I sounded like an extremely aggressive marketing campaign. But I couldn’t help it. My hometown was constantly maligned—Jeremy had certainly made it clear that he thought L.A. was trash—so when I went on the defensive, I went on the defensive.
Gabe leaned back.
“I totally agree,” he said. “The tacos are great.”
I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, but before I could suss it out any further, our waitress appeared.
Gabe was on his feet immediately, giving the beautiful redhead a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. “You look like you’re going to pop.”
She was extremely pregnant, and rubbed her stomach.
“I’m gonna tell your momma you said that to a pregnant woman,” she teased Gabe.
He winked at her. “You wouldn’t dare.” He glanced over at me. “Madison, this is Chani.”
He said my name perfectly.
“Y’all ready to order?” Madison asked. She had a thick, charming Southern accent.
“Give us a moment with the menu, okay, darlin’？” Gabe asked, tossing the accent right back at her as he sat across from me.
Madison blushed beautifully. “You just holler, okay?”
“The burgers are great,” Gabe said once she’d gone. “But if you get one, you have to get a beer. That’s the rule.”
I knew it was unprofessional to drink on the job, but I could handle a beer. I needed a beer. Because so far this interview had consisted of me ranting about both the intrinsic sexism of The Philadelphia Story and presumptive stereotypes about Los Angeles. It had not consisted of me doing the actual job I was hired to do.
“What’s their best sour beer?” I asked.
Gabe’s eyebrows went up and he met my gaze.
“Sour beer, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, like I was issuing a challenge. “Any suggestions?”
The grin returned, and with it, my improper tingly feelings.
“Why don’t I order for us? Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I said.
He looked down at the menu with the childish glee of a kid on the night of Hanukkah when you actually got real gifts, not socks or chocolate gelt.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “You’re gonna love this one.”
Madison returned and he gestured for her to lean toward him. He held up the menu between us, his gaze alternating between what he was pointing at and back at me. As he did, the puppy sauntered over, nudging her wet nose against my hand. I reached down and gave her a scratch, which was apparently an invitation for her to flop onto her back, showing me her stomach. I rubbed that, reveling in the velvety softness of her skin.
“She likes you,” Gabe said after Madison left with our orders.
“Puppies like everyone.”
He shook his head. “Not this one—she’s afraid of her shadow, the birds in the backyard, and paper bags.”
“Me too,” I said.
Gabe laughed. I liked making him laugh.
The puppy’s tongue was out; that pink ribbon—bright against her black fur—seemed almost too long to fit back in her mouth.
“Should I be worried?” I asked. “About what you ordered?”
“I don’t know.” Gabe leaned back, linking his hands behind his head. “Are you someone who likes to take risks?”
I stared at that startlingly intimate line of muscle running from his biceps to under his arm, disappearing into his shirt.
“No,” I said.
He laughed.
“Then maybe you should be worried.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “But just a little.”
Was he…flirting?
Of course, he was flirting. The same way he had flirted with Madison. It wasn’t personal. He probably didn’t know how to talk to a woman without flirting in some way. Madison and I were just people in his orbit and therefore we were going to be charmed by his very existence.
That was the nature of celebrities. Of fame.
There were times that I imagined what it might be like to be famous. That I might like to be famous. When I craved the attention and the interest that the spotlight afforded. When I longed for the validation that fame implied.
Gabe was probably good at being charming the way I was good at observing. They were skills that both of us had a natural inclination for but had no doubt honed over the years as they were required for us to do our jobs.
It was a good reminder that the only reason I was here right now, sitting across from Gabe Parker, trying not to stare at his gorgeous armpit, was because it was my job. A job I desperately needed to do well.