I thought about how much truth-telling a nine-year-old needed to hear and concluded not much.
“We’re taking a break, that doesn’t mean we’re breaking up. Finish your smoothie, you’ve got spelling sentences to finish and I need to pack for L.A.”
Hannah slumped back in her chair—chin out, arms folded.
I almost smiled. My capricious petulant niece was back. “And yes, we’re shooting a few test spots. DWD is pitching a big account. Hopefully, these spots will put us over the top.”
“Any parts for kids?”
Hannah’s theatrical ambitions mostly involved a get out of school free card.
I shook my head. “Grown ups only—sorry.” I checked the time on my phone. “I’ve also got a super early call time tomorrow. Come—I’ll buy you a bag of Skittles.”
I helped Hannah with her homework and Mitch picked her up at 9:30. I walked them downstairs.
“Tell Grandma Gwen break a leg.” Hannah hung onto me, reluctant to let go.
“You two cover the next premier.” I gave her a hug.
“I promise we’ll visit this summer.” Mitch reached for her hand.
Hannah smiled up at him. “We’re going to go surfing.”
I waved good-bye and headed back inside the building.
At the top of the basement stairs, I flipped the light switch. Each apartment had a locker the size of a walk-in closet, and I needed the larger of two carry-on bags I owned.
The basement wasn’t my favorite spot in the building at night, but the laundry room was reasonably well-lit.
I opened several cardboard boxes before I found the canvas bag with the leather details. And this weekender featured wheels, a giant plus when schlepping luggage through airport terminals.
I lifted the bag out of the box and checked for cobwebs and crawly things.
“Gracie?”
I jumped at least a foot in the air.
All I caught was a dark shape—a glimpse of someone standing at the base of the stairs.
I blinked. “Who’s there?
I often ran into Patrick or Luke doing laundry late at night. Arching back, I peered over several washing machines.
Hurried footsteps thudded on stair steps.
I took refuge in the shadow of my locker. Someone had just run up the stairs, but who?
Fuck me—shallow breaths, racing heart—I didn’t dare check my pulse. Anything skippy and rapid would cause a panic attack. I bit my lip and chastised myself. Most likely whoever it was had forgotten their detergent.
Inhale—exhale, Gracie
I couldn’t quite get the ghost-like figure out of my head. Nor could I forget that Ethan Royce had just been released from prison.
A door opened or closed overhead.
I silently cursed both Troy and Bradley for planting the crazy-ex-convict-bent-on-revenge idea in my head. I reached for the suitcase. Not much of a weapon, but sturdy and defensive.
Footsteps again, this time descending the stairs. “Ms. Taylor-Scott?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Moondog.”
I peeked around the edge of my locker door.
The security man stood in the laundry room. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I had two bodyguards who switched off—night shift/day shift. Proud of their noms de guerre, Moondog and Spyder were retired Navy SEALS out of the same unit.
I exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
Moondog helped me lock up and even carried the empty carry-on bag.
“Why did you come looking for me?” I asked.
“When you didn’t return to your apartment, I got twitchy.”
I stopped on a stair step. “How do you know these things? Do you have a sensor on my door?”
“You really don’t want to know how much I know.” He shot me one of those smug security guy looks.
“Actually, I would like to know.”
We reached the third floor landing, and I took the suitcase from him. “You’re not going to tell me…” I almost gave up mid-sentence. “…are you?”
The man actually had the nerve to grin.
I wanted to pivot in a huff and disappear into my not-so-private apartment, but I had to ask: “Did you happen to see anyone come or go as you entered the building?”
Piercing eyes narrowed as he searched my face. “You saw something?”
“I heard someone say my name. When I looked up all I could make out was a dark shape and a blur.”
“Did the voice sound familiar? Male or female?”
I shrugged. “Not really, it was definitely a male voice.
“You’re sure that wasn’t me? I called out to you.”
“No, you used Taylor-Scott. This man used my first name. I remembered a timid disembodied voice. “He said, ‘Gracie?’”
“Sounds like he wasn’t sure it was you.”
I nodded.
“It’s possible that whoever it was heard me coming. I can assure you no one got past me.”
I turned, then stopped. “There’s a rear exit no one ever uses—it backs straight up to a parking garage.”
“I’ll check the locks.”
“Thanks.”
I threw the dead bolt on my door, something I rarely did unless it was bedtime, and started packing.
One zip-lock bag filled with toiletries. Check.
I filled another with makeup.
I opened drawers and tossed in tees and a pair of shorts.
I remembered to text Mom: Arrive LAX 9 PM tomorrow. Home by 10:30.
Mom texted: Pack light. I’ve hired a stylist who has a rack of gowns ready for me, you and Carly.
