A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (3 page)

He laughs but comes to the table with obvious determination.

While he’s busy eyeing his next turn, I’m busy eyeing him. So far, I’ve only been able to look him in the eye a few times. I’ve gotten so used to being unaffected by men that when Dan’s eyes meet mine, not only is it startling, it’s overwhelming. I can only hold his gaze for a few moments without becoming terribly flushed and uncomfortable. Now that he’s distracted with trying to beat me, I have the freedom to check him out.

Without his baseball hat on, his hair and face are deliciously exposed. His thick hair is no doubt expertly cut to compliment his strong jaw and cheekbones. The longer pieces in front fall just so along his forehead, highlighting his eyes. If he were not already a movie star, I would suggest he become one.

I notice how carefully his hands work the cue, how the perfect shape and thickness of each finger grip it gently but firmly. As he bends over the table to aim, his shirt stretches across his back and shoulders, outlining his sculpted muscles underneath. I have to be careful not to sigh aloud.

By the time I come back to Earth, he’s pocketed two more balls and he’s up five to three. He shoots for the next one but misses. “Damn!” he mutters, mostly under his breath, on the way back to the barstool.

As we pass, I brush by him a little closer than necessary and tease, “Aren’t you a bit competitive?”

He freezes for a fraction of a second then shakes his head, smiling wide.

I don’t miss my next shot or the one after. I’m astounded by my lucky streak—a very rare thing indeed.

With another round of beer, we continue our flirtatious dance around the pool table until we’re battling it out for the last ball—the eight ball. Dan takes a shot at it, aiming for a corner pocket, but it gently bounces off the green bumper. He rolls his eyes in disgust and steps back a smidge, impatiently waiting his next turn.

I’m across the table from him, amused by his frustration. I aim and glance up briefly, catching his eyes whisking away from their perusal down my shirt and back to the pool table. Flustered and flushed, I refocus.

I angle my cue, pull back, and tap the cue ball gently. The black ball drops in the pocket. Straightening up slowly, I nod at him, silently rubbing in my victory.

Dan puts his cue down. “You are definitely a ringer.”

I can’t help but giggle. “Wow, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He rolls his eyes.

I put down my cue as well, and we step over to the nearby wall to finish our beers.

“Have you recovered from earlier?” Dan asks.

“I think so. Not sure if I’ll ever step into an elevator again, but yes. And thanks again for chatting with me in there. I really needed that diversion.”

“Yeah, it was a rather difficult task.” He smiles, but his eyes are on my mouth. My heart jolts.

“Wow, aren’t you a charmer?” I glance at my watch. “It’s late.”

He takes my wrist in his hand to confirm the time, and I freeze, staring at his fingers on my skin. “Did they give you a curfew at the old folks’ home or something?” He lets go of my wrist.

“Maybe. They just want to make sure I don’t get myself in trouble.”
Ain’t that the truth!

With his eyes still fixed on my mouth, he finishes his beer. “Well, I’m not leaving it like this. I want a rematch.”

“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. Truthfully, I don’t want the night to be over. I want to stay, but I’m tipsy and flirty and liking this whole thing far too much for my own good. I need to leave before I make a mistake. “Maybe some other time. I’d like to bask in my win for a while.” I smile, hoping I don’t sound as unsure as I feel.

He seems to give that some thought before he nods. “Are you heading home then?”

“Yeah, I think it’s time.”

He shifts. He suddenly seems uneasy, uncomfortable. “Would you like me to walk you there?”

Yes, I do, but you can’t.
“Thank you, but . . . I took a cab here, so I’ll just take one back. It’s no big deal . . . thanks for tonight, Dan. I had a really good time. It was . . . fun,” I say, realizing that’s exactly what it was.

He nods and takes a moment before he says, “I had fun, too, but I’m not joking, I want a rematch. You cannot be the last to win.”

I laugh and smile wide. If he only knew how jittery he makes me. I have to go. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.” I knock back the last bit of my beer.

His smile is shy as he rubs the back of his neck. “May I call you sometime?”

