The Perfect Score
Julie Kenner
Mattie Brown has always prided herself at excelling at everything. And that's why it's killing her that she scored only 18% on a sex test! But she isn't going to take it lying down.(Well, maybe she will, but that's beside the point.) Her plan – to proposition Cullen Slater, the neighborhood stud, for some hands-on instruction in how to make her sex life sizzle. Too bad it's her cute, nice-guy neighbor Mike Peterson who's lighting her fire…
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SILENT DESIRES
STARSTRUCK
NOBODY DOES IT BETTER
MOONSTRUCK
NIGHT MOVES
MAKING WAVES
UNDERCOVER LOVERS
The Perfect Score
J. Kenner
www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)
J. KENNER has always loved stories—reading them, watching them on television and on the silver screen, and making them up herself. She studied film before attending law school, but knew that her real vocation lay in writing the kind of books she loves to read. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters and several cats.
For Brenda, who gave this book a home.
And to the Temptresses, particularly whoever mentioned, all those years ago, the Internet Slut Test that sparked the idea for this book!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
1
“EIGHTEEN PERCENT!” I could hear my voice echoing through the cinderblock-walled laundry room. “Eighteen percent is for nuns and small children. Eighteen percent is not for twenty-seven-year-old single girls living in Los Angeles.”
Carla yanked open the dryer and started scooping her pinkish whites into her laundry basket. An hour ago, her whites had actually been white, but with Carla, these things tended to happen. “I still can’t believe you’re so upset just because you got a crappy score on some Internet Slut Test.” She flashed me a look designed to underscore just how much she didn’t believe I’d do something so foolish. Ridiculous, really, given that Carla had known me since kindergarten. I was Mattie Brown and she was Carla Browning, which meant that fate had pretty much destined that we’d sit beside each other in every class until graduation. Being relatively pragmatic, we figured we could either be best friends or vile enemies. We’d opted for the friend route. At the time, it had seemed the more prudent option.
Today, Carla was probably having second thoughts, a supposition that quickly proved true when she pulled out a pale pink bra and shook it at me. “You’re as bad as you were in high school, only now you don’t have Angie dogging your heels.”
Angie is my stepsister, although the “step” part has never really been part of the equation for either one of us. We were both three when our parents married, and she’s my sister, for good, bad or indifferent. And since we’re separated by a mere four months (she’s the eldest), we grew up sharing each other’s clothes, coveting each other’s boyfriends and busting tail to outdo each other academically, socially and every other way. I love her, but I’ve never stopped trying to beat her. And—damn the woman—the truth is that she usually beat me. In everything from boyfriends to grade point average. (In the latter, she edged by me with one grade point, taking the lead in our very last semester of high school, and wresting the valedictorian slot away from me. Not that I’m bitter or anything…)
I took a breath and tried to stop scowling. “I’m not trying to be the slut valedictorian. For that matter, it’s not even really about the test. I mean, another test said my perfect job would be analyzing actuarial tables, and how ewww is that?”
“Very,” she agreed, and we both paused for a moment, reveling in the mathematical horror. “But if it wasn’t the test, then what?”
I shrugged. “The realization that came with it, I guess.” I paused for emphasis, then spit out the horrible truth. “My sex life is boring.”
Carla’s perfectly plucked brows rose infinitesimally. “I thought you didn’t have a sex life?”
So much for slipping one past Carla. “Fine. You win. My sex life was boring. Back when I was with Dex, it was duller than dirt. And now that I’m single again, it’s not boring. It’s nonexistent.” Dex had dumped me about four months ago, a little fact that had pretty much blown me out of the water. We’d been together two years, and I expected we’d stay together, ending up with a marriage and two-point-five kids and a dog.
Yes, our sex life—and the rest of our relationship if you want to get right down to it—had been spiraling downward, but we were comfortable. Or, at least I’d thought we were.
But my dirty little secret? Even though I was blindsided by the breakup, I wasn’t all that disappointed. What I was, was angry. I should have been the dumper, not the dumpee. As it was, I’d completely lost face. With myself, even if with no one else.
With a dramatic sigh, I hefted an armful of white cotton undies out of my dryer, then frowned at the laundry basket, wishing it were filled with shocking bits of red satin and black lace. Underwear with a raison d’être more provocative than simply keeping my private parts hidden in the event of a catastrophic highway accident. Like every other normal mother on the planet, my high-powered attorney mom’s list of constant worries placed clean underwear higher than poverty, nuclear war or starving children in China.
Too bad for me, Mom had taught me well. There wasn’t a frivolous panty in the bunch. No satin, no lace, nothing even remotely Frederick’s of Hollywood about my unmentionables. Not even Victoria’s Secret. We’re talking K-Mart all the way.
No wonder I wasn’t a slut.
I sighed dramatically and leaned against the detergent dispenser. “My sex life is boring. My clothes are boring. My life is boring.”
Carla frowned at another light pink shirt, then waved the hideous thing in my direction. “Want a pink tee?”
What I wanted was to strangle her. Here I was having a relatively dramatic personal crisis and she was ruining her laundry. “Have you even heard a word I’ve said?”
This time, she really did give me her attention, and frankly, considering her scowl, I wasn’t certain I wanted it. “Look, Mattie—”
“I mean it. I’m going to do it. By this time next year, I’m blowing the roof off that stupid test.”
This time, she raised only a single eyebrow, a trick I envied mightily.
“I’m serious. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”
“There’s an entire universe of possibilities out there, and you’re wasting a perfectly good resolution on acing a sex test?”
“You want to say that a little louder? I’m not sure they heard you by the pool.” I poked my head out the open laundry-room door, scanning for eavesdroppers. Katy Simmons, the retired actress who lived below me, was sunning on a lounge chair. The new tenant—Mike Something-or-other—was a bit closer. A genuinely nice guy, he was also the apartment complex’s resident nerd, complete with wire-framed glasses and a job that had something to do with computers.
As I watched, I could see him settle himself in one of the incredibly uncomfortable metal chairs, kick his feet up onto a tabletop, and take a swig of beer. I took a breath, surprised that my nerdish neighbor had a mighty fine body, lean and firm like a swimmer.
“Mike!” Carla half yelled. “Oh, Mikey! Mattie needs a boyfriend!”
“Carla!” I grabbed the knob and slammed the door shut. “Are you insane? What if he heard?”
“So what if he did? He’s cute.”
I scowled, because he was cute. He was nice, too. I’d helped him carry boxes up from his U-Haul, and he’d happily shared his pizza with me a week ago. But Dex had been cute and nice, too. Cute and nice didn’t cut it anymore. Cute and nice conjured the dreaded R word, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready to get back on that relationship hamster wheel. “I’m not looking for cute. Cute is for bunny rabbits. Not boy toys.”
Another lift of that eyebrow of hers.
