by J. Kenner
I nod, wondering if either of them know the nature of Marjorie's business. Probably not. For all these folks know, Marjorie is my manager, and I'm the next big thing, about to make my magnificent public debut.
I bite back a grin, amused by my thoughts, then move to stand by Skittles as Marianne and Franko zip around my living room, packing their things up with expert efficiency. Once they're gone, I have just enough time to grab a quick sip of water and give Skittles a goodbye scratch behind the ears before Lionel rings the bell at my gate.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Sugar," he says as I slide into the back of the car. Then he shuts the door, and I'm all alone. In theory, it's cool being driven around by a private driver, but with the privacy screen up, it's just me and my nerves and my thoughts about Lyle.
Because the truth is, I don't know what to expect. This is a public event, yes, but is he going to want to escape somewhere private? Will there be public displays of affection? Is he going to kiss me for the cameras?
I haven't got a clue. In fact, all I know for certain is that I want to see him again. And not just because he's gorgeous and kissed me with such intensity it made my toes curl. It's more than that. It's the spark of humor that laced our conversation. And it's the pain I saw hiding behind his eyes, a pain that still calls to me. That for some reason I want to try to soothe.
And all of that is well and good, but I need to remember that it's not the reason I'm in this car. I'm here because Lyle needs a date with the woman he was caught kissing. Because he's putting on a show for the public.
It's not a date; it's a job.
And as Lionel pulls up in front of Cut 360, a high-end restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, I remind myself to keep that fact very firmly in mind.
But every one of my sternly issued edicts dissolve in a puddle of goo the moment I step into the restaurant. Because that's when I see him. He's standing at the reception desk checking his phone, but it's as if he feels my eyes on him, because he looks up, then slips his phone into his pocket. He's wearing a dark gray suit with a white shirt and a red tie that matches my jewelry. He has just a hint of five-o'clock shadow on his jaw, and his hair is tousled--but whether from the wind or purposefully styled that way, I don't know.
He has an edgy, devil-may-care attitude, and as I stand there soaking him in, I completely understand why this man has been on the cover of every magazine imaginable.
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then he smiles, slow and sexy, and that's when I start to feel it. A low sizzle in the pit of my stomach. And when he takes a step toward me--when he takes my hand and whispers, "Laine," that's when I feel that zing all over my body, a sweet, shocking tingle, as if I've been caught in a lightning storm.
"How do you know my--"
"Marjorie told me." He tilts my chin up. "It's a lovely name," he murmurs, then brushes his lips over mine. "But I think I'm still partial to Sugar."
He takes my hand, then signals to the hostess, who leads us to a secluded booth in the bar area. Several heads turn as we pass, the attention making me uncomfortable. Lyle, however, doesn't even seem to notice.
"I'm sure they'll have a bar and appetizers at the opening," he says once we're seated, "but I wanted the chance to talk before we jumped into the deep end of the pool."
"That's good," I say. "Because from what Marjorie said, we're supposed to act like we've been dating. And right now, all I know about you is what I've learned from Google."
"You researched me?" He looks amused.
"Well, I didn't pull a credit report, if that's what you mean. But I poked around."
"Really." His mouth curves into a frown. "And what did you find out?"
I shrug. "Not much," I admit, then pause as a waitress comes to take our order. I decide on wine, figuring I can have one or two glasses early in the evening and still be fine for my shift at Blacklist later. And since I'm starving, I also order cheese fries, even though this really isn't a cheese fries sort of restaurant.
From Lyle's smile, I'm pretty sure he's thinking the same thing. "I figure there will be tuna carpaccio and barbecued shrimp appetizers at the opening," I tell him. "Besides, I always go for greasy food when I'm nervous."
He nods at the waitress, dismissing her, then reaches across the table to take my hand. "Are you nervous?"
"On a scale of one to ten? I'd say I'm at a thirteen."
"Because of me or the situation?"
"Both," I admit.