My heart stops and drops straight into my toes.
Yes and no, but much more yes than no.
“Okay.” Both the surprise and reluctance is clear in my voice. I’d love to see him again, but I know it probably won’t happen; he’s just being nice.

He takes out his phone and readies it for my number.

“212-555-2364,” I say slowly as he taps in the digits.
Is this really happening?

He looks up when he’s done and pauses. “Do you want mine?”

I don’t want to care about this. Caring always ends up hurting, and if I have his number I’ll want to call him, and I won’t set myself up like that. I can’t. “Um . . . why don’t we leave things in your court? You have my number, and if you want to call me, you will.”

He nods, his eyebrows furrowed.

We slip on our coats and head out into the crisp night. The sidewalk is empty and oddly quiet for a New York City night.

He turns to me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “All right, so I’ll phone you?”

And it dawns on me that he’s misinterpreting my reluctance. I reach out and touch his forearm. “If you want to call me, I’d love to talk to you. I had a really good time tonight.”

He takes my hand from his arm and with a relieved, shy, and oh-so-very-attractive smile, he pulls me a little closer.  “All right then, I will.” He presses his warm lips to my chilly cheek.

It’s well below freezing, but the heat that radiates from my face could warm a small country. I hail a cab, and we say good-bye.

Inside the cab, the emotions I’ve so effectively contained burst out—my heart hammers, a wide smile plasters itself across my face, and I giggle as if I’m drunk, but I’m not. Tipsy, yes, but not drunk. The thing is, I can’t recall the last time I felt so light and happy.

But I’m not a complete fool. Of course I hope Dan will call, but I know the chances are slim. He’s a world-renowned actor, a very hot commodity, so why would he bother with me? The reality is he probably won’t, so I chalk up tonight to a fantastic little memory to shelve and bring out the next time I’m having a bad day.

I arrive home before Camille and Bridget, which gives me a chance to get my head out of the clouds. I wash up, change into my pajamas, and crawl under my chilly covers. Shutting my eyes, it’s Dan’s face I see, and our banter replays loud and clear. But the laughter in the living room brings me back to the real world. I hop up to greet my drunken roommates.

“Hello, lushes!” I peer out of my bedroom and then walk over to join them.

“Hey, Claire! You have a good night?” Camille asks, slurring a little.

Bridget doesn’t wait for a response before launching into a tipsy story. “You’ll never guess what happened!” she nearly yells, grabbing onto my shirt.

“What?”

“We just saw Daniel Chase!” Bridget giggles and whoops.

Oh no
.

“Really?” I ask, swallowing my panic.

“Yeah, well, we were on our way home and decided to stop by that bar you went to when we ran into him on the street! Oh my God, Claire, he’s gorgeous!” Bridget stops to grab a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Yes, and we weren’t the only ones to see him,” Camille adds, shrugging off her coat and then flopping on the nearby couch.

I follow Camille and sit across from her on the recliner. “What do you mean?”

Bridget stumbles in with her glass, sloshing a little water onto the floor, and plops next to Camille.

“Well,” Bridget begins, “he was taking a picture with some girl and her friend, so we figured it was okay to say hi, so we were like, “Hi!” and he turned and shook our hands, and we asked what he was doing in the city and if he wanted to have a drink with us and—” Bridget stops to gulp some water.

Oh God, I might puke.
“Did you have drinks with him?” I ask as casually as possible.

“No,” Camille answers. “He said he needed to sleep. Then Bridget here”—she nudges Bridget with her elbow—“asks him for his number.”

“Did he give it to you?” I ask impatiently.

Bridget nods as she drinks more water, dribbling a bit down the front of her shirt.

“Well, he gave her
a
number,” Camille says.

My rush from earlier vanishes.
How could I have even entertained the idea that tonight might have been more than just a one-night thing? Men. This is why I don’t date.
“Wow, that’s amazing!”
I’m such a liar.
“Are you going to call him?”

“Yep,” Bridget says and dives across Camille for the retro hot lips landline Bridget insists we keep.

Bridget dials before sprawling on the sofa. Camille shoves over, laughing.