I returned: Great!
I was still going to pack my one and only—never worn—floor length gown—the whole point of getting the larger suitcase out of storage.
Mom texted: So excited, Gracie. Can’t wait to meet Bradley.
I stared at her message for the longest time before typing out: Bradley won’t be coming with me.
Seconds later, my phone rang.
“What’s up baby—talk fast, I’ve got ten minutes before yoga.”
Mom was making time for us—a rarity for her—so I did a quick retelling of the dinner party, my secret meeting with Troy and discovery by Bradley. The entire gut-wrenching drama in brief.
“Your father called wanting to know when you’d be here—apparently he’s concerned about this character—the one that just got out of prison.”
“Ethan Royce.” I thought about all the people who wanted to protect me—even Moondog and Spyder. “I know Dad means well, as does Bradley. I’ve never had a boyfriend get involved like this.” I sucked in air. “He’s so perfect and so amazing—” I stopped myself mid-sentence.
“Gracie, are you afraid of finding love?”
I bit my lip and chewed. “My attraction to him is off the charts. My need for him—his warmth, his friendship—super scary. It’s just that our flaws are so similar, and that scares me more than anything.” I tossed clean underwear into a side pocket of the suitcase. “We’re both possessive, and insecure, only Bradley is like—a control freak. He takes charge of everything. He hired the security guys, arranged for our plane tickets—even the rental car.”
“Baby, you’re so used to taking care of yourself and doing for others you don’t know what it feels like to have a real man in your life. Someone who wants to take care of you—share the load.”
Mom sighed. “I blame myself for this.”
“This isn’t your fault. You didn’t cheat, Dad did.”
“But you witnessed a lot of unhappiness.”
“You think I’m pushing him away.”
“Not saying, just saying, Gracie.”
I rummaged around in a drawer for my swimsuit bottom. Maybe she was right. I was used to doing for myself and pretty much as I pleased.
I also withheld things. I didn’t mean to be secretive, I just didn’t trust any man completely. That had to change with Bradley. We had super-charged our sexual rela
tionship, but we both needed to get to work on our trust issues.
“Gotta go, baby—we’ll talk this out when you get here—fly safe.”
“See you soon, Mom—love you.”
THIRTY-THREE
MY CALL TIME was 5:15 AM.
My watch read 5:15.
I dashed down the steps and spotted the black SUV parked across the street. The tinted window powered down.
“Good morning, Ms. Taylor-Scott.” My bodyguard du jour smiled. Attractive in a buzz cut, boo-yah way.
“Good morning, Spyder.”
Unbelievable really, but my bodyguards had actually grown on me. Last night as I readied for bed, I peeked out my window. The SUV’s parking lights had flashed a good night wink that I found oddly reassuring.
“I’m late. Can I get a ride to Seventeenth and Avenue of the Americas?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” His grin lasted about a second before he turned all business.
At this hour in the morning, we made great time. Spyder pulled up alongside trailers and grip trucks and double-parked. “Stay where I can see you today.”
Derek and Sarah had turned a small, unassuming city parking lot into a tailgate party wonderland. The sidewalk bustled with crew and a few curious onlookers. A young woman holding a clipboard materialized in front of me. “Talent?”
“Taylor-Scott.”
She pointed down the sidewalk. “Third trailer on this side of the street.“
The SUV followed me in reverse, as I jogged down the pavement. A cardboard sign duck taped to the vehicle door read: Sexy Couple.
Sarah stuck her head out of the trailer. “Gracie, get in here.”
A portable heater warmed the interior. Bradley was down to his boxer briefs, pulling on black jeans. Sarah took off my coat and showed me several outfits “Try this.” The low cut tank revealed a bit of lace bra. Sarah added a leather jacket and frowned. “Too biker chick.”
As instructed, Bradley and I tried on different outfits. The lack of privacy was uncomfortable, especially when Sarah unhooked my bra to try on a red flower-print bustier with cute, contrasting straps.
I stood in the middle of the trailer, cupping my breasts.
“What?” Her eyes rolled upward. “It‘s not like he hasn’t seen them before.” Bradley pulled a tee shirt over his head with a snort. “You don’t hear me complaining.”
Sarah unbuttoned a cornflower blue cropped cardigan and layered the sweater over the bustier.
I looked up. “This is darling. Too much boob?”
“Perfect.” She smiled. “A little more Guess than Gap.” She had me try on a swingy bias cut skirt, which revealed a hint of midriff skin. “Sexy-flirty and adorable.”
Bradley’s hungry gaze took it all in. From the bustier and demure little cardigan, down to the open-toed platform sandals. “Good thing the Super Bowl is in Arizona this year,” he grunted.
