“Yes – you know, like ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.’”
“That makes you divine, then.”
I blushed. Was he flirting with me?
He motioned the waiter over, and when he asked for a menu, I seriously worried the poor man might burst into tears.
“Is there something wrong with…with…” He couldn’t bring himself to continue.
I felt mortified. What kind of person refuses what must be a very expensive dinner – and the kind “everybody” likes?
“Not at all,” said Jared easily. “The lady is simply in the mood for something else.” And with that, the waiter turned and glided off. Clearly dealing with people wasn’t something Jared sucked at.
Moments later the server was back and handed me a leather-bound menu of stiff cream linen paper, on which the menu items were elegantly handwritten…in Italian. Is this some sort of test?
I pretended to study the choices as if the matter of incomprehensible sauces and side dishes were deeply important. Then I turned to the waiter and flashed him my sunniest smile.
“I’m in the mood for pasta, I think. What would you recommend? If you were going to eat here yourself, I mean.”
He looked like all his Christmases had come at once. “It’s not on the menu, but we have a house special that is truly exquisite: the parmaforiggionoralamentetoreloni.” Or something like that.
I pretended to ponder this. “It’s not too heavy, is it?”
“No, miss. But I can ask the chef to use just a little less cream.”
“That sounds good, then, thank you.”
Jared grinned at me as the waiter hurried off, though whether at my choice or my performance, I couldn’t tell.
“Tell me,” he said, “are you a reader?” At my enthusiastic nod, he pressed, “Favorite authors?”
“How much time do you have?” I paused. “Jane Austen. Charlotte Bronte. Tolstoy. Voltaire.”
“Really? Which Voltaire?”
“Candide, of course.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yet you’re not a lit major?”
“Well, there aren’t exactly a lot of jobs for literature majors. But coding isn’t that far off, actually.” I made a few tentative forays about how I thought coding and language were actually pretty closely related, and when – unlike most people – he didn’t scoff or look confused, I warmed to the topic.
When he’d finished with academics, he moved on to asking about my background and family, and I told him about my stepmother and growing up in a small town. I grew more relaxed as we chatted, although I noticed he deflected most of my questions while asking more of his own. I was going to call him on it, but every time I steeled myself, his dreamy blue eyes would lock onto mine and my mind would go blank.
“Any siblings?” he asked.
“No. It’s just me and my stepmom.” I hesitated, unsure about sharing anything more. “My dad passed away a few years ago.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He sat forward. “And your birth mother? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I shrugged. “It’s OK. I never met her. My dad didn’t like to talk about her, and I always felt… I don’t know. I mean, she died in childbirth.”
He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
The waiter arrived with our dinners, and I nearly cried out with relief at something that looked not only familiar but delicious. It smelled amazing, too.
For a few moments, neither of us spoke as I attended to my food, which tasted even better than it looked. The hunger pangs attended to, I looked up at Jared. “What about you? I mean, I know you’re a singer and now an actor. But that’s about all I know. I don’t even know how old you are.”
“What would you guess?”
Oh, help. I can never tell men’s ages. I studied his face for any clues. He wasn’t a teenager, that much was obvious, but other than that…his face had an ageless quality, somehow, but wrinkle-free. I couldn’t even decide if I should try to guess low or high. What would flatter him more?
“Um…twenty-four?” I asked, going for low.
“Close. Twenty-two.”
“Oh. You look older, somehow.”
He shrugged. “The stress of a life on the road, perhaps.”
“Where did you grow up?”
He looked out over the river again. “All over the place. My family traveled a lot, so I was never in one place for long. Eventually we wound up in Portland. The rest is history.”
“How did you get involved in music?”
“How does anyone? I enjoyed writing songs and eventually figured I would give singing them a try.” Another shrug and crooked grin. “So far, so good.”
“I’ll say. And the movie?”
“My record company came up with that idea to leverage my fifteen minutes of fame. Christina made it all happen.”
“Christina,” I said. In spite of my best effort, my voice sounded frosty.
“My manager. She’s been with me since the beginning. A big part of my success.”
“How did you hook up with her?” I asked, and immediately winced inside. Oh, great choice of words there!
Jared ran his fingers through his chaotic tumble of hair. “We’ve been friends forever.”
He shifted the discussion back to me, asking when my birthday was, what my classes were like – easy, probing questions that showed a genuine interest in my life. My initial nervousness had vanished completely by now, and I found myself both enthralled with his charm as well as flattered by his single-minded attention.
When I was practically finished with my food, I suddenly noticed that Jared had really only pushed his choice around his plate but hadn’t eaten much. I was going to comment on it when his cell phone buzzed from his back pocket. Annoyance clouded his perfect features when he eyed the screen.
A hushed conversation ensued, and he rose and walked to the railing, speaking so softly I couldn’t make out a word. When he ended the call, he was obviously troubled.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight. “Emergency. I have to go.”
“Just like that?” I asked, disappointment obvious in my tone in spite of my best effort not to let it show. I was
