15

“One last thing,” he says as we wait for the elevator to reach the penthouse. “My friends generally call me Cas.”

“That’s...nice?”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I mean you. You should call me Cas in front of other people.”

“Oh.” It’s true—calling him Sir Tiddles out loud instead of just in my head would probably be frowned upon. “What have I been calling you?”

“You haven’t. You sort of just speak at me.”

I try not to laugh. “I’ll make a note.”

After he pulls a wool coat on, I glance down at his pants and realize his suit is all but identical in color to his “throne” at Tom’s, and I giggle.

His eyes meet mine. “I assume you have a reason for laughing at my trousers?”

“Not a good one.” I look down at my outfit while I put my own coat on. “I meant to ask, am I dressed appropriately? I still don’t know where we’re going.”

He gives me a quick scan. “You’re fine. It’s just dinner at Fracas. Do you know the place?”

I nod. “I’ve done a few business drinks things there. Bit trendy, isn’t it?”

The elevator door opens, and Jacob greets us with a smile. “A bit,” Cas concurs.

“You don’t seem thrilled about it.”

“I tend to prefer more low-key venues, but those would defeat the purpose of this little adventure.”

As we close in on the ground floor, he turns to me and takes my hand in his. “All right, take a breath and do try not to look panicked.”

My eyes go buggy. “That is the exact thing you say to someone when you want to incite panic.”

The elevator doors open, and he leads me across the lobby, keeping ahold of my hand. I take the breath he suggested, but before we even come close to the windows, I can see the photographers still huddled around the car outside spot him. They instantly spring into action, cameras in hand. Caspian squeezes my hand extra tight and pulls me closer to him as we hit the exit.

The flashbulbs are unfathomably bright. I shut my eyes tight to try to close them out, but when I open them again, all I see are residual stars and more flashes.

I turn my face into Caspian’s arm to shield myself from the lights. All around us, the photographers are shouting at him. “Tiddleswich, over here! Who’s your girlfriend? What’s her name? Look this way, Caspian!”

It’s only a few steps from the hotel entrance to the car waiting by the curb, but it feels like walking through a never-ending fire gauntlet. Fortunately, our driver already has the door opened for us, and Caspian ushers me in first before climbing in behind me. The door shuts, and the driver jogs around to the front and slides inside. The whole time, there are actual human bodies pressed up against the windows, trying to take pictures through the heavily tinted glass.

We pull away from the curb, and I whoosh out the breath I’ve been holding in since we hit the lobby.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “That was horrible. Is it always like that?”

He shrugs. “Generally. Normally I’d leave through the back, but we’re on a mission, after all.”

“Lucky us.”

“Indeed.”

We ride in silence for several blocks, but I keep checking out the back window, half expecting to see a dude with a camera hanging off the bumper.

“I don’t get it,” I say, still looking over my shoulder. “Why would you do something like this if you don’t want to? Subject yourself to all...that?”

He stares blankly out the window and answers, “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t enjoy.”

I unintentionally scoff at him, not sure if he was meaning to be derisive or not. “It’s not like you’re some newbie starlet trying to make their way in the world. Surely you should get to set the terms of—”

Caspian turns to me and makes the laser-focused direct eye contact that has yet to not make me feel like I’m going to be physically ill on the spot. So quietly that I know there’s no chance the driver can hear him, he says, “You’ve hit your quota on personal questions for the evening.”

I’m torn between a flush of residual embarrassment over my astonishingly inappropriate question from earlier, a surge of anger, and a sliver of fear, but I brush all of those aside for a wave of panic. We’ve arrived at the restaurant.

We pull into a drop-off line of sorts, where valets are taking cars and drivers are letting out various important people. “Oh god,” I groan. I can see a whole new set of cameras flashing away. My jaw drops when I see people posing on the sidewalk by the entrance. “Do people really do this on purpose? Go to a place like this and—what? Freaking model on the street?”