I sighed and tried to look put-upon. “You just don’t understand. You’re getting laid on a regular basis.”
“So were you until you dumped Dex.”
I shook my head vehemently, my ponytail whipping around to slap me in the face. “Oh, no, no, no my friend. I was only having sorta-sex.”
She flashed me a skeptical look as she shook the wrinkles out of a pair of greyish-pink sweatpants. “I’m going to regret asking, but what is sorta-sex?”
“You know. Fridays only. Me on my back. After Law & Order, but before Biography. Routine all the way. Nothing spontaneous. Nothing romantic. I could put Tollhouse cookies in before we went at it and not have to worry that they’d burn.”
“Oh. Well.” She busied herself with neatly folding her now-ruined laundry, while I silently cheered myself for having a sex life so truly pathetic that I’d rendered Carla speechless. Scary, I know, but I take my victories where I find them.
“Well,” she said again, and I felt my victory slipping away. True, I wanted her help. I just couldn’t handle her pity. “That’s not so bad,” she finally said, in a you’re-bankrupt-and-your-dog-died-but-it’ll-be-okay kind of voice. “I mean, it was still sex, right?”
This from the woman whose boyfriend just might be a superhero named Erection-Man. Mitch would come over after work, see her puttering in her kitchen wearing a ratty T-shirt and gym socks, and get so turned-on he’d bend her over the table and have his way with her. “We live in different universes, Carla,” I said.
To her credit, she looked a little sheepish. It wasn’t as though she didn’t realize how fabulous her sex life was. But then, Carla’s one of those beautiful people. Perfect face, perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect job. No lumps, no bumps, not even a tiny acne scar. Smart, too. The kind of woman you’d want to kill if she weren’t so darn nice.
“Have you put any thought into when you’re going to do the legwork necessary to reach this nirvana of sexual prowess?”
I made a face. Mostly because Carla was being typically Carla and reverting to what I call her adult-speak voice—which is what she does whenever she thinks anyone is acting like an idiot. But also because, frankly, I hadn’t put any thought into my newly announced resolution.
“That’s what I thought,” Carla said, making me scowl even more. “I mean, come on, Mattie. You’ve been working like a fiend for months. This is your first weekend off in forever.”
That was true enough. I work at John Layman Productions, and if the company sounds familiar, then you’re probably one of those people who watches really bad reality programming about celebrities that no one cares about anymore. Not that I’m criticizing my boss’s chosen field or anything (ahem). I mean, it pays the bills. But, honestly, does anyone really care about kids who were celebrities when they were six, then fell off the map during the last two decades? And if somebody does care enough to tune in every night at eleven, then, you know, maybe that person just needs to get a life.
All JLP programs have excellent ratings, though. So either I’m wrong, or there are a whole lot of people out there with no life whatsoever.
In fact, there are so many people out there tuning in that JLP is adding five new shows to our already overstuffed production schedule. And that, as Carla pointed out, is keeping me tethered to the office and, late in the evening, to my home computer. In fact, the only reason I have this weekend off is because the company’s computer network crashed. Since John’s currently following some stick-thin, party girl celebrity around Rio, he actually shut work down for a long weekend while the computer gurus do their thing. Amazing, but true. (Although he did instruct our furniture supplier to deliver a bookshelf and lateral filing cabinet to my apartment so that I can, in the words of my boss, “work even more efficiently on evenings and weekends.” Yeah, love you too, John. At the moment, four very large, very heavy boxes are sitting in my living room, waiting for me to suck it up and begin assembling my home office suite.
Carla also works in television. Her boss, however, is Timothy Pierpont, the Emmy- and Oscar-winning producer who’s giving Bruckheimer and Bochco a run for their money with his original, provocative programming. What did I tell you? Carla, perfect. Me, perfectly wretched.
As I pondered my wretchedness, I noticed that Carla was tapping her chin with her index finger, a sure sign that she was deep in thought.
“What?” I demanded.
“I’m just thinking that maybe your schedule can work to your benefit,” she said.
“Explain, please.”
“If you have no free time, then no one will get the impression it’s about commitment. It must be a fling, because who has time for anything else?”
“Right,” I said, drawing out the word as I tried to anticipate where she was going.
Carla, however, sped up, her voice channeling my earlier enthusiasm. “You should go for it. Definitely. Get out there and have a wild time.” She leaned back, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smile brightening her face. “And I know just how you should start.”
I narrowed my eyes, smelling a trick. “How?”
“Cullen Slater.” She spoke the name like an incantation, then waited for me to react. She didn’t have long to wait.
“Have you gone mental?” Dark and dangerous, Slater was a very gainfully employed male model who alternated between a Ferrari and a Harley, sported a perfect five o’clock shadow no matter the time of day, and tended to date women whose clothes consisted of colorful adhesive strips. Well, date may give the wrong impression since I never saw any of his women more than once. But our apartments shared a common wall, and I can say with absolute certainty that none of his women left Slater’s apartment unsatisfied. Or well rested.
Cullen Slater is the reason I started sleeping with earplugs. Considering my newly announced resolution, I should probably trash the earplugs and buy a vibrator.
Carla’s coral-pink lips curved in smug satisfaction. “You’ve seen the kind of girls he’s always dragging up the stairs at three in the morning.”
“Slater is a god among men,” I said. “And I have seen those women. There’s no way he’d be interested in me.”
Carla lifted one shoulder in a dainty gesture. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mat. He’s gorgeous, yes, but you’re not too shabby. And you’re brilliant and articulate and what guy wouldn’t want you?”
I let that one hang, because in my experience with guys like Cullen—as in, guys whose talents run more toward the camera than the cognitive—brilliant and articulate weren’t that much of an asset. Come to think of it, those two traits weren’t exactly a selling point to any man, IQ notwithstanding. Breasts, I think, were the common denominator among men. And on that score, I was definitely only average.
Carla, however, was on a roll. “And he always asks you to bring in his mail when he’s out of town,” she pointed out, “so we already know that he trusts you. He must like you, too. And if you can get Slater in your bed, you’ll know you’ve reached some sort of slut nirvana.”
My stomach did one of those dropping-off-a-cliff numbers.
Slater.
I took a deep breath, felt beads of sweat form on my forehead, and silently agreed that Cullen Slater was an idea worth pondering. Not to mention a goal worth reaching.
Cullen Slater. The consummate bad boy.
Slater. And me. Me and Slater.
In bed.
In me.
Oh my.
MIKE PETERSON COULDN’T concentrate on his book, even though he usually glommed on to anything and everything by Stephen King. Today, even a reread of the horrors that plagued poor Derry, Maine, couldn’t compare to what he’d just heard as he’d been walking past the laundry room toward the pool.
Mattie Brown was looking to ratchet up her sex life.
He gripped the book a little bit tighter as an image of Mattie slipped into his mind. Her quick smile. The friendly waves as they passed on the stairs. The way she tossed her hair when she scanned her mail.