“Hi, Daniel, this is Bridget. I just met you outside Mickey’s like a half hour ago, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over.”

I hear a loud male voice boom through the phone. Bridget’s face changes from giggly to aghast and she hangs up.

“Well?” Camille asks.

“That wasn’t Daniel. It was some guy named Len, and he was ticked off.”

I bite my lip to stifle my laughter.
He gave her his manager’s phone number!

“What are you all smiley about?” Camille asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Nothing. That’s just funny. I wonder whose number that was.”

“So, how was your night?” Camille asks.

“It was fun. I had a good time.”

Camille beams. “Yeah? You had fun? At night? With people? At a bar?”

“Oh, shut up, you.” I toss a throw pillow at her. “All right you drunkards, I’m going to bed.” Standing, I glance at Bridget, who is comfortably sprawled out. “Bridget, are you sleeping out here tonight?” I ask, whispering in her ear.

With only jagged snores for a reply, Camille and I look at each other and bust out laughing.

Camille stands, too, and covers Bridget with a blanket. She turns to me. “I’m so happy you had a good time tonight. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, but I really hope it continues. I’ve missed you.” She hugs me tightly and heads to bed.

Returning to bed, I snuggle back between my chilly sheets. Stretching out feels so good, and I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in a long time. I’m relieved Dan gave out a fake number, but it bothers me that I care. I shouldn’t care. I can’t afford to care.
Tonight was just for fun
, I repeat silently.

I settle into my pillow, but my cell beeps, indicating a message. Sitting up, I grab my phone off the nightstand and listen.

“Hello, Claire,” says the silky English voice. “I wanted to tell you again what a good time I had tonight . . . and now you have my number in case you feel like ringing me. Um . . . anyway, I still need to properly kick your arse at pool. I’ll be organizing a rematch as soon as I can.” He snickers and hangs up.

My head flops against the pillow, and a giddy giggle slips out. I shake my head at myself, and fall asleep trying to control an uncontrollable smile.

Chapter Three

Other than beating Mr. Beautiful’s round, tight backside in pool, the weekend passes as any other—I grade essays and tweak lesson plans for the upcoming week.

For better or worse, work is my life. After the Mark ordeal, I threw myself into it full force, finding its routines soothing. It gave me purpose and direction at a time when I was utterly lost. Luckily, I enjoy the work. I love being a positive influence on impressionable teen girls, plus the work is challenging and keeps my mind busy. It’s been a lifesaver of sorts.

When Monday rolls around, I overhear the usual high-pitched chatter of my students discussing their weekends during homeroom—what shoes they bought, where they went, and who they talked to. Eavesdropping on two girls, Taylor and Mackenzie, I silently inject my own commentary as I fiddle with the papers at my desk.

Taylor: “I went to the movies with Jonah this weekend! It was so much fun.”

I had drinks and played pool with Dan Chase!

Mackenzie: “Oh my God! How was it? Tell me everything!”

Well, it was fantastic. He’s funny and down-to-earth and he’s got this smile that is just so . . . sexy.

Taylor: “It was amazing. He held my hand at one point, and I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest!”

Me, too. In fact, my heart is still pounding.

Mackenzie: “Did you kiss him, too?”

No, just a kiss on the cheek, but I have to admit, I wish we had.

Just then a girlish giggle slips out of me and I slap my hand to my mouth. Thankfully, the bell rings with no one the wiser about my date with Mr. Beautiful.

On Tuesday night, I sit curled up on the sofa, correcting papers, as Bridget and Camille watch TV. When I hear my phone ringing in my bedroom, I casually sprint to answer it.

“Hello?” I ask since the caller ID no longer works. Stupid phone.

“Hi, honey, how are you?”

Oh Lord.
It’s my mother.
I really need to get this phone fixed.
She calls me often enough to analyze—er, check in on me. She’s none too happy with the state of my life, and she isn’t all that subtle with her hints. I love her, but she likes to push, push, push.

“Hi, Mom. I’m good. How are you and Dad?”

“Just fine, honey. What’s going on? How’s work?”

