No answer.
Story of my freaking life.
I turn and sink onto the stoop, resting my aching head in my hands, trying to pull my shit together and figure out what to do.
“Hilary?”
I look up and find myself staring into Alessandro’s charcoal eyes. All I can do is sit here staring. But the next second, he’s pulled me up by the hand and I’m pressed against his black wool jacket.
“What happened?” he asks low in my ear. “Did someone hurt you?” His accent is soft and soothing, like silk, but there’s an edge of panic to his voice that’s barely concealed.
I shake my head as I try to think. “It’s just . . . nothing.” I push away from him, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know why I came here. It was stupid.” I step off the stoop, but he grasps my arm gently before I can get away.
“Come. I’ll find us something warm to drink.” He unlocks the door and ushers me through, then tows me into the elevator and up to his apartment.
His apartment. I’m at Alessandro’s apartment. With Alessandro.
We step into the hallway and my stomach tightens. I told him I couldn’t see him anymore for a reason. I can’t be here. I spin back toward the elevator. “I really should—”
“Hilary,” he warns, and I turn and look at him. “You are obviously upset. Please. Come into my apartment where we can talk.”
His locks me in his sure gaze as he takes my still gloved hand, and I find my feet moving up the hall without my permission. He slides his key in the lock and draws me through the door, closing it behind us. He turns back to face me . . . and I have no freaking clue what to say. What the hell was I thinking, coming here?
We stand here, like, three feet apart, staring at each other for what feels like the rest of my life.
“Can I take your coat?” he finally asks, shrugging out of his.
“Yeah . . . sure.” I peel off my gloves and shove them in my jacket pocket, then slip off my jacket and untwist my scarf from my neck. “Where were you so late?” I ask, handing everything to him.
“I got the director of Teen Services job at the youth center. We worked serving Christmas dinner at the local shelter. Cleanup took a while,” he answers, hanging both our coats on the hall tree just inside the door. He starts toward the kitchen. “I’ve got Coke or—”
“Any rum to go with it?” I ask, following him toward the kitchen.
“Sorry, no.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a half empty bottle of white wine, cocking an eyebrow at me. “This is the best I can do in that department.”
“Sold,” I say, leaning against the counter on the other side of the fridge. I watch as he pulls two glasses down and drains what’s left of the bottle into them. He scoops them off the counter and hands one to me on his way to the couch, where he turns and waits for me.
I follow and lower myself onto the cushions. Alessandro sits at the other end, setting his glass on his coffee table . . . which, I now notice, is modern: glass in a heavy metal frame.
“That’s great about your job,” I say. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he says, swirling his wine. His eyes drop away from mine. “It gives me an outlet.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I coordinate programs to keep kids off the street.”
“What sort of programs?”
He settles deeper into the cushions. “Anything I can think of that a kid would need or want, from tutoring to boxing to computer programming. We have dozens of people from the community who volunteer their time to help the kids.”
My heart pounds as I open my mouth to ask, “So, does this mean you’re staying for a while?”
His holds me in his dark gaze. “That all depends.”
I swallow hard and force air into my lungs. “On what?”
Finally, he lowers his intense charcoal eyes, releasing me. “What happened tonight? Why are you here?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just . . .” I feel unexpected tears spring up. I shake my head at the words I feel forming in my throat, but I can’t stop them. “All my life, all I’ve ever wanted was to act, you know? Ever since my grandpa took me to see Annie before he died, that’s all I’ve wanted . . . to stand up on the stage where I had everyone’s attention and just belt something out.”
The depth of the blade slicing through my insides as I say this surprises me and I suddenly realize that, even after everything, I really thought I could make it happen. I really thought I could have this. The death of my dream kills my soul a little too.
Alessandro leans in and wipes the tears off my face with his fingertips. “Then you should.”
With his touch, a sizzling electric current sweeps over me, raising goose bumps everywhere, and I realize that, other than slapping him outside Argo Tea, and dirty dancing at Club 69, which hardly count, this is the first time in eight years he’s touched me, skin on skin, no clothes or gloves between us. The feeling scares me. Without Brett as an obstacle, it’s dangerous for me to be here. I brush his hand away more brusquely than I mean to. I take a long swallow of wine, feeling the coolness and tartness of it roll over my tongue and slip down my throat, grounding me.
“When every third person in Manhattan is auditioning for the same three spots, it’s not that easy. You gotta know someone . . . have an in.” I feel my insides collapse at the knowledge that I just left my “in” standing naked in my apartment.
He tips his head toward me. “Surely it can’t be that simple. Talent has to count for something.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m not as talented as I thought I was.”
I feel that zing again as he picks my hand up off my knee and holds it in both of his. “But you are.”
My reflex is to pull my hand away, but I don’t. “How would you know?”
“Google and YouTube are all kinds of useful,” he says with an impish little smile that stirs something deep inside my belly.
Shit. He’s been cyberstalking me again. “You did not . . .”
He nods and the smile spreads. “I did. Some of your American Idol clips are really quite impressive.”
I shake my head. “Not impressive enough. I didn’t make it far enough to matter.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Did it matter to you?”
“Well . . .” I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s gotten me into auditions I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise.”
“So, use it to its fullest advantage,” he says, his thumb tracing circles over the back of my hand. “Will it continue to get you auditions?”
“I guess . . . for a while. But it doesn’t matter. I never get the callback.”
“So, what needs to happen for you to get the callback?”
“A lot of things, but mostly, I need to learn to dance.”
His thumb stops, mid-stroke. “What kind of dance?”
I breathe deeply. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t afford lessons.”
“What kind of dance?” he repeats with all the patience of a saint.
“Classical . . . modern . . . anything really. I just need to learn to move my body in a way that’s not totally spastic.”
“Are you free Thursday?” he asks, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes me squint a question at him.
“Why?”
He smirks a little, and it’s a totally hot look on that perfect face. “You are bound and determined to make me ask everything twice, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m free.”
“Can you be at the youth center by ten?”
“In the morning?” I ask, hoping I’ve misunderstood.
His smirk is back. “In the morning.”
“Yeah . . . sure, I guess.” I’m not even sure where I’m sleeping tonight. It sure as hell isn’t going to be at home. Who knows where I’ll be in two days.