Get a grip, man.
The truth was, he’d fallen hard for her the first day he’d met her. Fifteen days ago, actually, when she’d blown off grocery shopping to help him schlep boxes from the U-Haul up to his brand-new apartment. She’d been wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that boldly exclaimed that A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle. When he’d commented on it, she’d blushed and explained that she’d bought the T-shirt a few months before, after a breakup with her longtime boyfriend.
He could still remember the little surge of relief—both that she was unattached and that the shirt didn’t necessarily reflect her overall opinion of the male of the species.
Ever since that first encounter, he’d been intending to ask her out. Coffee at one of the little shops down on Ventura Boulevard. Maybe a movie. Even pizza by the pool. But damned if work hadn’t kept him booked solid for the past two weeks. Not that he could complain. Getting the Menagerie gig had been a huge coup, and he was more than willing to work his tail off for as long as MonkeyShines, Inc. was willing to pay him.
He’d worked in the computer gaming industry for years, but this was the first time he’d headed up a project since he’d gone freelance eighteen months ago. The fact that he’d scored the job at the same time he’d moved from Austin to Los Angeles had made life a little more hectic, but it had also satisfied that niggling fear that he wouldn’t be able to pay the bills.
Bottom line: the job came first. Women—even women as tempting as Mattie, whose scent alone had driven him nuts—were off-limits until the project was well under control.
He smiled a little to himself, wondering if Grandma Jo had been right—he really did have a guardian angel. Because how else could he explain the fortuitous convergence of events? Him finishing up Phase One of the Menagerie project right as Mattie was looking to add a little more spice to her life? And—more importantly—him being in the right place at the right time to hear about Mattie’s New Year’s resolution.
He took another swig of beer, casually wishing that he could have heard the rest of their conversation. He’d heard the first part only by happenstance, since he’d come the back way to the pool, circling around the laundry room because he’d gone to the parking garage first to get the Stephen King novel from his car. Their voices hadn’t been high so much as urgent. At least, Mattie’s had.
As soon as he’d recognized her voice, he’d slowed his pace, hoping to find an opening where he could pop into the laundry room. Maybe say hi. Casually suggest a coffee sometime.
But as soon as he’d realized the topic of their discussion, he’d known that any interruption would not only embarrass the heck out of Mattie, it would also kill any chance he’d ever have of taking her out on a proper date.
What he should have done was leave. Right then. That instant. But his guardian angel had sprouted horns and a tail, and he’d hung around, then overheard the delicious, decadent New Year’s resolution that Mattie had proposed.
Mike had been tempted to loiter and learn exactly what Mattie had in mind, but the devil on his shoulder had turned angelic again, and urged him to get out of there. Perfect timing, too, because not thirty seconds later, he heard Carla’s high-pitched voice followed by Mattie’s squeal and the appearance of her head around the door frame, as she scoped out the area, clearly looking for eavesdroppers.
He’d kept his eyes down, aimed at his book, and hoped that Mattie couldn’t tell that he’d not only heard her state her goal, but that he was looking forward to helping her reach it.
Which, of course, raised the question of exactly how he was going to convince Mattie that he could provide invaluable assistance with her quest.
That, however, was the kind of academic problem he thrived on. He might have to flowchart it, script it, program it and then debug it…but somehow, someway, he was going to come up with the perfect plan. After all, he didn’t have degrees from Stanford and MIT for nothing.
It was time to put his education to work. And he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d rather score an A+ in than the seduction of Mattie Brown.
2
HERE IS MY PROBLEM with the do-it-yourself culture we now live in: We’re expected to do all this stuff that professionals used to do, but no one has bothered to either a) train us, or b) give us the right freaking equipment.
Self-serve gas stations, for example. Okay, yes, sure. It’s nice not to have to wait for—or chat with—Tommy Tune Up, but Tommy’s absence from my life has caused me to burn oil on more than one occasion. I can fill up my car just fine, but those oil dipsticks are designed to be entirely unreadable by anyone lacking a Ph.D. in auto mechanics. It’s true! It’s like a nationwide conspiracy.
And furniture…Don’t even get me started on furniture.
I have vivid memories of wonderful wooden pieces being delivered to my parents’ house when I was a kid, hauled in on rolling dollies—fully assembled, mind you—by strapping young men working their way through college.
So why had those buff Adonises not delivered my furniture? I’ll tell you why: Because some genius somewhere decided that they could draw a picture, include an Allen wrench and make me do it myself.
Honestly, it’s enough to make a girl never want to have kids. Assemble toys on Christmas Eve? No thank you very much!
My future progeny notwithstanding, at the moment I had two shelves and a filing cabinet to assemble, and no Adonis to help with the project. Oh well. I’m a self-sufficient female, right? Absent any other options, I figured I could handle it myself.
I figured wrong.
An hour later, I’d manage to assemble only the bare frame of the first bookshelf, and that after having to remove and reinsert the first set of screws and little connector thingamabobs. Had the instructions been in English, perhaps I would have had better luck. Instead, the manufacturer had included only poorly drawn pictures of the various steps. And I’m ashamed to say I don’t know how to translate hieroglyphics.
Frustrated, I tossed the Allen wrench, then made a rude sound when it skittered over the battered wood floor to rest under the couch. That, I figured, was a signal that it was time for a break. Or to call in reinforcements. Or both.
Buoyed by the thought of something cool and refreshing, I headed to the kitchen. I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge, popped the top, then took a sip before I called Carla. True, she’d just left an hour ago, but she only lived a stone’s throw away. She’d gone home to put away her laundry and catch up on some housework before Mitch came back from his latest business outing. Considering the depths of Carla’s hatred for toilet bowl scrubbing, I figured my odds of recruiting help were pretty darn high.
Again, unfortunately, I was wrong.
“I really wish I could give you a hand,” she said, after I explained my dilemma. “But Mitch caught an earlier flight and he’s already in a taxi.”
“Oh,” I said, knowing it was pointless to argue. Besides, I was happy for Carla. Happy and not the slightest bit envious. Nope. No green in my blood.
I cleared my throat. “Right. Well, guess I’ll let you get back to it.”
“You know, if John thinks it’s so important that you have office furniture at home, maybe he should have hired someone to put it together for you.”
“Yeah,” I said, figuring that it would be more likely that pink pigs would fly by my open window. “True enough.”
Carla sighed, obviously understanding what I hadn’t said: I’d never once defied my boss and I wasn’t about to start now. “Listen, Mitch will probably go home early tomorrow. I mean, he’s got to unpack, right? I could help you then.”
“Great,” I said, but without a lot of enthusiasm. I hung up the phone before she clued in to my suddenly miserable state. If Carla needed shelves assembled, she had Mitch. Me? I had neither a considerate boss nor a studly boy toy.
