Garnering all of my composure and remembering I’m here to do a job, I remove my jacket and stand up straight, extending my hand. “Hello, I am Dahlia London from Sound Music. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

River extends his hand to meet mine, and I think I see a little glimmer in his eyes but I’m not sure. “Dahlia, hmmm . . . a flower. Well it’s nice to finally meet you,” he remarks as his lopsided grin returns.

“Aerie has been texting me your location for the past hour,” he says glancing at his phone.

“You already know who I am, so we can skip that part of the introductions. Agreed?” he asks smirking, as he sits down and motions for me to do the same.

“Sounds great,” I say, sitting down and taking in this man in his entirety. Reflecting back to that night so long ago, which now seems like yesterday, I try to see through his words. His words make me start to question my first impression that he doesn’t remember me. So does he or doesn’t he? Is he playing with me? Well this time around, I’m not playing a game. This is a business meeting, so let’s get down to business. With that thought, I unzip my bag, take out my tablet, pen, and paper, and avoid looking into his eyes at all costs.

Glancing around the room, I notice the stark surroundings. The room houses simply a conference table, chairs, and a credenza. There is no white board, no easel, nothing to make notes on. Pulling a larger tablet and colored pencils from my bag, I place them in the center of the table. River looks inquisitively at the items. “For our final layout,” I say with a grin.

Leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his neck, River responds mischievously, “Whatever you say. As long as I’m not the one drawing, anything goes.”

“I won’t grade you on your inability to draw a simple diagram,” I retort, giving him a half-grin of my own.

I start the interview by asking River for a brief history of his band. I continue with questions that include the band members themselves, their likes and dislikes for clothing and locations, and their favorite memories from their first tour. This takes about thirty minutes and our conversation is flowing in a very businesslike manner.

Moving past the band’s history, I move on to ask him questions about the new album. Before answering, River gets up from his chair and strides across the room to the credenza, pouring us each a glass of ice water from a pitcher. The room is silent as I watch him walk, relaxed and confident. It is the sexiest thing I have ever seen, aside from him. As I’m staring at his backside, I notice his ass is somewhat flat as his jeans hang a little and think his ass is also the sexiest thing I have ever seen.

River circles the table and sits next to me. This little move surprises me and makes me lose my train of thought. My mind trails off the business track course it has been steering on so well. He turns his chair to face me, points to my shirt, and says, “Lola ranks in my top ten all-time favorite songs. It’s actually on my phone.” He takes his phone out of his pocket touches the screen a few times and shows me, in case I doubted him.

“That's cool, we obviously have similar taste in music,” I say in response while trying to catch a glimpse at what else is in his music library.

“Where did you get that t-shirt anyway? It looks like the actual shirt sold when the album One for the Road was released in 1980,” River asks as he stands up and pulls me up with him.

The goosebumps quickly return on both my arms and legs as he tugs the hem of my shirt and demands, “Turn around, let me see something.” He twirls his finger in a 180-degree arc in case I didn’t understand his words.

Looking directly into his powerful eyes, I give him a questioning look before turning around. Without even thinking I jump into his game headfirst. His scent, his closeness, the way my body reacts to his touch have paralyzed me and I welcome the chance to turn around and try to swim out of his green, crystal ball-like eyes. God he’s just so mesmerizing, and I need to pull myself together and get back on track.

His phone chimes from the table, but he ignores it. With my back to River he pulls the collar back on my shirt and reads the tag. “Holy shit, this is an original! Do you have any idea how long I have been searching for one of these?” Then he makes me laugh when he apologizes. “Sorry, my mother taught me better than to swear in front of women.”

Stifling full out laughter I say, “Don’t worry about it, I say shit just about every other sentence.” With that, he chuckles along with me.

The ease of conversation we so easily picked up that night in the bar so long ago comes back immediately. Well, for me anyway as I realize this is just River’s way with women. He’s flirtatious and charming and must have the same rapport with all the women he meets. Embracing this knowledge, I continue to converse with the savvy, almost famous rock star.

I relax and sit back in my chair and start telling River all about my father and his obsession with music and concert t-shirts. I make sure not to repeat what I’d told him that night so long ago, I’m not sure why. Talking now, I realize that our conversation that night so long ago was just one of many intimate conversations he has probably had in his lifetime. It’s his nature; it is who River Wilde is.

I continue to talk and converse with him because honestly, I haven’t felt this comfortable in a man’s company in a long time. I try to keep in mind that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember me; I’m having fun now. And besides, I was the one who ran away from him that night after a short conversation and a single kiss. Seriously, how memorable could one conversation and one kiss be with one girl in a crowded bar anyway?

Glancing at the clock on the wall I notice it’s almost five o’clock and I have only just started the interview needed to prepare for The Wilde Ones’ upcoming photo shoot. River must have seen the concern in my face because he looks at the same clock and casually asks, “I don’t have any pressing plans for tonight. We could finish the interview over dinner?”

I have spent the last hour discussing everything music with this attractively charming man. I told him about all the concerts I have been to, he told me all the bands he has seen, and we listed our top songs, top artists, top singles, and top albums. Throughout our conversation, he continued to stare at me with those twinkling green eyes, grinning occasionally, even when what we were talking about wasn’t funny. He played air guitar when I mentioned a song with a great strings solo and mocked playing drums when an artist we were talking about was known for his drumming ability. He was actually very playful and I was enjoying myself immensely, actually I was having a blast. I even grabbed a pen and pretended to sing my favorite Britney song, which really made him laugh. So dinner . . . sure why not?

