Behind the Scenes

Chapter Eight

[Author's note: This chapter ended up being MUCH longer than anticipated. Sorry! I will fix it in the editing stage. For now, enjoy!]

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It's hard to get ready for a date when you're living out of a suitcase, but I do my best with what I've got. The end result sees me in my favourite pair of dark-wash skinny jeans that make my ass look snatched, and a silky white halter top with a faux leather jacket. 

          All in all, I'm feeling pretty good about myself by the time seven o'clock rolls around. 

          My phone rings at seven on the dot and Joe's name flashes across the screen. My heart leaps into my throat as I swipe right to answer the call. 

          "Hello?"

          "Hi, I'm pulling up outside your hotel now," he says. 

          "Okay, I'll be right down."

          The sun has started lowering itself toward the horizon by the time I step out onto the busy New York City street, cast in shadow behind all the buildings. Joe leans back against a sleek black sedan and smiles flirtatiously at me as I walk through the hotel door. He himself is wearing all black, and I pause mid-step to let my eyes travel over him; a black button-down, rolled up at the elbows and with the top two buttons left undone, showing a thin silver chain around his neck and just a hint of his chest hair, is tucked into black dress pants held taught at the waist by a black leather belt. His black leather shoes look brand new, not a scuff on them. 

          I glance down at my own outfit as Joe steps forward to greet me.

          "Hi," he says, coming to stand just a couple inches away.

          "You look really nice," I say. I look down at my own outfit. "Should I change? I'll only be a minute--"

          "You look perfect," he says, fixing his eyes steadily on mine. I bite my lip and try to ignore my racing heart. I'm sure, if he looked closely enough, he'd see the vein in my neck fluttering with each pulse.

          "Shall we?" He leans over and opens the back door, gesturing toward the car's beige leather seats. I step off the curb and into the car. Joe closes the door behind me, then walks around back to the other side. A driver in a suit sits in front, and I notice buttons in the roof for a privacy wall between the driver and back seat. 

          As Joe slides in on the other side, I lean over and whisper, "Are we in a limo?"

          "Isn't it mad?" he whispers excitedly as he buckles his seatbelt. I do the same as the car pulls away from the curb. 

          "Do all your dates get the star treatment?"

          "Only the ones I really want to impress."

          I look down at my lap and try not to grin like an idiot. 

          The driver takes us over to West Village and deposits us outside a fairly casual--but packed--Italian restaurant right off 7th Avenue. It's the sort of blink-and-you'll-miss-it place I love going to back home in Toronto, the kind run by a family of immigrants who infuse their food with love, passion, and flavour without the pretentious vibes you'd get from the more high-end restaurants downtown. 

          Patrons waiting for a table inside sit at small patio tables crowded against the restaurant's windows, on which is written the night's menu. Every table and chair is full, and as Joe opens the restaurant door for me, the inside hum of chatter and laughter spills out onto the street loud enough to compete with the whirring of cars driving past honking their horns.