I leaned against the fridge and sighed, then took another sip of soda. The fact was, I was a neurotic mess. I mean, had I really announced to Carla that I wanted to up my score on a slut test? That was so not like me.
I called Carla back and told her that. She immediately laughed. “Are you kidding? That’s exactly like you!”
“Excuse me?”
“In school, if you made a lousy grade, you obsessed about it until you got it right. That’s why you’re still working for ballbuster John, isn’t it? Because you can’t go somewhere else until you’ve made a huge success of that? Which is ridiculous, actually, because you never wanted to be the queen of reality television. But you’re giving your life to the job. You haven’t finished a new screenplay in months. It’s your dream, Mattie, and you’ve stopped chasing it.”
We’d had this particular conversation about a million times, with Carla pushing and me pushing right back. I’d taken the job to further my writing career, and Carla damn well knew that. Today, though, I wasn’t in the mood to remind her. “This isn’t about my job. It’s about me. I mean, what normal person wants to up their Slut IQ?”
“Whoever said you’re normal?” she countered. “And you’re being ridiculous anyway. You and I both know it’s not about being a slut.”
“It’s not?”
“Of course not,” she said. “You just want to cut loose. Honestly, Mattie, it’s about time. You said yourself that your sex life is boring. And it has been boring ever since your first date. Louis Dailey? I mean, come on! You could have done so much better.”
I frowned at the phone. She had a point. I tended toward the safe guys. The nice guys. I wanted the spice in my life, but I think I was a little afraid that I was too…something for the bad boys. That they’d end up dumping me. And, yes, I was waaaaay too competitive to let that happen.
So I ended up with guys that I ultimately dumped. Guys without the adventurous quality that I craved. The wrong guys—I knew it from the start—but I hooked up anyway.
For years, I’d been living on the edge of a vicious—albeit comfortable—circle. Then Dex had gone and dumped me and my entire world view had shifted one-hundred-eighty degrees.
“A wild fling with Cullen is just the ticket,” Carla said, apparently reading my mind. “He’s definitely the guy to spice up a girl’s sex life, but you know he’s not boyfriend material, so it’s not like you’d date him. So there’s no emotional risk, you know?”
I did know. And it sounded delicious. In a super-scary sort of way.
The truth is, I’ve always played life pretty safe. Studying my ass off in high school because I was terrified of a bad grade. A good college. An even better law school. Not because I wanted to be a lawyer but because my parents had pounded into my head that I needed a solid career. Hobbies—like my love of writing—were fine…so long as I didn’t take them too seriously.
And so I’d emerged from school with a plan. Be an attorney. Get rich. Then do what I wanted. But I’d caught the Hollywood bug (to the chagrin of my mother who likes to pretend that Los Angeles is merely an economic center and not the heart of the film industry). I made the first unpredictable leap in my life—leaving law to take a television job.
I’d had night sweats for weeks before finally making the decision, but even then, I’d played it safe. I hadn’t taken temp jobs to support my writing habit. No, I’d taken an executive-level job with a major production company for an extremely lucrative salary. I was secure, my mom was happy. And most important, I was safe.
Except that so far, safe hadn’t paid off for me. Not in jobs (last I’d noticed, I had yet to win an Academy Award) and not in relationships. Looked at that way, I had to admit that scary might just be good for me.
And besides, Cullen Slater was a male model. A male model. As in über-hot. Odds were good he’d ignore me completely and I’d never be forced to face the sheer lunacy of my plan.
Thus reassured, I hung up from Carla once again, then stood there, peering into the living room. The bits of unassembled furniture were still scattered about. Apparently, the house fairies hadn’t taken pity on me and assembled the things while I was taking my break.
I frowned at the couch, under which the Allen wrench still resided. I didn’t want to rummage under there for the wrench any more than I wanted to sit on my rump staring at doodles that were supposed to be assembly instructions. This was my one rare weekend off! What the heck was John thinking, making me do construction work? Hadn’t he ever heard of worker’s comp? What if I hammered a finger? Or chipped my manicure?
I had a sudden mental image of John in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, panting after some former child star, hoping she’d either shoot up on camera or deign to sleep with him. And all the while, he’d be mainlining Bloody Marys and soaking up the sun.
With a picture like that in my head, is it any wonder I decided that Carla was right? Debauchery really was the way to go. And the damn furniture could wait. After all, I had relaxing of my own to do.
“MATTIE, RIGHT?”
The smooth, masculine voice wafted over me, and I peeled my eyes open, then looked up at him through my RayBans.
“Mike Peterson,” he said, apparently in answer to my blank stare.
“Oh, right. I know. Hi.” In my sunscreen and margarita-induced haze, I’d fantasized the voice belonged to Cullen, home early from this weekend’s photo shoot. I hoped I didn’t sound too disappointed.
He dragged a lounge chair closer. “Do you mind?”
“Um, no.” That was a half lie. After abandoning furniture assembly, I’d rummaged in my cabinets until I found my blender, then repeated the process in the freezer until I found some limeade. The tequila didn’t require a search. I keep it handy, right on top of the refrigerator. One can frozen concentrated LimeAid, a bunch of ice cubes, and a can full of tequila, and I was good to go.
I’d finished one glass and was nursing my second when Mike joined me. Since I’m a lightweight, I already had a nice little buzz going, and I was perfectly content to lie there in the sun, reveling in my newfound status as the rebel of John Layman Productions.
Still, I supposed I could manage to revel and be polite to the new guy. Especially a new guy who looked so damn sexy in swim trunks and a black Universal Studios Hollywood T-shirt. Too bad he was the computer geek, nice-guy type. Too much like Dex to be a candidate for my “guy to have a sexually adventurous relationship” plan. Besides, Carla and I had already picked Cullen. And he was, undoubtedly, perfect for the role.
“Playing tourist?” I asked, gazing meaningfully at the shirt.
He grinned, not at all embarrassed by the fashion faux pas. (I mean, what L.A. local actually advertises the area attractions?) “I’m entitled,” he said. “Until I stop confusing the Hollywood and Santa Monica freeways, I figure I am still a tourist.”
The man had a point. “You’ll get it down,” I said. I pointed once again at the shirt. “So what was your favorite thing?”
“The Back to the Future ride,” he said, referring to the amusement park ride where the guests climb into a mock-up of the famous DeLorean-turned-time-machine and then race around Hill Valley, narrowly avoiding all sorts of obstacles and, of course, barely escaping with their lives.
Since that’s my favorite ride, too, (well, with the exception of the tram ride that takes you through the actual Universal back lot), I gave him a thumbs-up sign and gestured toward the pitcher of margaritas I’d brought down on a tray with two glasses, the extra one for Carla on the off chance Mitch got held up. “You pass,” I said. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” He picked up Carla’s glass, then filled it with my frozen concoction. He took a sip and made a face that suggested pure bliss. I grinned in satisfaction and leaned back, tilting my face up to the sun. Anyone who likes my very bold, decidedly not watered-down margaritas is okay in my book.
