The Love Square (19 page)

Chapter 19

Clare

After working all day Friday, Clare relaxed at home and spent the evening reading the week’s bestsellers. She loved reading, but also, she preferred to be informed when customers asked for her opinion. Besides that, tonight Dylan would be with Jenna, and Clare welcomed the escape from reality.

She tried to concentrate on her book and not think about Dylan and Jenna or her gallery show the next night, but her mind wandered to both as she worried about meeting Jenna for the first time. As much as Clare wanted Jenna to be nice and normal for Dylan’s sake, she knew a part of her would hate Jenna for no reason other than pure jealousy.

Earlier in the week, Gretchen helped Clare pick out an outfit, and Clare couldn’t help herself. “What’s she like?” Clare had asked casually as she looked through racks.

“She’s beautiful.” Clare knew she was beautiful from her pictures. She’d also caught Dylan calling Jenna by the nickname.
Hey, beautiful
, he’d say when Jenna called. Clare couldn’t imagine being on the other end of a call like that.

“But is she nice? Is she good for Dylan?” Clare asked.

“She seemed nice. They looked happy when I saw them. If you want me to lie and tell you she’s a total bitch, though, I’d do that for you,” Gretchen said.

“No. I’m glad she’s nice and he’s happy and all that stuff.”

Gretchen laughed. “He’s a good guy, so he attracts good people. He’s never been anything but awesome to me. I hope I stay with him his whole career. He’s no challenge whatsoever. He does what I say, no questions, and he’s gorgeous.”

“He is laid back. That must be different for you in this town.”

“You have no idea,” she said. “Now for you…”

Gretchen chose black pants, high sandals, and a drapey, flower-pattern blouse. She told Clare it was sexy but still remained true to Clare’s nature. Clare assumed that was a good thing.

Now here she was, the night before her show, and the butterflies fluttered like mad in the pit of her stomach. She wished she could call Dylan. Knowing she couldn’t, she went to sleep.

***

Saturday morning, Clare arrived at the store early, drafted the schedule for the next week, and ordered supplies for the café. She ran her reports and confirmed her sales numbers, and hid in her office for most of the day, emerging only when a bookseller needed help handling an unsatisfied customer who insisted on speaking to a manager. Clare calmed the customer down just in time for the page that Crazy Yoga Man was back.

The butterflies swarmed again.

She walked toward CYM’s voice in the back of the store and found David in warrior two pose in the children’s section. His rant concerned fast food. Clare could see some parents steering children away and giving him dirty looks. Others gathered around and listened.

“Excuse me, sir. For liability reasons, you can’t do yoga in the store,” she said.

“That’s discrimination,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.” She smiled and sank into warrior two stance with him. He corrected her posture and asked how she was feeling.

“Nervous,” Clare said. “Excited.”

“Focus on the excited,” David said. “I can’t wait for you to see how wonderful it looks.” With that, David stood and placed his hands into prayer. “See you later? Seven?”

“Yes.”

“Namaste,” he said. Clare rolled her eyes and directed him to the door. The parents looked relieved.

“He’s harmless,” Clare told them. “Just passionate about his practice.” Then she went to hide in her office again.

After her shift, she climbed into her truck. During her ride home from the bookstore, Clare thought about Dylan and Jenna, wondering what they were doing. Would Dylan take Jenna to any of “their” places? Their beach? The planetarium? Their favorite coffee shop?

She passed Dylan’s billboard.
I’m obsessed
,
she thought and switched gears to purposely try
not
to think of Dylan and Jenna traipsing around LA in all their gorgeous glory.

At home, she ate dinner, took a shower, and lounged in her robe while she did her hair and makeup. Finally, when it got closer to showtime, she dressed in her outfit and admired herself in the mirror.

Gretchen should get a raise.
She looked good. Less Nebraska, more California. Her hair reached her shoulders and the sun had made her freckles a little darker, but she enjoyed the look she was growing into. She’d never be six feet tall and have long, lanky limbs, but with what she’d been given, she looked damn good.

Speaking of long, lanky limbs, Clare nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell buzzed. She wasn’t expecting Dylan and Jenna to meet her at the apartment. She used the speaker. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Dylan’s garbled intercom voice said. She buzzed him in.

What are they doing here?
She’d kill him for not texting a warning. She managed to push a pile of papers under her table and throw the dishes into the dishwasher before she heard the knock.

She fluffed her hair and pinched her cheeks—her mom had taught her to do that—composed herself, and went to the door. She opened it and saw Dylan, only Dylan, looking like a dream in a brown, shiny button-down shirt and dress pants, holding a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of champagne.

“Lusty, what are you doing here? Where’s Jenna?” Clare asked, looking past him into the hallway. She followed him into the apartment. “Are those for me? How sweet.” She took the flowers and held them to her nose.

“She’s in New York.”

Clare froze. “What? Why? Is everything okay with you two?”

“Yeah, as far as I know. Remember how I told you Alex is a minor leaguer?”

Clare nodded, placing the flowers into a tall water glass. “The Brooklyn Beasts, right?”

Dylan held the champagne bottle over the sink and popped the cork. The bubbly liquid spilled over his hand. She reached in her cabinet for two champagne glasses.

“He got called up to the majors for the weekend. Jenna wanted to stay to offer her support.”

Clare’s eyes popped. “Oh my! The majors? That’s incredible!”

“I cried when he told me. He’s been dreaming about it his whole life.” Dylan’s voice cracked, like a proud father talking about his son. He poured the champagne into the glasses.

