A Frozen Man's Sun

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The day after the Tagaytay shoot with Eral and Reina, my phone rang while I was tying my shoes. Unknown number. I answered anyway.

"Ice!" A familiar voice chirped-too bright, too loud.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and frowned. "Where the hell did you get my number, Eral?"

"Certainly not in hell," she said, smug. "From Manager Ris, obviously."

"Why did you call?"

"To offer you a date. Today."

"I don't do dates."

"You do if I tell Auntie you're not cooperating," she sing-songed. I could practically see her grin.

I almost laughed. Almost. "Fine. Lunch. Be ready at twelve." I hung up before she could gloat.

Time moved faster than usual after that. I showered and threw on a white V-neck and dark blue shorts. As I passed the mirror, I paused. Yesterday's jab about my hair floated back-fix it again. I raked my fingers through the white strands and made it behave. Just enough.

Cologne. Keys. Door.

Dad met me in the hall, coffee in one hand, a stack of documents in the other. "Photoshoot?" he asked.

"Date."

One eyebrow shot up; a rare smile tugged at his mouth. He thumped my shoulder. "Go for it, son."

I nodded and headed for the garage. The engine hummed to life, and minutes later, I was parked outside her house. I honked once. Five minutes ticked by.

Then she stepped out.

Through the tint, I watched her cross the driveway. Dark red dress that kissed her knees. A soft, strategic cling at the waist. Red lips that bordered on dangerous. Hair in loose waves I could already feel between my fingers.

She tapped the window. I unlocked the door. She slid into the passenger seat, turned, and arched a brow. "If you're not a jerk, say something."

"I'm not a jerk."

She sighed dramatically. "You're not just a jerk-you're emotionally tone—deaf." She leaned back, still pouting. "Deluxé Restaurant. Italian."

I drove. At the lot, I got out. She stayed seated, staring. "If you plan to live in the car, tell me," I said.

"Wow. A gentleman," she deadpanned, stepping out. "Is this even a date? You can't even open the door for me."

"Who begged for this date?"

She pointed to herself with both thumbs, then sighed like a tragic heroine. I shook my head, slid an arm around her waist, and drew her in as we walked. She stopped, looked up, and the pout melted into a smile.

"I take it back," she murmured. "You have romantic bones. Maybe two."

"Better than none," I said, and pushed open the door.

"Do you have a reservation, sir?" the host asked.

"I do," she said brightly. "Ms. Lenessia. Future Apolonio de Mayor."

The host blinked, then smiled. "Right this way, ma'am." He led us to a small table by the window, overlooking a trimmed garden sprinkled with white roses. The light was soft there, the kind that forgives hard lines.

We sat. For a while, neither of us spoke. The food arrived-carpaccio, truffle pasta, grilled sea bass. She'd ordered ahead.

"Are you serious about this heart business?" I asked as we ate.