“I should probably confess something,” he said. I turned to the side. “The Back to the Future ride is really only my second favorite thing at Universal.”
I shifted, propping myself up on my elbow. “Oh? That answer earned you a margarita, bud. I expect some serious explaining.”
“Of course,” he said, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the moment. “My real favorite ride is the tram ride.” He held up a hand as if to halt my protests. “I know. Major Cheez Whiz, but it’s just so damn cool. I mean, you get to see the Psycho house. How do you beat that?”
Okay, I already knew that I liked this guy, but now I really liked him. “You,” I said, with an appropriate tone of respect and awe, “may have as much of my margaritas as you want.”
“I passed?”
“You totally passed.”
“I’m glad,” he said. But this time, the casual banter was gone, replaced by a voice that seemed to trill over me, making me shiver despite the relentless rays of the sun.
I took a long sip of margarita, wondering if he’d put that heat into his voice on purpose, and also wanting to quell the the way the warmth had bloomed inside me. I blamed it on the sun and the alcohol. Not my reaction to the guy. After all, I’d already determined that he was a nice guy. And I’d had my fill of nice guys with Dex.
I took a quick glance his direction and was immediately vindicated. He was, I noticed, holding a battered copy of Asimov’s The Robots of Dawn. For the record, I’m a big fan of Asimov. But so was Dex. And in my experience, guys who read Asimov tend not to be the kind of guys who can provide serious assistance in the sexual satisfaction department. Unscientific, possibly biased. But in Mattie Brown world, that’s a fact.
I told myself that was a good thing. Because that sensual little trill I’d felt a few moments ago was a fluke. A mistake. An alcohol-induced reaction. Not real, and certainly nothing to get excited about. Pun totally intended.
Besides, the truth is that there was no way that Mike I-Read-Asimov-And-Ride-The-Tram Peterson could have pulled out all the sexy-voice stops on purpose. I mean, why would he? Since I happened to know that Cullen was on a photo shoot in Aruba until tomorrow (he’d asked me to bring in his mail), I’d gone to the pool wearing no makeup, and decked out in my rattiest bathing suit, threadbare and sun-faded. The one that does not create the illusion that I have thin thighs. (For the record, my thighs aren’t huge; I know that. But they are disproportioned, or at least I think so. Bigger at the top than oh, say, Kate Moss. Which always makes buying jeans an adventure. At any rate, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my thighs since puberty, with the hate part of the equation usually coming out on top.)
This afternoon, I’d thrown caution and thigh camouflage to the wind. Not to mention makeup, hair and a remotely attractive bathing suit. In other words, I wasn’t exactly exuding sexuality. But I told myself that that was fine, because Mike wasn’t exactly Cullen. Which, to my margarita-soaked mind, put us on pretty equal footing.
I shifted a little, then turned to look more directly at him. I wasn’t really sure if he was keen on talking—he might rather read—but he must have caught my vibe because he lowered the book and shot me a winning smile.
“So how are you settling in?”
He put the book aside, giving me his full attention. “Well, the water pressure in the shower stinks, I still can’t find my electric razor, the radio from my car’s already been stolen and the lady who lives below me seems to think I’m the son she never had.” He smiled, a truly infectious grin, and I found myself smiling back. “In other words, a pretty typical move so far.”
I laughed. “That’s Mrs. Stevenson. She’s lived here since the beginning of time. She’s certain she knows who shot JFK, and insists we never actually landed on the moon. But she’s harmless and she bakes great chocolate-chip cookies. I highly recommend getting on her good side.” Those cookies more than made up for listening to her wild theories at the mailbox.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” When he grinned, a little dimple appeared in his cheek, and I was struck once again by how cute he was. Not knock-you-down gorgeous hunk-o-man like Cullen. But cute. Like your best guy friend in high school.
“Where’d you move from, anyway?”
“Austin.”
“Ah. A cowboy,” I teased.
“Hardly. Before that I was in Silicon Valley.”
“Then you must be a dot-com guy.”
“Something like that. Computer gaming.”
“Ooooh.”
His eyebrows raised. “Why do you say it like that?”
“I’m not saying it any particular way,” I lied.
“Yes, you are. You didn’t just say, ‘oh, computer games.’ You said ‘ooooh,’ like I’d just solved some mystery of life or something.”
“It’s just that that’s a field I know absolutely nothing about.”
That seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded and said, “It’s pretty interesting. Hard work, but interesting.”
In truth, I’d just told a big fat lie, but that was okay. Because this was one of those occasions when it’s okay to save someone’s feelings. Like a guy to whom you would otherwise have to say, I said ‘ooooh,’ because you’d just confirmed what I already thought I knew—that you really are the new nerd in residence. Not boy toy material at all. Which is too bad, because you really are a hottie, and I’m having a hard time not reaching out to stroke your chest.
Okay, yes, that was a little much. And I quelled those thoughts and simply said, “Sounds like you really like it.”
“Love it,” he said. “Right now I’m heading up a team that’s writing the code and the script for a new cutting-edge game. Multiple players, AI interface. It’s going to be state of the art.”
“Fab,” I said, but my enthusiasm was false. Computer games are so not my thing. I played Super Mario Brothers once years ago, lost badly, and was scarred for life. Haven’t hooked up an Xbox, Nintendo or logged on to a game site since. Clearly, Mike and I had very little in common.
Too bad a surprising little voice whispered before I managed to shove it to the back of my brain. Mike was simply not a possibility. I had a plan to up my slut score, and I wasn’t going to leap into a repeat of my three years with Dex simply because that plan—not to mention Cullen Slater—made me nervous.
Of course, considering Mike hadn’t made any sort of a move, I suppose I was getting ahead of myself….
“So what do you do?” he asked, following the traditionally accepted getting-to-know-you patter.
“I work in a production company. I’m the VP of Business Affairs.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be.” I resisted rolling my eyes. “I got into this job because what I really want to do is write screenplays, and I thought it was an in into the industry.”
“It’s not?”
“Hardly,” I said sourly. “And the worst of it is that I’m working such long hours that I’m usually too exhausted to write.” The words rolled off my tongue, surprising me. I desperately wanted to break into screenwriting, true, but I didn’t usually go around whining about it to people I’ve only just met. I told myself to tone it down as I waved vaguely around the pool area. “This weekend is an unexpected bonus.”
“That’s rough,” he said. “But it still sounds interesting. Working in television must be fun.”
He sounded genuinely interested. Most people are. Television does that.
I shrugged. “We produce reality shows. You know. The programs that are currently multiplying like locusts on your television lineup.”