“Some do. It’s not really my area, but as I said, this isn’t the type of dinner locale I would normally choose.”

We get up to the entrance and a valet opens the car door for us. As I climb out behind him, Caspian leans in and whispers under the cover of the chaos. “Arm around the waist. Acceptable?”

Feeling a bit of emotional whiplash after going from his personal question embargo to this, I nod and try to smile, squinting hard against the new barrage of flashes. His arm casually wraps around my waist, as discussed, and he leads me into the restaurant, calmly ignoring all the whoops and shouts for his attention.

The hostess greets us instantly, all blindingly white teeth and eyeliner. And boobs. I’m not sure how her low-cut black tuxedo vest–style top is keeping her ladies inside, but it’s an impressive feat, and I find myself trying to figure out how to compliment her and ask for tips in a way that wouldn’t come across as offensive. She takes our coats with a giant smile and hands them off to another employee.

“Right this way, Mr. Tiddleswich. We’ve reserved one of the private rooms for you, as requested.”

“Yes, thank you,” he says as we follow her toward the rear of the restaurant. The chatter in here is surprisingly loud, but even over the din of famous people eating what I assume to be famous foods, I can still hear the shouting of paparazzi through the windows. The sounds and visuals combined with the feeling of my hand in Caspian’s as he guides us around fellow diners is a full-scale assault on my senses.

The hostess leads us through a curtain and into a private room with a small table set for two. Caspian, ever committed to the ruse, goes to the trouble of pulling my chair out for me. I play my part and smile, doing my best to look like a woman with a case of the smittens and not a woman who is pondering whether I could stab him in the hand with a fork and not get into any actual trouble for it.

After taking our drink order—a gin and tonic for me, a scotch neat for Mr. Tiddleswich—and alerting us to the chef’s specials—a delicately poached sea bass and bacon-wrapped squab—our hostess informs us our waiter will be with us shortly and retreats, leaving us in an uneasy silence.

Caspian picks up his menu and peruses the options quietly, so I awkwardly do the same. Menus that don’t have prices on them scare me. Will I be paying twenty bucks for the citrus-marinated quail breast with edible flowers, or two hundred?

CiCi’s voice echoes in my head, and I’m inclined to order the lobster with filet, but while Cas here can suck it as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to go out of my way to be financially petulant. Maybe if he sees I’m not the evil wench he’s concocted in his mind, he’ll let me off the hook to some degree.

Not a word passes between us the entire time we stare at our menus, and even though I’ve known for a good four minutes what I’m planning to get, I just keep staring. Finally, mercifully, a young man in a crisp white shirt and perfectly pressed black pants appears carrying our drinks.

Setting the glasses on the table, he greets us. “Hello, Mr. Tiddleswich, so nice to see you this evening.” He turns to me and says, “Welcome to Fracas, ma’am.” With a calm but dazzling grin, he asks, “Are we ready to order?”

“Yes, thank you, Marshall,” Caspian says with genuine friendliness. I quickly scan Marshall’s uniform for a name tag and, finding none, can’t for the life of me figure out how Caspian is on a first-name basis with our waiter. “Clara?”

I offer him a beatific smile, determined to nail my part of this ruse, and go with the pumpkin ravioli with sage and brown butter. Caspian orders the duck.

“Excellent choices,” Marshall says, taking our menus. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Caspian looks at me as though he genuinely cares whether or not I have needs I’d like Marshall to meet, but I pleasantly shake my head. Caspian smiles up at him, and Marshall is on his way, tugging the curtain closed behind him.

The second we’re alone again, I can’t help myself and blurt out, “I thought you said you hate coming here.”

“I do.”

I wave vaguely at the curtain. “But you know our waiter by name.”

He shrugs casually. “I’ve had to take a few business meetings here before. Marshall waited on me during one of those meetings.”

I stare at him, and I’m sure my curiosity is on blatant display across my face. “You remember his name from one meal?”

