Chapter 14 After you
We pull away, speeding down my quiet street in his ridiculously flashy car.
“So where are we going?” I ask, still recovering.
“It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I turn toward him.
“Yes, a proper surprise. You remember those. Usually tied to birthdays and things like that.”
“But it’s not my birthday.”
“I missed seven of them, so I have a lot to make up for.”
I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet.
I glance out the window and notice a black Bentley Spur driving close behind us.
“That car is really close,” I say, nodding backward.
Natte checks the mirror and looks back at me.
“That’s Dave, my security.”
“Oh. Does he follow you everywhere?”
“Pretty much everywhere except the bathroom,” he says with a grin.
“Why isn’t he in the car with us?”
“Because I wanted some time alone with you.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
My nerves immediately spiral. I could really use another drink.
Honestly, every time he looks at me, I feel like drinking. Tonight might get dangerous.
I stare out the window at the Texas buildings, feeling completely surreal. Last night I was drunk with Terry, panicking over whether Natte would remember me. Now I’m sitting in his Ferrari Roma, on my way to a mystery night out.
Natte Johnson. My childhood best friend. My first love. The biggest rock star in the world. Sitting inches away from me.
I could reach out and touch him.
I won’t. That would be strange.
Although this whole situation already is.
We arrive at Alpine Ranch, and Natte parks along the main road outside the gate. Dave pulls up behind us.
“I don’t think you can park here,” I say, eyeing the signs.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on,” he says, climbing out.
I follow and notice a man standing by the entrance. At first I think he’s a fan, but then I recognize Steve, Natte’s assistant.
“Hey,” Natte says. “All set?”
“Yep,” Steve replies.
Natte tosses him the keys. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
“No problem. Have a great night. Nice to see you again, Shiva,” Steve adds as he walks past.
“Hi,” I reply with a smile.
Steve gets into the Ferrari Roma and drives off.
“Come on,” Natte says, taking my hand.
My skin tingles at his touch. He’s far more affectionate than he used to be.
He leads me toward the entrance of Alpine Ranch, and I realize it’s connected to the Alpine Resort.
I stop and look up at the sign, then back at him.
“We’re going to the stables?” I grin.
He remembered.
That’s what he meant about birthdays. Every year we came here. Horses were my obsession. Back then, this land hadn’t even been sold yet.
I can’t believe he remembers. My chest fills with warmth, along with the realization that I might be overdressed.
He smiles, his blue eyes lighting up. “Like I said, I have seven birthdays to make up for. It’s not the exact place we used to go, but I figured you wouldn’t want to drive too far. This was the next best thing. After you.”
My heart is buzzing around my chest at his thoughtfulness. I walk past him and make my way down the stairs.
Natte is the only guy I know who would pick me up in a Ferrari Roma and then bring me to a ranch hut. And that’s why I love him.
I mean, of course I don’t love him love him. I just used to love him when I was younger.
Anyway, Alpine Ranch One is way too beautiful for horses alone.
I’m greeted at the bottom of the stairs by a servant. The instant he sees Natte, nerves and awe light his eyes up.
I feel sorry for him, as it must be a shock when the biggest rock star in the world turns up unannounced at your place of work. I mean, grilling meat at a ranch is not where you’d usually expect to see Natte Johnson.
It’s pretty hard not to be overawed, but I think he does okay overall. He doesn’t ask for Natte’s autograph, which is a good start, because I totally would have.
As I glance around, I see the place is empty.
Surprising, but lucky, as I’m pretty sure Natte would have been hassled nonstop for autographs in here. Hopefully, it stays quiet while we’re here.
The waiter shows us over to a booth table. I slide into my seat, and Natte sits opposite me.
His legs are long under the table. I accidentally knock his leg with my foot.
“Sorry about that.”
He smiles at me.
It squirms its way through me. I feel like I’m a teenager all over again.
“Can I bring you something to drink?” the servant asks, handing us our menus.
Natte looks at me.
“Beer.”
“Two Buds,” Natte says.
The waiter disappears to get our drinks while I stare at Natte, surprised.
“What are you staring at?” he asks.
“Uh… nothing.” My face burns.
“No, really,” he presses, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table.
“Well, I just assumed you didn’t drink anymore, you know, after rehab.” I lower my voice, like the word itself is inappropriate.
He laughs. “Alcohol was never the issue, Shia.”
“Oh.”
He leans back. “That was the media twisting things. I just keep things balanced now. Except drugs. Those are completely off limits. Cigarettes, though, I picked up more of those.”
“When did you start smoking?” I ask, wondering if it was a replacement after he got clean, since he never cared for cigarettes as a teenager.
He thinks for a moment. “When the band started.”
Then, “Terrible habit.”
“It really is,” I say.
“But still better than addiction,” he replies.
I tense instantly.
He smiles. “Easy, Shia. I’ve said worse things before. My counsellor actually tells me I should talk openly about it.”
Okay.
“Was it awful?”
“What was?”
“Rehab. No… I mean being addicted.”
He drums his fingers on the table. “When it was good, it was incredible. When it was bad, it was unbelievably bad. Eventually, even the highs turned ugly. That’s when I knew it was time to stop.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say.
“So am I,” he says softly.
The waiter returns with our beers.
“Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”
“Oh, sorry, I haven’t even checked the menu yet,” I say, opening it.
“Give us a few minutes,” Natte tells him.
“So what are you thinking?” I ask, scanning the menu.
“Grilled meat.”
I look up at his grin.
“Very funny. They also have pasta and salads, you know.” I stick my tongue out at him.
“I remember.”
It feels like he remembers far more than I expected.
“Want to split something?” I ask.
“Are you still possessive over food?”
“I was never possessive!” I protest.
“You ate like a rugby player,” he laughs.
“Are you calling me fat, Natte Johnson?” I arch a brow.
“No. You were always tiny. I never figured out where it all went.”
“My ass. It still does.”
“From what I recall, your ass was perfect. I might need to reassess later.”
“So you didn’t already check it out on the stairs?”
I cannot believe I said that.
He brings out a reckless, flirty side of me.
He smirks, slow and sinful. My face heats, and so do other parts of me.
“So are we sharing or not?” I ask, quickly returning my attention to the menu.
“We’re sharing.”
Why does everything he says feel layered?
But he is a known womaniser. Flirting is probably second nature to him now.
“I was thinking we could order our old favourite…”
“Oh my God.” I laugh. “The grilled—”
“Grilled mutton,” he finishes.
“I haven’t had that in years!” I laugh harder.
“Same,” he says. “So it’s decided?”
“Absolutely.”
I close my menu and realise he never opened his.