Dating the Don (Savage Crime Lords #1)

4. Ella

Chapter Four

ELLA

T he morning air is crisp as I walk away from The Odeon, the sound of my heels echoing in the quiet streets of Bel Air.

The faint yellow glow of the streetlights cast long shadows, and I pull my shawl tighter around me, as if it could cover me from the lingering traces of my unexpected night. I smile at my craggy reflection in the window of Tim’s Treats.

Hailing a taxi from across the street, I slide into the backseat. The leather feels cool against my skin. The fancy neighborhood blurs into a series of passing lights, but my mind refuses to let go of him.

“Tommaso ” , I whisper his name, playing with the hem of my dress. The contrast between the warmth of his penthouse and the cool leather of the taxi is jarring.

As the taxi makes its way through the manicured streets, my eyes are suddenly drawn to the extravagant mansions and huge bungalows lining the road. It's a world where the rich effortlessly get their hands on everything they desire, anything they can think of.

A world I got to see from up-close for one night.

Pocketing the night’s quaintness, I brace myself for real life beyond these rich gates. My life, which revolves around my flat mate Reed and work. “39-B, Brentwood,” the driver says sluggishly as the taxi comes to a halt.

I pay the fare, the driver offering a quirky smirk as I step onto the sidewalk and adjust my dress.

As I step to the door, my phone vibrates with an incoming email. With a sinking feeling, I glance at the notification. An email from Frank, my boss? Eye roll-worthy as usual. The subject line is “Urgent” and I end up opening it.

Ella,

We have an interesting development that requires your immediate attention. We need you to probe and deliver an in-depth article by the end of the week. Your skills and discretion are crucial. See you in my office. 2 pm sharp.

Your dedication to quality work is highly appreciated.

Best,

Frank

“Yeah, right,” I frown at his last line. But as the weight of the email sinks in, I can't help but feel excited, more than anxious.

What if this is it? A real article? Not another riveting food review, but an actual, bona fide story? The kind that doesn't involve me rating the flakiness of croissants or the ambiance of dimly lit cafes in downtown LA?

I can almost hear the heavens parting in celebration, if Frank consents to this.

For once, there may be a chance for me to work on something I love .

My boss might just have conjured up a real assignment. Color me surprised – or at least a less cynical shade of sarcasm.

The sound of the door unlocking breaks my train of thought.

I push the door open, and there stands a fine-looking stranger. At least I think so initially.

It’s Reed. In one of his acting attires. At half past ten in the morning.

At first, I do nothing but stare at his shining hair and his spring-green eyes.

He is wearing a silk shirt the color of the inside of a casaba melon, a beret, and a tremendous scarf wrapped twice around him as a skirt. "Can you believe this, Ella?" he says in a thin, tapered voice that doesn't match anything else about him.

He pushes past me, holding his right arm with his left, as if it were something he'd rather be rid of.

Reed has been my flatmate since we were thrown together by a computer during our internship at Paramount Press. Although our careers took contrasting paths, we stuck to each other. He went through a rough patch when he came out to his parents and decided to stay in L.A.

I sort of anchor him to the real world, and in return, well, I suppose he makes me laugh.

Right now, his arm is encased from wrist to elbow in a black plaster cast.

"Tell me," he whines. "What am I supposed to do about Clorox?"

"Clorox?" I murmur, stumbling up the stairs behind him and watching this stranger/friend-of-mine pour a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. He smirks.

"What's the matter? Your boss has you up half the night at work talking about himself again?"

Should I tell him I wasn’t at work?

That I was with the ever-so-handsome owner of The Odeon in Bel-Air.

My hands clench defensively at my sides.

I want to tell him that I wasn’t working overtime for that idiot Frank this time.

It was something out of the ordinary. I want to tell him how this man I met is incredibly hot and charming. Like the ones we see in the movies. I want to tell him about the unexpected night I had.

Maybe no.

Not now.

He looks like a mess, and I want the explanation.

Reed drains his glass of orange juice, sits down on the maple stool, and wraps his legs around it.

I narrow my eyes, trying to recall his hair color. "Wasn’t your hair… purple?" I say.

He wrinkles his nose. "Like a zillion years ago. I was pink later, blue afterward, and it's cherry-red now," he says. "What has gotten into you? Why do you look so confused?"

Correction. Happy, Reed. One, for the night I had. Two, for the new possibility at work.

"Well, nothing quite like seeing you first thing in the morning,” I remark.

“Yeah,” Reed snorts. “The pleasure is mine.”

I point to his black cast. “Tendinitis? Overexertion? Some other occupational hazard?”

“Fuck you,” Reed says lightly. “I slipped on a sidewalk.”

“Could have been worse," I shrug.

"Worse? I'm supposed to be shooting a commercial next week, a national commercial for Clorox, my right arm pouring bleach into a damn measuring cup-ouch,’ he makes a funny sound holding his arm.

"You got that commercial?" My quiet question stops his tirade.

He flicks his eyes toward me. "What the hell did they do to you at work? I told you about that in a call just yesterday!’ he says.

Oh.