Caspian stills and looks almost disappointed. “Do you not endeavor to treat waitstaff as people?”

“Of course I do!” I half snap. “But you’re... I mean... You’re a fancy movie star. I guess I just didn’t expect someone like you to do that.” I don’t know where I thought this line of dialogue was going, and I suddenly hate myself for not having better control over my mouth. I slump down in my chair a bit and finish pathetically, “It’s just impressive that you do. Most people don’t bother, famous or not.”

Sitting back in his chair and taking a sip of his scotch, Caspian looks at me, wearing an unreadable expression that has me squirming miserably. I’d give anything to have the safety of the menu to hide behind again.

After what could have been several miserable seconds, or maybe three straight days in the sights of an unblinking Brit, Caspian stands up, drink in hand, and says, “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Uh...sure?” I say ineptly as he walks out of the room, the curtain falling silently in his wake.

A heavy sigh falls out of me, and I flop my forehead down on the table loudly. This is so completely miserable.

I take out my phone and fire off a text to CiCi.

Seconds later, her reply beeps in. Is he being a prick?

I don’t need a moment to muse on that one. Yes. Yes, he really is.

I shake my head and tuck my phone away with a sigh.

Against what most would consider better judgment, I pick up my drink and chug until only the ice cubes and wedge of lime remain.

As the warmth of the gin spreads through me, I look around the room. Soft lighting, rich burgundy fabric on the curtains, deep ebony woods. Paintings by probably famous artists hang on the walls. The tablecloth is as crisp and white as Marshall’s shirt; the stemware is delicate and spotless. The carpet squishes luxuriously under the soles of my shoes.

Many minutes of silence and fidgeting pass before Marshall returns with a tray and another waitress carrying a crystal pitcher of water. She silently fills my glass as Marshall sets down a plate of magnificent-looking ravioli in front of me.

“Mr. Tiddleswich sends his apologies. He’s been caught on a call and requests that you begin without him,” he informs me.

“Oh. Will he be long?” I ask, trying to sound like a caring girlfriend.

“He didn’t say, ma’am. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

I shake my head. “No. Thank you, Marshall.”

“Enjoy your dinner, ma’am.”

Marshall and the nameless waitress scurry away, and I sit, staring at the now-still curtain for a moment. I’m inclined to wait for Caspian out of manners, but then I realize they didn’t even bring in his food. I suppose they’re probably waiting for him to return before they serve it.

With a shrug, I set my napkin on my lap and tuck in. It really is a spectacular dish, and I find myself gleefully enjoying the experience of a solitary meal in one of the fanciest restaurants in the city. No Caspian to stare at me while I chew, no paparazzi standing outside the window waiting for me to do something embarrassing, like dribble sauce on my shirt.

Time passes, and my plate is all but licked clean when Marshall comes back in. Picking up my dish, he asks, “Would you care for dessert, ma’am?”

“I really shouldn’t until Caspi—I mean, until Cas comes back,” I say. “Has he said when he’ll be finished yet?”

“No, ma’am. Would you care for another drink?”

I shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

Marshall scampers off and returns several minutes later with another gin and tonic, then disappears again.

This time I handle my drink like an adult and sip. And sip and sip and sip.

I check my phone. According to the time stamps on my texts with CiCi, it’s been an hour since Caspian stepped out. Not that I’m dismayed to be without his company, but where the hell did he go?

My mental clock ticks away as I poke at the ice cubes in my glass with the stirrer. When those have fully melted, I absentmindedly suck down the gin-flavored water.

It occurs to me that if they’re waiting to serve Caspian when he returns, that means I’ll be forced to sit here uncomfortably as he dines, trying not to be the monster human who watches someone else eat. I can’t help but wonder if this is an intentional ploy to make me squirm all the more.

