Chapter 21

• “We’ll see about that,” Annabelle snorts in jest, but she obliges him and sits down on the blanket, distracting herself from her nerves by unzipping her ankle boots. She pulls off her socks, frees her feet, and wiggles her toes, which are painted fire-engine red, in the sand. She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, hugging them to her chest. “It’s beautiful out here. I’m so glad the cloud cover stayed away today.”
• “Mmm-hmm,” he murmurs as he reaches into the brown bag from Fourth Street. “Are you hungry?” he asks, producing two packages wrapped in white deli paper, followed by a loaf of French bread, a bottle of wine, and two paper cups. “Voila,” he announces. “A very sophisticated dinner of salami, provolone cheese, French bread, and some wine.” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly as if he is testing her. As if he is checking to see if she really is okay with a casual, no-frills dinner such as this in a land of Hollywood glitz, glamour, and pretension.
• Annabelle eyes him warily, not liking games or being tested, but. she guesses someone in his shoes is probably wary of others. Then again, he’s the one begging her for a date, although she’s still not sure why. “Well, it’s not the Ritz,” she says dryly, rolling her eyes, “but it’ll have to do,” she huffs out.