I ignore trying to figure out why he would say that. “There are too many people out there I already know,” I exclaim with heavy meaning.

His jaw clenches. “Fuck, is that it? Ian was here, Chrissie. Half of New York knows by now we’re sleeping together. There is no way to keep it private. You are going to have to deal with it. Learn to deal with the bullshit.”

My entire body burns deep red. I really hate this habit of Alan’s, of letting loose any thought in his head whether we’re alone or not. “God, you are an asshole sometimes.”

Alan rolls his eyes. “So how do we fix this?”

“I think you were right about not being able to change you. You are pretty much stuck being an asshole.”

Alan laughs. “Maybe, but I am not spending my entire night going to the kitchen if I want to see you.”

He lifts my chin, lightly brushing my cheeks with his thumbs and gazes down at me, his expression unfathomable. “Why don’t you marry me? We’ll get married tomorrow. Then it won’t matter what anyone writes, what anyone thinks, what Jack thinks, and we’ll both know exactly what the hell we’re doing.”

I shove him away. “Very funny. God, you’re obnoxious tonight. Are you loaded?”

He lifts the glass he carried in off the counter behind him and holds it beneath my nose. In surprise, I realize it’s only soda in the cocktail glass. He leans in to kiss me softly, and when he pulls back his eyes are shimmering.

“Marry me, Chrissie,” he whispers.

I let out an aggravated growl. “If I thought you were serious, my answer would be no. Since you’re not serious, my answer is: I should have warned you that Jesse is a reporter with the Los Angeles Times.”

Jesse holds up a hand in a continental gesture. “Off the record tonight. I didn’t hear a thing and I’m a foreign correspondent. Our gossip columnist is the redhead out there with my brother.”

As frustrating and awful as this has been, I start to laugh. My cute new friend is a dork, Alan is weird, and I am…oh golly, I don’t know if I want to try to put a label on myself right now.

I smile up at Alan. “Will you go away? This is how I do parties. Will you just let me do what I do?”

Alan brushes my lower lip with his thumb. Everything inside me shivers. “Come out to the party, Chrissie. Something terrible might happen. You might have fun.”

I shake my head.

“No?” He kisses my nose. “Do what you want to do, but I’ll miss you. Maybe you can leave the kitchen occasionally and pretend you’re not with me, so at least I can see you.”

I give him a small, reluctant smile. “Maybe.”

“That’ll have to do. Give us a kiss, love. I’ve got to get back. I’ve not completely charmed everyone yet.”

He eases into me, and with the lightest touch presses his lips to mine. I melt into him on contact, dissolving into his warmth and wishing he’d take me in his arms.

I watch Alan disappear through the door and I feel stupid for not having gone with him. I slap the lid on the Häagen-Dazs, grab the spoon, and slip from the counter.

I put the carton back into the freezer.

“He was serious, you know,” Jesse says quietly.

I shut the door and turn. “Excuse me?”

Jesse’s eyes bore into me gravely. “He was serious when he asked you to marry him, and you shot him down like it was a joke.”

All my nerve endings tingle from my quickly rising embarrassment. “It was a joke. That’s just Alan. He’s theatrical and it’s the way he talks to me.”

Jesse shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer.

I give a small, frustrated laugh that makes my shoulders lift. “Really. You are completely wrong about this.”

Jesse smiles. “Do you want some advice? Go out there and apologize to him. You did a really crummy thing a few minutes ago. Why are you in the kitchen with me?”

The color on my face is no longer a pleasant feeling flush, but the burn of humiliation. I look up at him, ready to be defensive, but his expression stops me.

“Do you want to go dance with me?” I ask. “Just kind of ease me into the party so I can go apologize.”

Jesse’s eyes widen.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You probably missed it, but the entire time in the kitchen he looked like he wanted to put a fist through my face.”

“Please,” I urge. “That part about me not liking parties is true. But it’s worse than that. I do parties really badly. And even though you’re wrong, he wasn’t serious, I was pretty rotten to him.”

He searches my face, then exhales heavily, and takes my hand.

The great room is a smothering cluster of people, and I try to spot Alan as we make our way through the throng to the dance floor. Beyond the glass, I see that he’s returned to the terrace and he’s got quite a circle around him of the who’s who of music. Those black eyes touch on me, empty and fleeting, and I can tell by how he tosses down his drink that there is alcohol in the cocktail glass now.

A slow song starts and I step into Jesse’s arms, silent, my hand a tense curl on his shoulder.

We dance in silence for what seems like ages. “Are you OK?” Jesse asks me quietly.

I look up at him and nod.

He shakes his head. “Why don’t you go over there? Act like everything is normal. Guys hate conflict. He’ll act like everything is normal too.”

I don’t go out onto the terrace. Instead, I curl into Jesse and continue to dance. The dance is almost over. Somehow Alan has moved without me seeing. He is standing beside me, staring down with only partially leashed anger. I can feel heavy stares from every direction in the room, the kind that warns that you’re in the midst of what will soon be a scene.

Jesse steps back from me.

“I can’t believe you fucking did that,” he says in a tight, clipped way. “It was a joke. A fucking joke. And you’ve reduced me to a fucking joke.”

Oh shit, he is pissed. Why is he pissed?

He regards me coolly for what seems like a century.

“We might as well dance since we’ve been seen together,” he says, almost inflectionless.

Alan fills the space between Jesse and me, and he drags me up against him. There is scorching anger in his body and he molds me so intimately against him that I can feel every detail of him through his clothing. His fingers are a never-ending run on my back, making every inch of my flesh grow hot. He fills his palms with me, softly kneading, then he strokes, erotic and slow, until the pattern of my heart is an uneasy, altering flow between arousal and fear.

I try to ease back from him, enough to see his face, but his hands flatten on my back and hold me in place.

“Let me go, Alan. I don’t like this,” I whisper, cautious and unsure, but my voice is thick, feverish.

“It’s working very well for me, love,” he says softly, biting my shoulder instead of kissing it. “What part isn’t working for you? I’ll change it.”

My breath quickens. “All of it. If you keep this up, they’re going to start tossing room keys at us.”

I pull back and have a vague awareness that he is letting me. I raise my eyes slowly to his face and wish I hadn’t. His eyes harden and some marginal parameter of my brain warns that I have fucked up big time here.

My heart turns into a confused, frantic pulse as he grabs my arm, steering me through the crowded apartment, mindless of the sharply fixed stares that follow his rapid trek. He pulls me into the bedroom, slams the door, and releases me.

“It was a joke, Chrissie,” he yells harshly clipping each word.

He leans against the door, running a hand through his hair, his eyes cuttingly black.

“If you don’t like my out of bedroom manner,” he starts up again through gritted teeth, “or my public manner or my work manner, deal with it. The world isn’t only about Chrissie! Fucking learn to deal with something for a change. But don’t playact with me and don’t you ever pretend I am nothing to you again. Are we clear? Do you understand?”