Just as I start to answer, my cell phone rings. It’s stashed in my purse, and I reach to grab it, in case it is Aerie. Picking the purse up off the table, I accidently dump all of its contents.

“Shit!” I yell, holding up my index finger. “Sorry, give me a sec, that could be my boss,” I say rolling my chair back and kneeling on the floor under the table to find my phone and gather my things. I find my phone first, right in between River’s feet.

As I reach for it I hear River clear his throat. “Ahem, I can get that for you,” he says before peering his head under the table. “But on second thought I think I like this better,” he continues, pointing at my head between his legs.

Noticing that my face is almost in his knees, I move back a little to look at him and end up staring right at his crotch. I move quickly, trying to remove myself from the very awkward position I’m in and as I do, I smack my head on the table.

Standing back up again, I hold my phone up and laugh a little before patting my head and saying, “Sorry about that, but I got it.”

He chuckles again. “Do you want me to get the rest of your stuff or do you want to do it? I’m good either way.”

Biting my lip, I say, “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you get it.”

Staring at me with intensity in his eyes, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “You sure, I was enjoying myself.” Then not waiting for an answer, he scoots out of the chair, and starts to gather everything as I watch him still patting my head and having missed the call.

His mannerisms, his tone, his facial expressions, and his body language . . . all so charming—almost disarming. He’s the same as I remember. And right now, as he stands in front of me putting my things back in my bag, all I can think about is him. How much I want him.

Once everything is safely put back in my bag, he asks, “And dinner?”

I bite back a smile. “Sounds great, but we really need to get going, the offices close at five on Fridays.”

“That’s no problem,” he says. Then pointing to the large tablet in the center of the table he says, “I was really looking forward to Pictionary, later maybe?”

Shaking my head back and forth I put the rest of my things away and say, “Let’s go.”

He puts his hand out in a lead-the-way gesture; he scans my body from head to toe again. “Do you want to drop your stuff off at your hotel before dinner?” he asks while grabbing his guitar and my suitcase from the corner.

Nodding my head I say, “Yeah, I’ll just grab a cab and head to my hotel, I can meet you for dinner later.”

He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me. No, he’s actually glaring at me. “Is that a nicer way of brushing me off?” he asks.

I cringe, remembering the night I left when he asked me to stay, but since he doesn’t even remember me I’m not sure why he has such an aggravated tone.

“What? No,” is my only response.

Shaking his head he says, “It’s settled then, I have my car here. We’ll just swing by your hotel first.”

His annoyance seems to be gone and he no longer waits for me to take the lead. Instead, he grabs my hand, leading me to the elevator and out of the building.

Chapter Seven

WHERE WE BELONG

We’re just beginning to talk

We’re just getting to know each other

We seem so close in such a short time

We hold hands and smile

And it feels like this is where we belong.

Is holding hands more of an art or a science? This is the thought running through my mind as River and I walk out of the office building together. I ask myself this question because when he takes my hand, I don’t mean he holds it palm in palm; I mean he laces all his fingers in between mine and holds them tightly in his grip. It feels intimate and conveys the idea that we know each other very well, when in reality, we don’t. Not yet anyway.

Ben is the only guy I’ve ever held hands with. So in trying to figure out the whole art or science question, I attempt to picture other couples I know. I try to remember how their hands intertwine; however I can’t delve into that level of detail in my memory. I only have my hand holding with Ben as a gauge to help with my decision.

Ben and I usually held hands when we were in public. I don’t really know if this was a gesture of closeness or a way for Ben to let others know he was my boyfriend. Either way, when we held hands, we were palm in palm. Our hold was loose enough that if we needed to let go to allow someone by or to stop and look at something the hold was easily dropped. I’d say our handholding was more of a science.

So why does the way that River holds my hand seem so different? His hold is tight, our fingers are laced, and he’s occasionally rubbing circles on the top of my hand with his thumb. These small gestures definitely make handholding seem more like an art. So my conclusion would be that handholding is unique to the two who are doing it.

Wholly absorbed in my thoughts as we walk through the parking garage, I barely notice it’s just as empty as the building. With his guitar slung over his shoulder, he runs his other hand through his hair. He takes the lead as he heads toward what I assume is his car. It’s a vintage Black Porsche. He turns as we walk and I see him crack a genuine smile. He has the cutest dimples. It’s the first full-blown smile I’ve seen from him, and it is adorable.

Arriving at his car, he gently lets go of my hand as he reaches in his front pocket for his keys. He unlocks my door and opens it for me to get in. He clutches my hand to assist me into the very low seat. Once I’m seated, he lifts my hand and kisses it. Instantly, I feel a sense of déjà vu, as if I’m back in the bar that first night I met him so long ago.

He closes my door and walks around to put my things in the trunk. He opens his door and tosses his guitar in the small area behind us before he gets in. Grinning crookedly, he raises an eyebrow and splays both hands out. “So do you like it?”

I bite my lip and raise my eyes as if thinking. “Isn’t this James Dean’s car?” I ask.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Well this one isn’t his actual ride, obviously, but it’s modeled after his 1955 Little Bastard.”

I giggle at hearing a car referred to by such a nickname, I remember my dad and his love for James Dean. My dad won me over with his constant movie watching and references. We were both avid James Dean fans so much so that we must have watched Rebel Without A Cause over a hundred times. I think I knew all the lines by heart. I probably still do.

He looks over at me curiously and says, “Can I ask what you’re thinking about?”

Sighing at the memory, I lock the thoughts of my dad away. “Dream as if you will live forever, live as if you will die today.”

He places both hands on the steering wheel and glances over at me. The intensity of his powerful green eyes captures my full attention. “I love that movie, and that's definitely one of my favorite lines.”