I recall him calling me, and how I couldn’t make out what was being said over the noise at the club, so I just nodded and hummed to everything he said.

He leans against the marble island in the center of the kitchen, his arms crossed. "Miss Ella Hart did you hit her head? Do you remember your name? I bet you remember that you work for Frank though?" He says in one breath.

“Very funny. Stop quoting that moron everywhere,” I scowl. “And… sorry. I forgot, had a busy night. Congratulations!”

He rolls his eyes.

"And as a gift," I add, chuckling, "if you're real nice to me, I'll autograph that cast."

He rolls his eyes for the second time.

I step back from him, scrutinizing his face, this time for recognition under his clown-like attire. "You look absolutely dazzling," I say, laughing harder this time.

“I have a date later,” he frowns.

“I pity them already,” I make a witty face at him.

“Do I really look that ugly?” he asks me.

“The clothes, maybe. But you. You are drop-dead handsome,” I assure him, controlling my smile.

He waves his hand in the air, dismissing my compliment. "My eyes are too close together, and my nose twists a half-centimeter to the right," he says. "Each time, they use a little bit more of me. The last ad got up to my shoulder, so I figure it's only a matter of time before they show my face on the television!" he says in excitement.

I try to control my laughter this time.

Even Clark Gable wasn’t as wrapped up in himself as my friend.

But he looks so serious, holding his hand out and flexing it just so, that I can only smile. "Can I get you something else?" I say, pointing to the empty juice glass, wondering if his arm hurts.

I can't be sure if Reed doesn't want to answer the question or if he hasn't heard it. "Where did the butter go?" he says. He closes his eyes as if divining its location, and then opens a compartment of the refrigerator. "Ah," he says.

He tries to hold the banana muffin with his bad arm while he spreads the butter with the other hand, but the muffin keeps slipping out of his grasp.

He doesn’t like asking for help. Too stubborn for that. So, I intervene. "Here," I say. "Let me do it for you." I hand half to him, while he stares at his forearm as if it's a foreign object.

"I can't put any pressure on it yet. It's driving me up the wall. And it itches like hell!"

"How did you get hurt?"

He shrugs. "It was the end of a perfectly horrible day. I was at this photo-shoot for Parents magazine, and I'd spent the afternoon holding a series of naked three-month-olds in the air—" He reaches his arms in front of him as a demonstration. "Anyway, at one point they zeroed in on the baby's ass and my hands under its armpits. So this kid—a boy—started peeing on me. And I was wearing that washed silk shirt I got at Zara last month—remember? I just know the stain isn't going to come out."

He pauses, taking a bite of his muffin. "And then they told me before I left that they'd let me know if—if—they decided to use the picture for the next issue. So I stepped outside, and it was raining, and I had no umbrella, and next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground in the middle of a mudslide, and my arm was caught underneath me, and I was dying from the pain. I mean, seriously, when does it ever rain in Los Angeles?!"

He turns to me. "Did you know that they don't just make white casts anymore? You have a choice of anything—pink, green, even magenta. I thought I'd go with black, you know, because it matches most of my outfits."

I lean against the counter, exhausted from his explanation.

“Remember that disastrous road trip we took back in college to Aspen? Where I broke my arm and wanted a yellow cast."

He hasn’t changed since college. His self-assertiveness has just gotten worse.

"Oh, how can I forget that torture? Your impeccable navigation skills led us straight into the wilderness. I thought we were going to discover a new species of mosquitoes." He chuckles. "And then there was that questionable motel with the neon sign flickering. I swear it looked haunted."

"And we ended up staying because you thought it was a good idea." We share a laugh.

"Good times, huh? Speaking of, any new developments in the romance department?"

I roll my eyes playfully. He enjoys doing this to me. "The eternal question. No, my dear matchmaker, my love life is still as thrilling as a spreadsheet. I would be interested to know if there are any sparks flying on your end..."

"Well, you know me—the hopeless romantic. I've been swiping left and right, hoping to stumble upon Mr. Right. Or at least Mr. Doesn't-Text-Like-a-Robot."

I snort.

"What? What's wrong with settling down? You can't resist the domestic bliss forever," he suggests, raising an eyebrow.

Yeah. Right.

"Oh, please. Don’t get started Reed."

"Maybe I know someone intriguing," he teases, leaning in conspiratorially.

I mock horror, "A blind date? Do people still do that in the age of Tinder and Bumble?"

"Call me old-fashioned, but sometimes, the best connections happen when you least expect them."

"And if he turns out to be a lumberjack with a pet squirrel, you owe me Taco Bell for a month," I mock.

Reed grins, "Deal! Who knows, this might be the beginning of your epic love story."

We laugh. "Enough about that," he says.

He smiles, and I can see what he means—his nose is a little bit off center.

“How is work going?” he asks.

Ah. Work.

I look at my phone.

One hour to go.

“Not bad,” I smile. “I think I might be getting the opportunity to do something I am actually interested in today.”

“Really?! Don’t tell me Frank asked you to stay the night in return for that?!” he jests.

“Fuck off, Reed.” I smile at my own thoughts of a studded future in journalism.

This better be the breakthrough I have been waiting for.