His thumb is gently stroking my hand, and it's all I can do not to pull it back and gain some space--both physically and in my head. Because right now, that's about all I can focus on. That touch. That connection. And the fact that I have no idea if touching me is part of the charade, or if it's something he just wants to do.
After a moment, he lets go, then presses both of his palms to the table, as if he's fighting some irresistible urge. "Will you share?" he asks, and for a second, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"What? You mean the cheese fries? Why?" I quip. "Are you nervous, too?"
"Maybe I am."
"Oh," I say. And I'm not sure if he's teasing me or not.
"You still haven't told me what you learned during your research quest."
I shrug. "Not much. You're not exactly an open book."
"I value my privacy."
"It shows. I learned that you moved here with your parents at sixteen, and that they've now retired and live overseas somewhere. I know you were discovered at seventeen--you were working at some fast food place and an agent saw you. Your first role had one line in some teen-centric series that lasted for about four episodes. But you got commercials and then a few more small parts."
"So far, that sounds like me."
"That's about all of you there is, though. Beyond that, I know that your first big deal job was that sitcom with Rip Carrington. And I know you don't date very much, but that the rumor is that you're seeing Francesca Muratti." I shrug. "Other than that, I know your first major film role was The Price of Ransom, and that it led to this superhero role, and that you're working out hard to get in shape." I flash a quick smile. "Nice job, by the way."
He laughs, and I really like the sound of it. "Thanks. Sounds like you learned a lot."
"Hardly. It's all pretty thin. Especially when you consider I can find out more than that on the Internet about my eighty-year-old, non-celebrity neighbor."
"Like I said, I value my privacy."
I clear my throat, grateful when the waitress returns with our drinks. "Right," I say, then take a sip of wine. "The thing is, a girlfriend would know more. So, I was thinking that speed dating ought to do the trick."
"Speed dating?"
"Yeah, you know. You get matched up and have about fifteen seconds to ask a question. Then you move on to the next person."
He glances around the bar. "And if I'd rather just stay with you?"
I laugh, but something about the way he says that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. "For our purposes, I'm talking the fast questions. Not the changing partners. Although, that could be my first question."
Whatever humor I'd seen in his face disappears, replaced by a completely bland expression. "Go ahead."
"It's just that Marjorie said you don't see the same girl twice." I pause to grab one of the cheese fries from the basket the waitress just slid onto our table.
"Is that a question?"
"No, I'm just wondering why--I mean, why ask me twice?"
His eyes widen, and in this dim light, his blue eyes seem as unfathomable as the ocean. "I thought you knew. There was a picture, and--"
"I saw the picture. That could have been any blonde."
He nods slowly. "True. But maybe the photographer has another picture. One with your face. I show up with some other blonde, and instead of forestalling a media frenzy, I start one."
"That makes sense," I admit. "I thought maybe you just wanted see me again." I say the last lightly, but the deep, dark truth is that I actually mean it
.
He takes a sip of his martini, his expression completely bland. "That might have been part of it."
I gape at him, surprised.
"My turn?"
I blink. "What?"
"Speed dating. Is it my turn now?"
"Oh. Yeah. Shoot."
"You never answered my question from yesterday. What do you need the money for?"
"My house," I admit. "I'm having a slight case of foreclosure."
"What happened?"
I shake my head. "Sorry. Your fifteen seconds are up. My turn."
He nods, and I continue. "Tell me about us. How long have we been dating? How'd we meet? What do I say if someone asks?"
"Three months," he says. "And, let's see. We met--"
"--in the ice cream aisle at Ralphs," I say. "You were cheating on your training diet. And I was shaking off the melancholy of an evening spent watching tear-jerkers."
"And there was only one gallon of cookie dough left, which happens to be my favorite."
I nod. "I remember. You looked so shocked when I invited you over to share it with me. And I was even more shocked when you agreed to watch Love, Actually, while we ate it."
"Well, you were a good sport. After the sappy romance, we watched the first Blue Zenith movie."
