Wildest Dreams

13. Kendall

KENDALL

I ’ve been a nervous wreck all day.

Yesterday, Patsy and I went back to Cotton Blossoms before she picked up her boys from her mom’s house so we could purchase yet another outfit for me to wear. Part of this feels a bit disingenuous, putting this much effort into my appearance when I don’t even do that on a daily basis, but I still feel like I’m trying to make up for the fact that Pierre basically saw me after I’d rolled out of bed when we met. Maybe if I look extra put together from here on out, he’ll forget what I look like before I’ve brushed my hair in the morning.

The dress we choose is red and white paisley. No shoes this time, since we’ll be at my apartment. I do, however, get a manicure and pedicure so my nails are in good shape.

About an hour before Pierre is scheduled to arrive, I do my makeup and hair, then collapse on the couch and look around. I wish I’d put more effort into the decor of this place. I have a queen bed with a sage comforter and the chifforobe. On the opposite side is a small couch from IKEA and a TV. Apart from the long gray curtains over the nearly floor-length windows, there isn’t anything on the walls and, aside from some photos with my parents and a few with Patsy and our friends Micah and Sistine on a side table, I’ve done basically nothing to make this place feel homey.

It’s too late to worry about that now.

Finally, I hear the door buzzer. I check my face one last time in the bathroom mirror, then bounce downstairs to let Pierre in. He’s wearing a dark green polo with only one button fastened and tan shorts. The color of his shirt makes his blue eyes look more emerald. I sigh. It should be a sin for any man to be this gorgeous.

After the usual hellos, I grab some of the grocery bags and show him upstairs.

“You weren’t kidding about the tiny kitchen,” he says, setting the food down on the stove.

I cringe. Now I’m regretting letting him come over.

“I—"

“Don’t apologize.”

I pause. He totally called me out on that. “I wasn’t going to,” I lie.

“Yes, you were.” He smiles, showing off his dimples.

“Okay, you’re right. I just don’t have a great setup for cooking.”

“It’s fine. We’ll make it work.” He starts to unpack the bags—loads of vegetables, cheese, wine—and I suddenly realize I forgot to eat lunch. I am starving.

“What are we having?” I ask.

“I decided to keep it simple with pizza. I got store-bought dough since you said the kitchen was small.”

“Good thinking.”

He pulls out two bottles of wine from brown paper bags. “Red and white,” he says. “I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”

“White,” I say, taking the chilled bottle and putting it in the fridge to save for later.

He laughs. “You do have a knife and pizza pan, right?”

“Yes, but not much else.” I get the pizza pan from the drawer under the stove and retrieve the knife from the one kitchen drawer I have. “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Talk to me.”

I ask about his day and he tells me how the table reads went. Apparently, Marina was late, and there’s pressure on him from the studio to pretend to date her for publicity. I feel a pang in my gut when he adds that last bit. I can’t compete with someone like her.

His phone buzzes while he’s cooking and I see her name flash on the screen before he silences and pockets it.

“What are you going to do about the studio wanting you to pretend to date?” I ask, watching him cut up mushrooms and peppers.

“Ignore them. There’s not much they can do about it. Dating Marina is not in my contract. Besides, there’s someone else I want to date, and any inch I budge on the whole Marina thing could jeopardize that.”

“Oh!” I say, feigning ignorance. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

He smirks and cuts his eyes to me. He’s moved on to chopping onions and he’s teary. Even my eyes are twinging a little and I’m not the one standing over them. He tries wiping his face with his tight shirt sleeve, but his cheeks are still wet. Without thinking, I reach up to wipe the tears from his skin. We’re so close I can feel him breathing. I move my hand away slightly, then change my mind and return it to his face.

You can do this , I tell myself. It’s time to move on. This is a guy you like. Just go with it.

We lock eyes and he turns his body towards me. Wrapping his hands around my waist, he bends down to kiss me. When our lips touch, I feel jolts of electricity run through my body and out the tips of my toes.

He pulls back and stands up straight, never taking his eyes off me.

“Was that okay?” he asks.

I nod, too stunned to say anything. My lips are still tingling and my skin is prickling with goosebumps. That was magical, like a bomb went off inside my body.

He leans for another kiss. This time I wrap my arms around him and pull him in, so close I have to remind myself to breathe. We’re lost in the moment and the whole world falls away.

A loud rumble cuts the silence of the room—my stomach screaming for food. I can’t believe I forgot to eat lunch.

Pierre pulls away and looks at me with a quizzical expression. “Are you okay?”

I blush. “I’m fine. I didn’t eat lunch. I’m s?—”

He raises his eyebrows like a parent about to scold a child.

“I’m so not going to apologize?”

He laughs. “Good. Now if you’d keep your hands off me, I could make this pizza and get you fed.”

I know my face is bright red despite the makeup. “Fair enough.”

I lean against the fridge and watch him finish chopping the veggies. Once he’s done, he spreads the dough across the pan, swirls some jarred pizza sauce over it, and sprinkles on a generous layer of three different cheeses before topping it with veggies, fresh basil, seasonings, and ham.

“You’ll have to come visit me in California,” he says. “My house has a huge kitchen. I’ll make you a meal that would make Gordon Ramsey jealous. When I do pizza, it’s all from scratch. The dough, the sauce, basil from my garden, you name it.”