“Ah, yes. I think I’ve heard something about those.” His mouth twitched, either amused at my definition or my utter lack of loyalty to my profession. My level of guilt, however, was minimal. Reality shows are a scourge. And at the moment, I was still irritated with John.
“Still, you’re in the business,” Mike said. “Isn’t that what L.A.’s all about?”
Okay, I was beginning to really like this guy. He was repeating back to me exactly what I’d told my mother after I’d turned down the law firm position. Not to mention what I told myself every time I felt a twinge about not having yet sold a screenplay. “Exactly.”
We shared a smile before he cleared his throat and stood up. “Listen, I’ve got a pizza in the fridge that just needs to be heated up. I’d love some company.”
“Oh. Right. Um.” The truth was that I’d love to just hang out with him, but I’d already filled and exceeded my allotment of sluffing off time for the day. My plan had been to simply veg for a bit—to numb my mind with margaritas and sunshine before returning to the equally mind-numbing task of furniture assembly. “I wish I could. But I have a pile of furniture waiting to be assembled.” I held up my margarita for emphasis. “I took a break to get in the mood.”
“I understand that,” he said. “I’ve schlepped more boxes to the recycling bin than I care to count, and it’s a wonder my eyes aren’t crossed from reading the assembly instructions on the IKEA shelves I bought.”
“Exactly,” I said, sensing a kindred spirit. “I mean, who wrote those anyway?”
“Monkeys with typewriters?” He laughed and I laughed, and for a second I thought maybe he’d offer to help me interpret my monkey-written instructions. But instead, he just stood up and gestured to the pitcher. “Thanks for the margarita.”
“Oh. Sure.” I started to gather my things, unreasonably irritated that he was so casually departing. I told myself I was annoyed by the breakdown of basic good manners. I mean, a chivalrous guy would have offered to help, right? Even Cullen would have offered. That’s what guys who look good without their shirts do, right? Offer to engage in manual labor so they have an opportunity to show off their pecs?
Mike, however, wasn’t showing off. He was just gathering his things to leave.
“So why are you out here all alone? I usually see you with Carla.”
“She declined my distress call for assembly help,” I said, giving him one more chance at that whole chivalry thing. “It’s okay. I’m well aware of how much she values her manicure.”
“Which apartment is hers?”
“Oh, she’s not in this building. She’s in the complex next door.” Our street was lined with apartment complex after apartment complex. “Her building doesn’t have a pool or a laundry room,” I added, by way of explaining why Carla was almost always here. At least, she was here if Mitch-the-Wonder-Stud wasn’t there.
His eyes met mine and he flashed me a zinger of a smile. “I guess that’s just one more reason why I’m certain I chose the right complex to move into.”
“Um, yeah.” For a guy who’d just failed Chivalry 101, he could be pretty damn charming.
“Later,” he said, with a small wave.
“Right. Later.” I waved goodbye, then watched him head up the staircase while I gathered my things. As I did, I realized he’d taken my extra glass with him. A little burst of emotion shot through me, and it wasn’t irritation.
No, this was anticipation. Because if he had my glass, I’d have to see him again. And that, I thought, wasn’t a bad thing at all.
He might not be chivalrous, but he was nice. And another friend in the building never hurt.
3
AS SOON AS MIKE opened his door, Stephanie greeted him with a wolf whistle. “Cute girl,” she said.
“Not your type,” Mike said with a grin. “She’s a fan of the Y chromosome.”
“Damn. Foiled again.”
He laughed, shaking his head as he slid into one of the kitchen chairs. He and Stephanie had been best friends since elementary school. They’d gone steady for about a week in eighth grade, which had ruined their friendship until the second semester of their sophomore year. That was when Steph had come to him in tears, desperate to talk about the crush she had on the new girl in school. Mike had listened, dried her tears, and their friendship had continued on, stronger than ever. With the added bonus that they could now discuss their relative girlfriends.
“So is she a new special friend?” Steph asked, lacing her voice with a tease as she tried to uncork a bottle of wine.
“Friend, yes. Special, definitely. Special friend…” He trailed off with a shrug, then took the bottle and the corkscrew from her, handily freeing the cork. “I’m working on that one.”
Steph’s eyebrows rose infinitesimally. “Oh, really? Tell me all about it or I withhold the wine.”
“I’ve been drinking margaritas,” he said, holding up his now-empty glass. “I’m passing on the wine anyway.”
She squinted at the glass, the blown Mexican kind with a bluish tint and a dark blue rim. “One of hers?”
“Yup,” he said, mildly proud of himself for walking off with it.
From Steph’s grin, he knew she understood. “Cinderella’s slipper.”
“Exactly. I keep the glass, I have a reason to go back and see her.”
Actually, he already had a reason. She’d been hinting hard enough about the furniture assembly. He could have easily stood up, held out his hand, and said, “Come on. Let’s go take care of that.”
The trouble with that option, though, was that while it would certainly impress her, it wouldn’t impress her in a way that fit in his overall plan of attack. Go when she asks, and he’s simply some male sap doing her bidding. But go in an hour or so—when she’s buried in hardware and frustrated—and suddenly he’s the hero. And all the more sexy for it.
“So tell me about her,” Steph said, coming to the table with a glass of wine for her and a Coke for him. Mike glanced at the clock, evaluated how much time he had before Mattie hit maximum frustration, and nodded.
“I met her the day I moved in,” he said, starting at the beginning. He told Steph the rest of it, too. All of it. From the heat of desire he felt when he looked at Mattie to the secret plan he’d overheard in the laundry room.
Steph took it all in without saying a word. He knew she understood the depth of his emotion. Mike wasn’t the type to fall hard and fast, but he was the kind to believe in love at first sight. His parents had seen each other from across a lecture hall as freshmen in college, and had been gloriously in love ever since. His family was close-knit, and unlike so many families these days, “family” included all the various extensions, including especially his grandparents.
Grandma Jo and Grandpa Fred had moved in across the street when Mike was eight. He’d grown up in the thrall of family, and he knew that he was stronger for it. More, because his grandparents’ relationship was just as strong as his parents’—and had happened just as quickly—Mike had always craved a deep love and a long-term relationship. Silly, perhaps, to base personal dreams on the love life of his family members, but Mike saw how happy his parents and grandparents were.
He’d explained all that to Steph years ago. And she knew better than anyone that Mike had yet to find his perfect woman. So for him to be so frazzled so quickly…well, that was saying a lot.
He described Mattie and her plan, and when he was finished, Steph leaned back in the chair, nodded slowly, and simply said, “Interesting.”
“That’s it? I tell you that the first woman who’s really sparked my interest in the last year is looking to ratchet up her sex life, and all you can say is interesting? How about ‘Wow, what an opportunity you’ve stumbled across?’ Or ‘Gee, what lucky star were you born under?’”
“Or maybe ‘Boy, have you got your work cut out for you,’” she said, looking at him gravely.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said, wondering what had possessed her to be so negative.