"But only because you were showing off for me," I say. "I'd recognized you from The Price of Ransom, but I didn't know a thing about this superhero franchise you've signed on for."
"Is that true?" he asks. "Have you seen Ransom?"
I nod. "I actually sort of know one of the screenwriters. Steve Morton-Gray."
"He's a good guy," Lyle says. "He and Jane did a stellar job on the script."
"Everything I read said it was your big break."
"Honestly, Two Steps Back, was really the turning point for me. That sitcom ran for five years. Probably could have run a few more."
"But there was that thing with your co-star," I say, remembering something else I'd read. "Rip Something-or-other."
He chuckles. "You don't follow Hollywood too closely, do you?"
"Who has the time?"
"You'd be surprised," he says drolly. "And you're right. What happened between Rip and me was the final nail in the show's coffin."
"What happened?"
He glances at his watch. "We should go," he says. And even though he's right about the time, I can't help but think that he's also avoiding my question.
I don't press, though. After all, we're not really dating. I don't need to know everything. But as I slide out of the booth, I can't help but smile, because I'd enjoyed playing the game with him. He's easy to talk to, and the whole conversation felt comfortable. Familiar. All the way down to the way we finished each other's sentences.
"Thanks for playing," I say. "At least now I feel like I can wing it."
"As long as you stick close to me, it should be easy. And Sugar," he adds with a definite undertone of heat, "I do want you to stay very, very close."
"Right," I whisper. "I will."
He leaves enough cash on the table for the bill and a pretty hefty tip, then slides out of the booth. He holds out his hand to me, then continues to hold it as we walk to the valet stand.
"A Volvo," I say, when the familiar boxy model pulls up, and he opens the passenger door for me. "Nice, but I confess I was expecting something in the two-seater, built-for-speed category."
"Were you? Why's that?"
I have a moment to think about my answer as he circles the car, then enters, and I blush a little when I tell him the truth. "Fast and reckless?" I say, the words coming out as a question.
He pauses, his hand on the gear shift as he looks at me. When he speaks, his words are measured. "Considering how we met, that's fair. But that's not me. It's--"
He breaks off, shaking his head, and once again I have to wonder what kind of wall he's built around himself, and what kind of demon he's trying to keep out.
"At any rate," he continues. "As far as cars go, I'm all about safety."
"Me, too," I say. "But I don't own a Volvo. I just hardly ever drive."
He glances at me. "Why?"
I swallow. I really didn't mean to open that door, but now that it's open, I feel like I have to walk through it. "My mom and brother were killed by a drunk driver five years ago."
I hear him draw in a breath. And then, very softly, he says, "I guess you do understand." He turns his head to meet my eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss." His voice is level. Overly polite. Like a man trying very hard to keep his emotions in check.
It's clear I struck a nerve--and one much more exposed and tender than my own. I want to ask, but I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it. And it's not my place to press. After all, I'm not really his girlfriend, and just because I shared my story, he's not obligated to share his.
At the end of the day, it's none of my business, no matter how much I'd like to help.
So I just sit quietly and clutch my purse in my lap and wish that I hadn't even commented on the car.
After a moment, he clears his throat. "The center's just up the hill, two blocks from Stark Tower," he says, referring to the massive building that dominates the downtown skyline. "We could have walked, but considering your shoes..."
"Thanks." I glance at my feet. "Not my usual style, but it's fun to play dress up. I guess I should thank you for that."
He reaches over and traces his finger over the thin strap of the dress. "Dressing up suits you," he says. "What's your typical look?"
"I'm a jeans and T-shirt girl all the way. Maybe a tank top. And yoga pants are an acceptable alternative. Your basic sundress just to mix things up a bit." I run my hands over the outfit. "Honestly, for what this dress cost, I could fill my entire closet. My favorite shopping destination is Goodwill."
He chuckles. "The one on La Brea was always my favorite. But I found some good stuff at the one on Beverly, too."