Work. Yes. The one and only safe topic. My parents are so proud of my career choice. They often gush over it being the “perfect profession for women” because all the time off makes it easier to be a mom. Not that I have any desire to be a mother, but clearly they’d like to see me as one. And even though my brothers have provided my parents with grandchildren, it’s me they want married and spawning—like, yesterday.

“Work’s good,” I say. “We’re gearing up for the annual state exams, so it’s been pretty tough to motivate the girls. They don’t want to think about the tests—they’re all hopped up on prom plans—but other than that, things are good.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll do well, honey. You’re such a great teacher.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

It’s coming. I can feel it.

“Have you and the girls done anything exciting lately?”

It’s nearly here . . .

“No, not really. We saw a movie recently, but we’ve all been so busy with work.”

“Does that mean you haven’t been on any good dates?”

Ding! Ding! Ding! I roll my eyes at the predictability of it. “No, Mom, no good dates,” I say. I often wish we had the kind of relationship where I could spill the beans, but we don’t. If I tell her about my date with Dan, it’ll end up as a one-sided Q & A, with her running down her checklist to see how well we’re matched. Is he Italian? Catholic? Does he attend church? What’s his family like? What kind of job does he have? On and on. While those questions may be important, if he isn’t up to snuff, she’ll immediately dismiss him and the reminders about his “shortcomings” will never end.

“No dates?” My mom tsks on the other end. “Claire, isn’t finding a man one of the reasons you moved to the city?”

I huff. You’d think by now she’d know that I don’t want to talk about it. “Well, if something happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Fine, Claire. I was only asking because I care.”

Guilt. It’s her trump card. She plays it every hand, and it wins every round.

I sigh—this time to myself. “I know you do, but you don’t have to worry about me,” I say, softening my voice and giving in, as usual.

“I’m not so sure about that, honey. I always worry about you. You need to think about your future. You are getting older and—” Mom stops. “Oh, your father just came in, and I have to get his dinner ready. We’ll pick this up next time. I’ll talk to you soon, sweetheart. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”
Great timing, Dad.

By Wednesday, my high from the weekend has faded. I’m not shocked that Dan hasn’t called. Disappointment is inevitable. Dan is very famous, and I’m not. Dan lives an exciting life, and I don’t. And even though I’ve promised myself not to care, there’s a part of me that does, and that frustrates me to no end. I’m proud I don’t need a relationship to live a full life . . . but I have to admit last Friday night caused a few cracks in the system I’ve had so well controlled.

Finally, with the day behind me and with my comfy sweats on, I lean against the stack of soft pillows on my bed, grading another pile of essays. Halfway through the third one, my cell rings.
Please don’t let it be mom again.

“Hello?” I ask, bracing myself for another round of questions.

“Hello, Claire.”

English.

I bolt upright, scattering papers all over the bed.

“It’s Dan,” he says, probably because I’ve yet to speak.

“Hi,” I say, my heart rate speeding from zero to a million in seconds.

“Didn’t think I’d phone you?” he teases.

“Um, actually I tried not to think about it.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed.
Shit!

“But I’m happy you did,” I quickly clarify. “How are you?” I breathe trying to calm myself down.

“I’m fine. What are you doing? Am I interrupting?”

“Yes, you’re totally interrupting. I’m grading papers.” I snicker.

I think I hear him exhale . . . or maybe that’s me, but he definitely laughs and says, “Oh, sorry to disturb.”

I’m smiling and blushing and doodling swirls on the corners of my grade book, feeling every bit of sixteen again. “So, how’s London? That’s where you are, right?” I ask casually because although I can hide the excitement in my voice, the goosebumps on my skin are a dead giveaway.

“Yeah, it’s nice being home for a bit—old bed and all.”

“Sounds relaxing. What have you been up to while you’re there?”

“Well, eating mostly. My mum is cooking everything she can think of. My dad’s begging me to come home more often. He says he hasn’t eaten this well in years.” He laughs. “My sisters have been around, as well, but they’re just completely useless. I can’t make a move without them tearing into me. I know it’s all in good fun, but they’re hideous.”