I know he means well, but a sense of dread settles over me at the mention of California. For a moment, I had allowed myself to get lost in our little bubble, with him here in my apartment, in my hometown. As soon as he reminds me he doesn’t belong here, that bubble bursts and I remember he’s leaving soon.

“Don’t say that,” I say without thinking.

He’s taken aback, jarred by the stern tone in my voice.

“Say what?”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “Don’t talk about me going to California like we have some kind of future.”

He nods but says nothing. Right on time, the oven signals it’s preheated. He puts in the pizza and turns his attention back to me.

“I understand,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything or get ahead of myself. I had this image of us in my kitchen, laughing, having a good time, and I wanted to share it with you.”

I nod. “It’s okay. I’m trying to be realistic and protect myself. I like you. I really do. But if I’m going to have you here and let you dip into my life, I have to see this as a temporary, fun, short-term thing. You don’t live here. You occupy this entirely different world so foreign to me I can’t possibly imagine myself in it. And that’s okay. Let’s enjoy each other now and not talk about the future. Once you leave, that’s it.”

“I understand,” he says. We embrace again. “Why don’t we open the wine?”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. “Glasses are above the stove.”

He reaches up and pulls down the two wine glasses I have. One is hot pink and has “21” on it. The other is painted with my name and carnation pink polka dots.

“They were gifts from Patsy when I was in college,” I say. “I can’t bring myself to get rid of them, even if they are a little juvenile.” Honestly, they have more personality than anything in my apartment.

“I love them,” he says. “I want 21.”

“It’s all yours.”

I retrieve the wine opener from a box under the sink and hand it to him. He grabs the white wine from the fridge and opens each bottle, pouring red for himself and white for me.

He holds up his glass to toast. “To us. To friendship. And to fitting in as many kisses as we can while I’m here.”

I’m grinning ear to ear. “I like that.” Our glasses clink and we each take a sip.

I settle on the couch while Pierre walks around my apartment, looking at the few photos I have on display. He stops at one of me in pigtails, wearing a lavender and white seersucker dress, standing in front of a giant rose bush.

“Oh, this is too cute,” he says, picking it up.

“Yeah, that was in front of my parents’ house one Easter before church.”

“Do they still have that house?”

“No, they sold it when they retired to Florida. It broke my heart to say goodbye to that place. It was the perfect home to spend a childhood. My dad and grandpa planted the roses around the porch when I was a baby. A guy I went to high school with actually lives there now, and the roses are still there. I can’t smell roses without thinking of playing in the yard as a little kid.”

He smiles and puts the picture back. I turn on my Bluetooth speaker and Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams” is the first song to play.

“Taylor Swift, huh?”

“I love her.”

“What’s your favorite Taylor song?”

“Oh goodness. That’s hard.” I bite my bottom lip and glance up to the ceiling. “Probably the extended ‘All Too Well.’ Though this one is a bit apropos.”

“That’s a good one! I’m partial to ‘Exile.’”

“I love that song! I didn’t take you to be a Swiftie.”

“I have this theory that everyone loves Taylor Swift, even if it’s in secret. She’s a great songwriter. I met her once.”

“No way!”

“Yeah, it was at a movie premiere. She’d done a song for the soundtrack and I had a film coming out with the same studio that year, so I had to make an appearance. She was sweet. We have some mutual friends. I’ve heard nothing but good things about her.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “Different worlds.”

“Let’s not talk about that anymore.” He takes my wine glass from me, puts both mine and his on the coffee table, then leans in to kiss me.

Our lips are locked until the oven timer goes off.

I get up and grab plates while he takes out the pizza. It smells like Italian heaven and my stomach gives another roar, which makes Pierre laugh.

“Pizza cutter?” he asks, and I shake my head. He washes the knife from earlier and uses that to cut, then puts the slices on our plates. We each take one and head back to the couch.

The pizza is so good that I have a hard time being ladylike while I’m eating. Strings of cheese fall off the slice with every bite, and the basil fills my mouth with a fresh, savory flavor that makes my eyes roll back in my head.

“I could eat that whole pizza,” I say.

“That whole pizza would not fit in your tiny little stomach.”

“Wanna bet?”

I don’t eat the whole pizza, but I do have two more slices. His phone buzzes twice while we eat, and each time he looks at it without responding. I don’t bother to look to see who it is. I know it’s Marina, and I can’t help but feel a little smug. Perfect model-turned-actress Marina Breton is chasing a man who only wants me. It’s as invigorating as it is bizarre.

For the rest of the evening we cuddle on the couch, listen to music, and talk about our favorite songs, movies, and books. Turns out, he’s a total sap. Not only does he love Taylor Swift, but Casablanca and The English Patient are his top two movies and he’s read Don Quixote so many times he can quote passages from memory. I feel a little uncultured when I tell him my favorite movies are Easy A and Love Actually , and the only time I read is when I occasionally download a romance novel on my phone.

I don’t mention that my free time is pretty much spent streaming murder shows—that may scare him.

“Romance novels?” he says. “So, under all of that anxiety, you’re really an optimist at heart.”

“Maybe,” I answer, cuddling closer. He’s warm and, even though it’s hot outside, I welcome the closeness. It’s been a long time since I felt this comfortable with someone.

“You’re not at all what I expected,” I tell him.

“How so?” He cocks his head back and looks at me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought you’d be shallow or narcissistic or something.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, come on. You know how you look. You’re a movie star.”

“I’m just a regular guy, Kendall.” My stomach knots when he says my name.

“No,” I say. “You’re much more than that.”