One More Time(42)

“Do you think this is what it felt like to be in an olden-time royal court?” I ask, changing the subject in my own mind more so than between us. We haven’t talked about anything meaningful all day. Too many people listening.

“What do you mean?” Tanner asks, expertly detaching an oyster in mignonette from its shell.

“You know. Eating in front of the entire village while they gawked at you.”

“Oh, that. Meh. You get used to it,” he says, far more focused on stealing the last lemon wedge from my plate than on the retinue just outside the glass. I stare doubtingly at him until he finally looks up and meets my eyes.

“You will, too,” he offers.

It hits me suddenly that after this movie comes out, no matter what the critics think of it, I’m guaranteed to be dealing with this kind of attention for as long as the buzz lasts. And despite having wanted this break forever, I wonder if I’m ready for it.

The panic must show on my face, because Tanner turns his full attention from the food to me.

“Hey. I know you inside and out, Jenna. And you’ve got this. There’s nothing this world can throw at you that you can’t handle. You’re tough, you’re cool, you’re talented as hell, and you’re a total badass. So rest assured that no matter what happens, you’ll handle it with grace and style, just like you always do. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I nod.

“You know, I think we’ve done enough. Want to head out?”

He must really not want to carry on the charade any longer.

And I can’t either.

“We can’t—” I start, intending to tell him that the sex is over, that this right here is the end of the affair. That in order to be the fierce woman I’m capable of becoming, I have to get him out of my bed to get him out of my head.

But he’s already speaking. “Let’s ditch the shutterbugs and take a walk. Just me and you. Today was so amazing, but I wasn’t really present for any of it. I was so focused on making sure our story was being told the way we want that I missed all the fun I wanted to have with you.”

In spite of everything, my heart lifts along with my hopes.

Then Tanner flashes me his classic smile, the one that roped me in all those years ago. It starts on the right side of his mouth then curls over to the rest of his face so that both of his perfect dimples are on full display.

And I guess I really am the same person I always was, because even knowing what I know, I realize I’ve already fallen in love with Tanner James all over again.

That’s the only thought ringing through my head as we go through the motions of taking care of our tab and walking outside for the now-familiar awkward-pose.

“What a great night, Jenna,” Tanner announces in front of the crowd, with all the subtlety of a twelve year old in a school production. “We should go back to the hotel now.”

“Yes. Together,” I add, my distraction only making this better.

“Well that’s not a publicity stunt,” a girl in front snickers to her friend, and I see several other people snort and agree.

“I thought they could act at least. Must really hate each other,” someone else adds.

It’s almost too easy. We don’t even have to try to lose them. We walk to our car, and pull away without a single person following.

And why would they? We played them like fiddles all day.

If I’d ever doubted my acting abilities, today would have put that to bed permanently. Regardless of the relative realness or fakeness of the date, we managed to convince half of Vancouver that we could hardly stand to touch each other, when in reality the chemistry between us takes work to ignore.

After a few deceiving turns to make sure no intrepid reporter is following us, we have the driver drop us at Creekside Park. Tanner leads me down for a walk along the harbor. The almost full moon is gleaming off the rippling water, and the docked boats are bobbing on creaking ropes. Those and our footsteps are the only sounds.

We walk for a long while without speaking, the air between us growing tight and taut with the heat and flare that burns constantly when we’re together. The attraction that we hid from the crowd all day is so strong now that we’ve unleashed it, and I find I’m suddenly shy.

I think we’re on a real date now.

And I think I like it.

Eventually, words come and conversation trips and stutters as we talk about the weather and the water. He asks me if the breeze is too chilly for me enough times that I eventually realize he’s just looking for an excuse to put his arm around me. Does he feel this same fumbling that I do?

Or am I reading too much into this?

I try not to think about it. Try to just live in the moment.

A mile or so later, we’re holding hands freely, swinging them lightly between us. The few words have become a torrent, and, if this really is a date, it’s the best date I’ve been on in a long time.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to name it The Jet!” I laugh, when we’re deep in the middle of a game of name your future yacht. “Or, like, Jet Stream. It seems obvious.”

“First of all, what kind of a douchebag do you think I am? Wait, don’t answer that.” He elbows me playfully when I open my mouth. “And second, boats are always women. So she needs a womanly name. Like…”

“The Jenna?” I do a Vanna arm, displaying my imaginary namesake.