I shift in my seat. "And the one on Vine. You shop--"
"My mother was big on thrift shopping," he says, not looking at me. "It was like a family tradition."
I nod, wondering about his pre-Hollywood days. Was his mom just frugal, or had his family struggled before he started working?
I'm about to ask when he abruptly changes the subject. "Marjorie told me you could only stay until nine."
I nod. "I have to cover a shift at Blacklist tonight." I'd forgotten to mention that in the original conversation, but I'd texted her when it struck me just how tight my schedule was going to be today. "I have to be there by ten." I indicate my outfit. "And not in these shoes. Or this dress."
"I'll get you there on time," he promises. "She also told me you're planning to work tonight for free."
"Um, right." I twist the strap of my purse, uncomfortable with the sudden reminder that nothing about this evening is real.
"Unacceptable," he says, and my nervousness vanishes, replaced by irritation.
"Excuse me? I think that's my decision."
"No," he says. "It's not."
"Dammit, Lyle, I--"
"I'm paying you for your time. This isn't a date," he says, his sharp words making me cringe. Because, damn me, I do keep sliding in that direction. "It's a job. For that matter, it's an acting job. You're going to be working this party, Sugar. And you deserve to get paid."
"Maybe. But I didn't deserve to get paid last night. I mean, you didn't get--what you wanted," I finish lamely.
He stops at a red light, then turns to look at me. Very slowly, his gaze skims over me, and my skin heats in the wake of his inspection, as if it were a physical touch. Finally, he settles on my eyes, then reaches out and very gently brushes my lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
"Didn't I?" he asks, as my heart pounds against my ribs, and my mouth goes completely dry.
I open my mouth to speak, but I can't seem to form words.
"I'm serious, Sugar. Tonight you're my girlfriend. You're playing a role. An important one. And I'm going to pay you for it. Understand?"
I nod, my emotions all in a tangle. "Call me Laine in public," I manage to say, my voice little more than a whisper.
He nods, and I settle back in my seat as the light changes, my breath as shaky as my nerves.
He's right. Tonight, I'm an actor. Just like Lyle.
And considering the way I feel right now, I don't think the job's going to be hard to pull off at all.
9
I've never been to an opening at the Stark Center for the Visual Arts, but I've wandered through the permanent exhibits a couple of times. "I like the photographs," I tell Lyle as we wait in line for the Center's valet to take his car, "but the pop art exhibit is my favorite. I love the bold colors and that zap and ka-pow vibe."
"Lichtenstein?" he asks.
"You like his work?" Pop art icon Roy Lichtenstein's comic-inspired canvases are some of my favorites.
Lyle shrugs. "I lean more toward black and white photography. A friend of mine was obsessed with Lichtenstein, though." I hear the melancholy in his voice and am about to ask him about it when he forces a smile. "Sometimes I think Jenny just wanted to live in a comic book world."
"And you don't?"
He shakes his head. "It's easy to think the world is painted in primary colors when you're young. I guess I grew up and realized there's a lot of gray, too."
"And she never got that?"
His expression closes off so fast, it's as if a shadow has obscured his features. "No," he says, the word clipped. "She never did."
I frown, certain I've touched a nerve. "I didn't mean--"
But a valet opens my door, cutting off my words. And by the time Lyle gets the ticket and comes around the car to join me, the shadow has disappeared, replaced by a genuine, albeit small, smile. "I didn't mean to get melancholy on you."
"That's okay," I say as he takes my hand and we start walking. "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine. She was a good friend, and she died."
"I'm so sorry." I pause on the first step leading up to the Center, forcing him to stop behind me. Around us, dozens of people in cocktail attire glide up the twelve concrete stairs toward the angular, modern-style building. "Did she die recently?"
He meets my eyes. "Thirteen years ago yesterday," he says. And then he starts walking again.
I fall in step beside him, and as we make our way up the last few steps, that single word flashes like neon in my mind. Yesterday.
