skin, and the warmest smile I’d ever seen in my life. When he walked up to us, huddling as we were in a corner of the shop and devouring our brownies, he brought such pure energy with him that it felt as though the room actually got brighter.

  “Julia, this is my man Samuel,” Dane said, introducing the two of us. “He’s the creator of the best brownie in North America—quite possibly the world.”

  The man’s smile grew even warmer as he grasped my hand in his. “Ahhh, don’t believe him. Our young Mr. Tyler is exaggerating again.”

  I shook my head. “No, sir, he’s not.”

  Dane nodded his approval at me, and the man just threw his head back and laughed. “I like her, Dane. You showin’ her the old neighborhood today?”

  “Yeah. Thought we might swing by the park, check out the school, maybe bum around for a while in Liam’s apartment.”

  “Then you’ll need some extra treats for the road.” Samuel took a step back toward the bakery counter with eager customers crowded all around it. He had a couple of assistants packaging orders and ringing up the totals, but they were clearly struggling to keep up with demand.

  “Step over here,” he told Dane. Then the older man winked at me and disappeared behind the counter.

  “I love him like a father,” Dane whispered. “More, actually.”

  There was no trace of humor in his voice when he said this, and I remembered reading in several articles over the years that Dane’s dad had left the family when he was little. His mom had raised him and his brother alone.

  “Have you known him for a long time?” I noticed a familiarity in the interactions between the two men that was hard to fake.

  “Since I was a kid.”

  Samuel suddenly reappeared, holding out a large white paper sack that was stuffed with treats unseen. My mouth watered at the delicious mystery within.

  Dane took the bag with a bow at the baking master and pulled out his wallet.

  “No, no,” Samuel said. “It’s on the house.”

  Dane reached around the counter and man-hugged the guy. Then he slipped a one-hundred-dollar bill into the tip jar before parting the sea of customers so we could reach the door.

  I couldn’t help but observe that, while a number of people appeared to recognize Dane, no one—right through to the end—did anything more than nod kindly in greeting. Not even the slightest breach. It was uncanny. I asked Dane about it as soon as we got outside.

  “Samuel runs an interference-free zone,” he explained. “He doesn’t tolerate drama of any kind or the disturbance of one of his customers, whether that customer is a popular school-board candidate, an off-duty cop, a troubled teen who just needs some down time, or—”

  “Or a famous actor who’d like to avoid being hounded by the press?”

  He smiled. “You nailed it. Samuel’s done some great business over the years and he could easily snazzy up the place, but he’s not a greedy man. He wants the bakery to be for locals. He figures if it looks too appealing on the outside, the snootiest and most demanding of the North Shore types might start swarming in. He wants the people who walk into his shop to be the kind who believe that what’s on the inside is what matters most.”

  “That’s got to be an unusual philosophy compared to your Hollywood crowd, living most of the year, as you do, in the land of liposuction, Botox, and plastic surgery.”

  He laughed. “True, though I like to think I haven’t completely bought into that philosophy myself, even though I’ve spent so much time in L.A.” He ran his fingers through his dark-blond hair. Still thick and kissed with gold as he neared forty, even if it wasn’t quite as abundant as when he was just starting out in show business.

  “I do have one confession,” he said. “I’ve gotten highlights these past ten years.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re supposed to look natural.” He fingered his sun-streaked hair a bit more. “I paid my stylist a fortune for it. How’d he do?”

  “I’m in awe.”

  He arched a brow at me. “Your sarcasm is showing. But, you know, it gets harder and harder to maintain the illusion of youth in a field like mine.”

  I wasn’t joking with him when I replied, “I don’t doubt it, and I don’t envy you having to deal with that.” Aging in Hollywood had to be hell for anyone who stepped in front of a camera, male or female.

  He shrugged. “It’s part of the game.” Then he pointed at a forested bike path that looked all but deserted. “That’s the shortcut to my high school. Wanna see it?”

  “Sure.”

  We meandered down the path, a canopy of trees separating us from our view of the sky and blanketing us in a leafy cocoon. I realized it had been a very long time since I’d gone on a nature walk. During the past school year, I’d kept myself busy out of necessity and in an attempt at maintaining my own sanity. I wouldn’t allow myself to have time for much beyond my classroom and my life at home with Analise.

  But, even last summer—even when Adam was still alive—I didn’t do much out of doors. I’d forgotten about the restorative powers of Mother Nature. About the peacefulness I felt in her bountiful presence.

  “This is really a pretty walk,” I told Dane.

  “Glad you like it. It’s still a favorite of mine. Although, every time I pass through here, I’m rocketed back to high school.”

  “Good memories or bad?” I asked, just as we came to a railroad crossing.

  The bike path opened up onto a two-lane street. There was a large park to the right—Highbury Park, the namesake of the town—and then farther ahead was the high school.

  I couldn’t quite decipher the expression on Dane’s face as he considered my question.

  “Let’s just say I was from the wrong side of the tracks.” He pointed toward the park and the school as we crossed the very tracks that separated the unruly, overgrown bike path from the well-manicured parcels of land ahead. “The people who live to the east of this line tend to have enormous houses. Those to the west of it,” he thumbed behind us, “are often ‘the help.’ I used to mow lawns for the rich families out here during the summer and shovel their long driveways in winter. Plenty of snow in these parts.”

  I nodded. “I grew up in Mirabelle Harbor, so I know all about those snowy winters.”

  We saw a few kids playing soccer in the park and a lady walking a pair of white poodles. Dane and I stopped and watched them for a while.

  “The upside of living in a town with lots of disposable income was that the families on the east side financed a kick-ass high school. We had one of the best secondary school theaters in the area,” he said proudly. “And an Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool, a state-of-the-art foreign language lab, and tennis courts that were maintained as well as the ones at the local country club. My big brother practically drooled when he saw the chem lab. All those rows of glass beakers and Bunsen burners.” He laughed, remembering.

  “How much older is he than you?” I knew he had a brother, but there hadn’t been
many details about Dane’s immediate family in the tabloids. The stories mostly just focused on his love interests over the years.

  “Three years older,” he said, but he didn’t share any more than that, and I didn’t want to pry. What if they had a bad relationship and still didn’t get along as adults?

  We stood in front of the high school, admiring it. The building was in perfect condition. Impressive. Stately. Reminded me of the one they’d featured in the movie The Breakfast Club.

  “It wasn’t that the additional money flow evened the playing field for all of the kids in town,” Dane said, “but I think those of us on the west side got a few extra opportunities we might not have had otherwise.” He paused. “Can’t say it made me any more attractive to high-school girls on either side of the tracks, though. At least not until I scored my first film role. I could never get a date with ‘the girl next door’—not any of them.”

  “I’m sure they gravely regretted their oversight later.”

  He grinned. “Well, later was too late, unfortunately. Hollywood had already messed me up by then, and I wasn’t normal anymore.”

  “But you come across as pretty down to earth. At least you do today.” It was true. He hadn’t behaved like an entitled movie star at the radio station or at the bakery or during our walk. Even when he was answering questions during the theater Q&A he hadn’t been too high and mighty. He only got temperamental when he thought I was some tabloid snitch.

  “I know how to act well balanced, Julia. That’s different from actually being that way.”

  I shrugged. “Say what you will, but I’m not sure I believe you. You seem much more normal than I’d have expected.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I remember reading about you also doing community theater during high school. You did that in addition to performing at your school, right?” We walked the length of the building and started to circle it.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah. There were seasonal auditions just down the road at the community college campus. It was a pretty big deal for a high schooler of any background to get a part. After the cast list was posted, word spread like a brush fire. We’d come to school the next day and feel like a celebrity.”