I store that thought away and take out my phone, playing a rousing ten hands of blackjack in a card app I’ve got tucked away for boring subway rides. When that amusement wears thin, I check my email and try to organize my inbox. I tinker with the placement of the icons on my home screen. Eventually, I open up Netflix and start watching a recommended documentary on polar bears.

When my phone battery drops below 20 percent, I shut it off and tuck it back in my pocket, dropping my chin into my hand and staring at the wall, feeling an unpleasant numbness spreading through my ass.

Just when I’m about to stick my head through the curtain to see if an apocalypse occurred and I’m all that’s left of mankind, Caspian comes strolling back in.

“Shall we go?” he says, as if this is a perfectly normal thing.

“What?” I frown. “You’ve been gone for over two hours. You haven’t even eaten.”

“Yes, I have,” he clarifies. “I ate in another room while I dealt with some business. I’ve already taken care of the check.”

I blink at him and feel my jaw clenching a bit. “Are you serious? I’ve been sitting here by myself all this time.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I see an unformed grin in his eyes. “My apologies. Shall we go?” he repeats.

My jaw drops the tiniest bit. So it was a squirming plot, but an even crueler one than I’d suspected.

Since I absolutely refuse to give him any satisfaction, I plaster on a grin of my own and say, “Absolutely.”

My legs feel a bit wobbly after experiencing life as a veal for several hours, and I almost tumble over the chair, but thankfully he’s already looking back out toward the main dining area and doesn’t see.

As soon as we enter the land of other humans and their watchful eyes, Caspian places his hand on my lower back and guides me back to the hostess station, where the girl with the pearly teeth and outrageously perky breasts already has our coats waiting. Ever the faux gentleman, Caspian helps me into mine before pulling on his own. Below my adoring-girlfriend exterior, I am seething with irritation and confusion.

The bulbs start flashing as we prepare to head back out into the night, and Caspian smiles what anyone else would consider a genuine smile as he takes my hand and leads me through the door held open by the hostess.

Screams for his attention and the clicking of picture after picture pierce my ears as my eyes are assaulted by the strobing lights. Some of the photographers get so close they knock right into me, and Caspian wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me in close as though he’s the most caring and protective boyfriend in all the land.

His driver is at the end of the sidewalk, already poised with the door open. I dive inside and Caspian follows, ever so calmly. I’m trying to remain dedicated to my show of not letting him see me sweat here, but on the inside, my heart is pounding and I want to cry a little. The paparazzi onslaught is not a subtle one.

The driver walks around and climbs inside, and we’re off at a snail’s pace, dodging overly intent photographers who won’t get out of the way of the car. I want to take a moment to snap at Caspian for ditching me in the private room while he did who knows what, but I can’t fully deliver sass until I blink the spots out of my vision. Those flashbulbs are bright as all hell.

He says exactly nothing to me, and before I’ve even gotten my proper vision back, I realize we’ve pulled over to a curb.

“I believe this stop will get you home,” he says coolly.

“What?” I say, still blinking and trying to ease my pulse back into a normal range. I look out Caspian’s window and see a subway entrance, and I realize I’m being banished from the car and back into the real world, where a forty-minute subway ride awaits me.

I glance at the dashboard and see I’ve got about eight minutes before the final train to Astoria heads out. Caspian has taken out his phone and looks wholly unconcerned with any of the night’s events.

The driver starts to get out, I assume to open the door for me, but I put my hand on his shoulder. “That won’t be necessary,” I say before I smooth down the front of my coat and climb over Caspian’s lap, making sure to step directly on his toes as I open his door and slide out. “Dick,” I whisper as I pass him.

I make it to the sidewalk and resist the urge to violently slam the door. Without a second glance—or maybe there was, and I couldn’t see through the cartoonishly tinted windows—they pull away from the curb, and I’m left flabbergasted before I remember I now have seven minutes to catch the train, unless I want to take a painfully expensive Lyft ride I can’t afford back home.

Dating a celebrity definitely isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.