She rolled her eyes. “Mike, you used to be a lot less naive. Or am I wrong about your intentions here?”
“My intentions,” he said, feeling utterly old-fashioned, “are completely honorable.”
“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it? She’s looking for a wild fling. A bit of experience between the sheets. She said her ex was a dud, right? That means she’s looking for a good time. And she’s not looking for commitment.”
He frowned; she had a point.
“And did she come on to you at the pool?” Steph pressed. Mike had to admit that she hadn’t. “Well, there you go.”
He held out his hands, hoping he demonstrated just how much he didn’t understand what she was talking about.
Steph sighed and rolled her eyes. “Straight guys are just plain dumb,” she said. “Obviously, she already has someone in mind to play stud.”
“Or she’s just not attracted to me.”
Steph shook her head. “No way,” she said, loyally. “You’re irresistible.” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. “No, the only reason our little friend wasn’t playing Flirt Girl with you is that she’s saving up for someone else. So your job, my friend, is to convince her she’s got her eye on the wrong guy.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t have been better off keeping his mouth shut. “And exactly how am I supposed to do that? Chocolate? Roses? Get her drunk and screw her brains out?”
“Not a bad plan,” Steph said, without skipping a beat. “But I think your best approach is to just ease your way into her life. Find out who she’s going after. And then make sure you’re in position to fill in the gaps if her plan stumbles.”
“And why would it stumble?” he asked.
“Who knows why these things go awry? But if she’s already in the mind frame of seduction. And if you’re already in her life. Well, then, wouldn’t her natural reaction be to turn to you?”
“You’re devious. You know that, right?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “I know. The question is, am I right?”
He thought about that. About getting close to her. About the fact that Mattie Brown was the kind of woman he’d enjoy hanging out with. Talking with. Taking long walks with. And, of course, he’d enjoy running his hands over her naked body and driving her positively wild. That was a given.
But the friendship aspect? Yeah, he wanted that, too. And if by being her friend, he could be her lover…
His fingertip slowly traced the rim of the margarita glass. “Yeah,” he said slowly, after he’d thought it all over. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
I HATE PRESSBOARD. THAT fake wood with veneer on it filled with packed sawdust that weighs umpteen million pounds.
So far, I’d managed to chip the corners of two pieces, strip the screw-hole out of a third piece, and mutilate my toe by dropping yet another piece right on it. All in the name of a lateral filing cabinet I didn’t want for a job I didn’t want.
Honestly.
And I was all the more irritated because my sister had called earlier, just to say “Hi,” she’d said. But when I’d told her about my furniture dilemma, she’d immediately launched into a narrative about how her boss had insisted she not work at home. He wants her to have a life, he said. And to make sure she was comfortable whenever she did have to work long hours at the office, he gave her an astronomical furniture budget and told her to go for it.
Even in furniture, Angie wins out. I tell you, it’s enough to drive a girl batty.
I shoved thoughts of my sister out of my head, and instead focused on the mess in front of me. What I needed was help. Immediately, an image of Mike filled my head. Nice Mike. Cute Mike. Mike with the awesome upper body.
I shook myself. Bad Mattie. Bad. Bad.
Still…I did need to get that margarita glass back. And if he asked me what I was doing—and if I told him I was having a heck of a time assembling some furniture—and if he offered to help me out…well, who was I to say no?
Having thus justified seeing him one more time, I stood and headed to the door. I paused to check my face and hair in the mirror I keep hanging there, decided I looked respectable if not awesome, and pulled open the door to reveal the man himself.
“Mike! I was just coming to see you!”
He held up my margarita glass. “Desperate to get it back?”
“No, of course not,” I said, even though that had totally been my planned excuse. “I, um, was hoping you could give me a hand.” I stepped back from the door and ushered him in.
He brushed past me, glanced around, then turned to face me directly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but did a sawmill erupt in here?”
“Very funny.” I plucked the glass out of his hand. “Will you help me if I offer to fill this back up for you?”
He flashed me a grin, charming, but with a hint of mischief. “With an offer like that, how could I refuse?”
Since I’m not a fool, I immediately slapped an Allen wrench into his open palm and pointed him toward the instructions (balled up under the television stand where I’d kicked them in a fit of pique.) He scored points by not even looking at me funny as he bent to dig them out.
I retreated to the kitchen to make the margaritas.
Not that retreated really describes it. The apartment is only about seven hundred square feet consisting of a big rectangle filled with a living area, a dining area and a kitchen area, pretty much all open to each other unless you’re standing way back by the fridge.
Between the dining area (carpeted) and the kitchen area (tiled) were two stairs leading up to a tiny bathroom on the left and a decent-size bedroom on the right. That’s it. End of grand tour.
It’s not much, but you’d think differently if you saw the check I wrote every month. Studio City doesn’t come cheap.
All of which is to say that even though I couldn’t see Mike the whole time, I could hear him. And it felt nice and cozy—and scarily domestic—to be working in the kitchen while he was shuffling pieces of wood and muttering to himself.
Since making margaritas requires little more than dumping ice and alcohol into a blender and pressing On, it didn’t take me too long to whip up a batch. Even so, in the short time that I was gone, Mike had managed to assemble an entire base section of the cabinet.
“Wow. You’re good.” I handed him his drink then sat on the floor next to him, looking at what he’d accomplished in only a few minutes, compared to the nothing I’d accomplished in hours.
“Call it a guy thing,” he said, then he flashed that grin again. I really like that grin, and I felt my stomach do one of those flip-flop numbers.
I turned away, suddenly feeling shy. “So, um, what can I do to help?”
“Just keep bringing the margaritas. I’ve got a handle on everything else.”
“And you’re sure you don’t mind?”
He looked up at me, and I felt warm and tingly all over. More, I knew that he was telling me the absolute truth when he said, “No. I don’t mind at all.”
And so that’s how it happened. He worked and I sat there watching him. Watching and sipping and serving margaritas as the two of us got more and more tipsy.
“So how come the sudden need for new furniture?” he asked later. By this time he’d finished assembling (in about one-bazillionth of the time it would have taken me), and was kicked back, leaning against my new cabinet, a margarita loose in his hand.
Technically we still barely knew each other. But we’d spent the last hour chatting in close quarters, and there was something about him that made me feel as though we were old friends. It was a nice feeling; one I hadn’t experienced with a guy since high school, actually. And I told him the ins and outs of my job. “I know I have a good deal, so I hate to gripe. I mean, my checking account is nice and full. But my ideas? They’re starting to dwindle. It’s like I’m losing touch with some spark of creativity.”
I took in a breath and let it out slowly. “It’s scary. But being jobless is scarier still. Especially if you were raised in a family like mine where the mighty paycheck is king, the power job is emperor and social prestige is God himself.”