I grin. “What do you mean, ‘hideous’?”

Dan sighs and says, “Well, like the other night we went out—me, my two sisters, and a few friends—to the pub down the road like we often do. And while we’re there, a couple of girls were glancing over and they came up for an autograph and photo, and it’s all my sisters needed. The more we drank, the more my sisters got out of hand. They were telling random women that I wanted their numbers and how I was too shy to ask—and a whole line of bullshit. It got worse and worse, and I ended up having to run out of the bar like an idiot. Literally, Claire, I had to run home. It was so humiliating. If they weren’t my sisters, I’d have murdered them.”

I’m laughing too hard to speak. All I imagine is a slow-motion sequence of Dan’s face contorting in terror as the rabid women close in, his glass tossing into the air, his hands flailing wildly as he leaps for the door, and him running all the way home, squealing like the last little piggy.

“Claire? . . . Claire?”

Tears pour from my eyes as my cheek muscles cramp. “Hang on . . . my cheeks . . .”

“Oh. Very nice. You think it’s funny, too, eh?”

I try to get myself under control. I breathe deeply and smush my cheeks down. “Oh my God, Dan. Well . . . you have to admit it’s pretty funny.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Maybe it’s payback for giving out Len’s number,” I say, rubbing my cheeks.

“What? . . . Uh, how did you know about that?”

“Because the girl you gave his number to happens to be my roommate.”

“Really? What are the chances?”

“So why give out Len’s number?”

“Do you think I hand out my number like it’s free cake or something?” he asks, amused.

“No, I suppose not.”

“It’s just a joke, really—at least to me. Len hates when I do that, but for some reason, the idea of drunken girls phoning his house makes me laugh . . . So, anyway, what have you been doing?” Dan asks before clearing his throat.

“Just working. You know, what we regular folk do when we’re not being chased by hordes of women.” I burst out laughing again.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he says, chuckling.

“I’m sorry; I’m just kidding.” I’m somehow able to crack a few jokes even though my belly is doing that shivery-shake thing.

“Anyway,” he says, clearly stifling a laugh. “I’m going to be in New York this Friday night before leaving for L.A. on Saturday, so I was wondering if you wanted to meet up again. Maybe have dinner . . . or play some pool?”

“Pool? Don’t you think you should practice a while before you play me again?”

“Just get ready to lose.”

I giggle. “Well, dinner sounds nice. Where would you like to meet?” In a split second, the ramifications of saying yes to another date are clear—it’ll be harder to say no if there’s a next time, and it’ll be easier to get wrapped up in something impossible. Plus, he’s too young and an actor too many girls lust after. No good can come of this.

“How about I pick you up?”

I should say no.
“Hmm . . . well, if you come to get me, I’ll have to explain to my roommates, and that could be rough.”
That didn’t sound like no.

“What will they do?”

“They’ll just want to know every detail, and to be honest, I kind of like this being quiet, know what I mean? I hope you aren’t offended.”

“No, not at all, I understand completely. Well . . . even though it’s horribly rude, I could come to your place and phone when I’m outside.”

I’m caving fast. “Yeah, okay. What time?”

“Is eight all right?”

“That’s perfect.” There’s an awkward pause. I don’t want our talk to end quite yet; maybe he doesn’t either. “Is it late there?”

“It’s about midnight.”

“You’re up late. I’m usually asleep by then.”

“What time is lights-out at the home? Four?” He laughs.

I giggle and realize that I haven’t stopped smiling. “No, that’s dinnertime. Lights out is at six.”

He chuckles. “Well, since it’s past curfew, I’ll let you get back to marking. I’m looking forward to seeing you in a couple days, Claire.”

“Me, too. Thanks for calling, Dan.”

We hang up, and I flop back onto my pillows, wearing the biggest, goofiest smile. And, that’s when I start to worry. On the one hand, I’m thrilled he called for another date, yet on the other hand . . . we have another date! What am I doing to myself? I built a perfectly sturdy fortress around my heart, yet here I am peering over the wall, contemplating a break out. This is not a smart idea, and I know it, but I just can’t help myself.