“Shouldn’t you be there for him?” Clare asked. “He’s your best friend. And Jenna—”

He shook his head. “Tonight’s your show.”

Clare gasped. “Please don’t tell me you hung around here for my photos! You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

“But Alex is playing for real tonight,” Clare said. “And you’ve been waiting weeks to see Jenna again.”

“You are important to me too, Nebraska. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Dylan handed her the champagne glass. “Toast?”

She stared at him while he waited for her answer. He’d stayed for her show. His best friend and girlfriend needed him on the opposite coast, but here he was, in her kitchen, holding out a glass of bubbly.

She pinched him on the arm to see if he was real. “Ow!” he whined.

“Sorry. Yes, a toast.”
Although she hadn’t touched alcohol since she left Nebraska, she couldn’t resist tonight. She needed the champagne to satisfy the butterflies and maybe put them to sleep.

“A toast,” he said. “To the first of many artistic endeavors of Clare Davis, formerly of Nebraska, currently of Los Angeles. The best photographer in the State of California, probably the world.”

“Aww,” she said as they clinked glasses. They drank in silence and refilled. After the second glass, Clare asked how they were going to get to the gallery if neither could drive.

“I guess we’ll have to get a cab,” Dylan said, pouring another.

They finished the bottle, then later, when she walked into the gallery with Dylan-freaking- Barnes, with her new cute outfit and her champagne buzz, she couldn’t believe this was her life. When she saw the photos hanging on the walls, she almost passed out.

Dylan grabbed her hand and asked if she was all right.

“It’s like the first time I looked at the ocean,” she told him. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

The gallery was dark. A bar stood near the front door, and waitstaff prepared wineglasses and cheese platters. Her photos were spotlighted at eye level along the wall, and David had clustered them by category—people, landscapes, animals.

“It looks awesome. Who knew Crazy Yoga Man had it in him?” Dylan whispered.

David approached and handed them each a glass of wine while Clare formally introduced him to Dylan. They complimented David on how lovely everything looked and asked him what they should do.

“Well,” he said, “there is some press here who may want to ask you questions. There will probably be a write-up in one of the papers, so others will come tomorrow night and enjoy the photos. They really are nice shots. You have a great eye.”

Someone called for him from the other side of the gallery, and he excused himself.

Clare turned to Dylan. “Did he say ‘press’?”

“I think he did.”

“I can’t do press, Dylan. What does that even mean? Am I going to get interviewed?”

“Probably.”

Her chest constricted and she gasped. “I need air,” she said and rushed out a side door into a narrow alley next to the building.

Dylan was two steps behind her.
“Clare? What’s wrong?”

Outside, the night sky peeked through the tops of the buildings and the warm breeze surrounded her. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said, breathing heavily. “Can you take me home?”

“Absolutely not,” Dylan barked. “You can’t do this, my ass. You moved here from Nebraska, you took those pictures, you run a megastore. You can stand here, smile, and answer questions for a few hours.”

“Ew,” Clare said, snarling at him.

“What do you mean, ‘ew’?”

“What’s gotten into you? You’re being so bossy.”

“You are being a baby,” he said.

Clare leaned against the building, and Dylan stepped in front of her. Shadows from the alley covered his face, but she could see the gold, glimmery flecks of his eyes. “I’m not being a baby,” she whined.

“You are too.”

“Am not,” Clare said. “This isn’t me, Dylan. I’m not the type of person who has art gallery shows and does press. You’re used to all this stuff.”

Dylan glared at her. “Look, I don’t know what that means, but guess what? You
are
having an art gallery show, and I think that means you
are
that type of person, Clare. So you are going to march yourself back in there and get to schmoozing.”

“No,” she snapped, avoiding his gaze.

“What is wrong with you? Why do you have no confidence? Is this what Nebraska does to people? Look at yourself.” He waved his arms from her head to her feet. “You are beautiful. You look amazing. Your photos are outstanding. People want to meet you. Just go with the flow, okay?”

Clare giggled.

“For the love of God,” Dylan said, borrowing her phrase. “What now?”

“I don’t know. I’m nervous. I laugh when I’m nervous. Stop being so mean to me.”

“You are making me crazy. You know what? Stay out here and hide and be nutty by yourself. I’m going back inside and looking at your photos.”

Dylan turned to head back into the gallery.

“Wait,” she called after him. “I’m sorry.”

When he spun around, the light from the street lit him from behind, and Clare gawked for a second, then walked closer. “Why do you put up with me?” she asked.

Then, as if he were hers, she touched her finger to his cheekbone to make sure he was real.
“I don’t know,” he said softly, grabbing her elbow. “You’re gosh-darned annoying.”

He rubbed her elbow with his thumb as Clare smiled up at him, keeping her eyes locked on his. Before she thought too hard about it, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him. Right on the lips. Just a soft but lingering peck because she wanted to know what it would feel like. Then she pulled away and started giggling again.

Dylan stared at her, and for a second she thought he’d freak out. Instead he asked softly, “What are you laughing at?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, hearing her voice shake.

“You are crazy, you know that?” he whispered.

Clare wasn’t sure if she was imagining him moving closer because of the alcohol.

She wasn’t. In another second, his lips were on hers, and he kissed her the way she had fantasized about since the day they met. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him as his lips nibbled at hers, then in one movement, he pinned her against the wall of the alley. Chest-to-chest, she tangled her hands in his hair as his traveled down over her hips.