He watched me intently while I told all of this. Not in a way that made me uncomfortable, but as if everything I had to say was important. And when I finished, he was nodding a little. “I know exactly what you’re going through,” he said. “It took all my courage to quit my day job and start freelancing. Hardest thing I’ve done in my life.”
“But it’s paid off for you,” I said. “Right?”
“Absolutely.” He’d told me earlier a bit about what he does—designing computer games and writing the script for them and everything—and he’d become less geeky in my eyes. I mean, writing scripts was what I wanted to do.
“So do you think I’m being a coward?” I asked. At the same time, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted an answer. I realized that I valued his opinion. If he did think I was foolish for sticking it out with John, what would that mean? Because I didn’t think I had the courage to chuck it with John Layman Productions. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But at the same time, the thought of Mike thinking I was acting like an idiot bothered me a lot more than I’d expected. Or, honestly, wanted to admit.
Lucky for me, he didn’t criticize. Instead, he just said that everyone has a different path to get where they want to be. “So long as you can see the path—and so long as you don’t let that creative spark die—then you’re on track. But at the same time, you have to keep your eyes open for places where the path veers. Otherwise, you could end up missing the exit that leads to the job you really want.”
“Love the highway analogy,” I said, teasing. But I was happy he hadn’t called me a fool. I kept my thoughts to myself, though, because I was calling myself an idiot and a fool and a coward. I’d stopped seeing the path long ago, and had been working simply for a paycheck for years. That burning desire to sell a screenplay was still burning in my gut, but it was as if I was stymied in how to go about it. Burning out from the inside. The idea terrified me, and yet I didn’t know how to turn the situation around.
I didn’t tell Mike that, though, for fear he’d think less of me. And for reasons I didn’t want to analyze, I really wanted him to see me in a good light.
So I did what I always do when I want to avoid an issue—I changed the subject.
“Well,” I said, standing up, “you’ve earned your margarita by assembling the thing, but if you want to earn a meal to go with it, you’re going to have to put some muscle into it.”
“Yeah?” he said, grinning at the challenge in my voice.
“Doesn’t do me much good in the middle of my living room,” I said. “And I’m too weak and fragile a female to move it all by myself.”
That earned me a guffaw, and I liked him even more.
“Okay,” I admitted. “Not weak and fragile, but slightly tipsy and definitely lazy. Does the code of chivalry require that knights come to the aid of drunken maidens?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “So long as the knight is equally drunk.”
“I guess you qualify, then.”
He downed the last few ounces of his margarita, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yes, ma’am. I guess I do.”
“Right.” I cleared my throat, fighting the warm fuzzy feeling growing in my tummy, and trying to convince myself it was alcohol induced and not related to the man. He was, I reminded myself, perfectly good friend material. But for a slot on my boyfriend list? Nope. Not a possibility. Mike was far too Dex-like, and that was a well I didn’t intend to drink from again.
“So,” I continued. “Um, how about moving it over there?” I pointed toward my very cluttered desk and the space on my floor now occupied with scraps of paper related to various John Layman Productions. And, of course, a dozen fan magazines. Won’t do for a Layman exec not to know all about the up-and-coming celebs.
While Mike got a grip on the cabinet, I scurried over and shoved all that detritus out of the way. He hoisted the thing himself, turning down my request to give him a hand, then worked it across the room.
“Wow,” I said, once it was in place. “You’re a handy guy to have around.”
“Lucky for you I live right across the hall,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling warm all over. “Very lucky.”
Our eyes met, and it was one of those moments you read about in romance novels. Unfortunately, I didn’t want that kind of moment because he was friend—not fling—material. So I cleared my throat and looked away, and then he did the same, and suddenly we were out of romance novel land and into the world of awkward reality.
Gee, what an improvement. Not.
When he’d turned from me, he’d ended up facing my desktop, and now he pointed at a stack of papers. “What’s this?”
I peered toward him and saw the pile of Cullen’s mail. Immediately, I blushed. Stupid, because Mike couldn’t know (at least not for sure) that I thought he was cute or was fighting warm fuzzies in my tummy. And he also couldn’t know that I thought Cullen was hot, and I was currently concocting a plan for nailing him.
But stupid or not, I blushed, and then I stammered as I covered, explaining that I was bringing in the mail for our neighbor who was off in Aruba at the moment.
“Right,” Mike said, nodding thoughtfully. “The guy who lives there.” He pointed to my western wall. “He’s some sort of model?”
I nodded and shrugged at the same time, trying to convey careless indifference. I also tried not to look at Mike, but I didn’t do a very good job. I don’t know why I suddenly felt so ridiculous—as if the idea of trying to hook up with Cullen was the goofiest idea ever conceived on the planet—but I did. And I felt all the more embarrassed because Mike was there to see me wallow in my own idiocy.
Honestly, the man was wreaking havoc with my emotions. And my confidence. And my self-control.
If he was going to be my friend—and I really did want him to be—I was going to have to learn to pull myself together. At the very least, I was going to have to avoid alcohol around him. I mean, surely it was the margaritas making me so stupid. What else could it be?
I realized he was looking at me, his expression thoughtful, as if I were a puzzle he’d just solved. I wasn’t sure I liked that, so I got up and started moving around, wishing I could take back the last few minutes. He got up, too, and I had the odd feeling that he wanted to rewind, as well.
I started gathering all the various tools and bits of trash left over from the assembly project, and after a few seconds Mike bent down to help me. “You keep feeding me margaritas,” he said. “I feel like I should do something in return.”
I gestured at the file cabinet. “Um, I think you did.”
“You’re right,” he said dryly. “You still owe me big-time.”
I laughed. “True enough. How can I pay up?” The second I said the words, I regretted them. There’d been something buzzing in the air between us earlier, but I really wanted to ignore that.
“I could use some assembly-type help myself,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow evening?”
“You’re kidding, right? You saw the mess when you got here. If you need something demolished, I’m your girl. Assembled, not so much.”
“What I need is someone to help me hang some shelves. Takes about three hands, and unfortunately, I’ve only got two. All you’ll have to do is stand where I tell you and hold something still. I think even you can handle that,” he added wryly.
“Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot.”
We shared a quick grin, and then he said, very casually, “I’m also a whiz at ordering pizza, so I’m happy to feed you. And maybe we could watch a movie, too.” He pointed to one of the framed movie posters I have hanging in the corner by my desk, this one of William Powell and Myrna Loy in The Thin Man. “I take it you’re a fan of classic movies?”
“Oh yeah. And especially The Thin Man series. Sophisticated comedy. They just don’t make them like that anymore.”
“No, they don’t,” he said, a little distractedly. “Why don’t we watch that movie?”
“The Thin Man?” I asked. “That would be terrific. I heard they finally released it on DVD, but I haven’t gotten around to buying it. Are you a fan? Do you have a copy?”
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