“No kidding.” Sarah zipped up my skirt.
She continued to mix and match separates on Bradley until she was happy with his look. Vintage baseball jacket, over a light gray Henley, black wash jeans and distressed, lace up boots.
Sarah marched us over to hair and makeup, where she continued to bark orders. “Smoky daytime eyes, no shimmer. Peachy blush and lips. Keep it natural. Don’t touch her curls.”
She turned to Bradley’s makeup artist. “Smudge of gray-brown shadow along his upper lashline. Light mascara on the lower lashes. Bronzer, a little powder—nothing else.” His stubble is perfect. Use a bit of gel and mess up the hair.”
Sarah stepped out of the trailer. “I’ll be back in ten.”
I settled in and listened, half-amused, to Bradley’s makeup artist come onto him.
I’d spent the last forty-eight hours contemplating my relationship to the gorgeous, infuriating man in the chair next to me. Despite the fact that we were still getting to know each other Bradley had quickly become my rock—my go-to friend, lover, and confidant. To say that I missed him would be the most humongous understatement ever.
I glanced up and caught him staring at me in the mirror. He wore the raw, I-want-to-fuck-you-so-hard look. My stomach fluttered and my cheeks burned. A not so subtle reminder of how much I missed him in bed.
So why didn’t I return his gaze?
Stubbornly, I could not shake off our problems—like our major trust issues. We were both freaky-possessive and insecure. If we couldn’t find a way to real intimacy, we’d never have the kind of relationship we both deserved.
Sarah stepped inside the trailer and slammed the door. “Do me a favor and stand over here.“ She held up her phone. “Closer—put your arm around her. That’s it.” Bradley slipped his arm around my waist.
“Smile, Gracie.” She snapped the picture. “You two look beautiful together.“
Derek poked his head in the door. “We need the talent like now.”
As I exited the trailer, Sarah’s gaze narrowed. “Truce, Gracie.”
Bradley fell in step beside me. “You okay with getting close?”
At the office, Bradley and I were barely speaking. That wasn’t going to cut it today. For the next few hours, it was Super Bowl Sunday, and we were the sexy mixed race couple being interviewed about a hot new body wash.
I glanced up at him, so ruggedly handsome in that baseball jacket. “I can stand it if you can.” I reached out and he took my hand.
In a sunny corner of the parking lot, Derek moved a handheld Steadicam over plump brats smoking on a grill. Snippets of b-roll footage cut together with the interviews would create just the right tailgate party atmosphere.
The Héros shower booth appeared to be one of many ongoing tailgate parties. A banner hung from the stripped awning of a Winnebago inviting passersby to Take the Héros Sniff Test.
Corey reached out and hooked Bradley and I into an interview. Our first take was over before I realized they were actually shooting.
“Cut” Mark yelled. “Great reaction, totally spontaneous!” Mark was in his element. I had no doubt that he would one day fulfill his dream and direct his own comedy scripts. He pulled us over to watch the playback. “Check this out—this last bit is übersexy.”
I watched myself dab a bit of body wash behind Bradley’s ear and sniff. Mark pointed to the small screen. “Do that again. I want a close-up.”
With each take, the camera captured a few good moments as the chemical attraction heated up between us. Bradley scratched my cheek with his beard stubble. In the middle of the sniff test, I nuzzled his ear and licked.
Corey whooped for the camera. “Holy shit, I’ve got a hard on!”
Mark looked up from the monitor. “Cheat Gracie toward camera, and let’s get a safety.”
Each time Bradley yanked me close, my breath caught and my heart lurched into an erratic rhythm. His every sweet nuzzle a reminder of how good he was. How good we were together.
Tingles, tingles and more tingles.
Between takes, I leaned back against the strength and warmth of his body “This is killing me.”
He returned a sexy grunt, primal and sensual.
After a brief consult with Sarah and Derek, Mark released us. “You two take a break. We’re going to shoot another interview before lunch, then bring you both back.”
Bradley released me, reluctantly. “I’ve got some work to finish up at the office. Ring me when they’re ready for us?”
Fuck me. I was hot and wet for him.
For three days, I’d felt the physical connection between us slipping away, and now this. He glanced back and I easily read his thoughts. Dark, feral and ready.
I shot back a petulant, frustrated look and he grinned. The first real smile I’d seen from him in days.
Sarah slid off a director’s chair and gave me a hug. “You both look amazing. And we got some tasty bits…”
I wrinkled my nose. “But?”
She sighed. “We need a wow moment, something funny, sexy, unexpected.” One of the crew called her name. “Maybe
you two could work on something?”
“Need me to help with anything?” I asked, hoping for a distraction.
“Yeah,” Sarah backed away, “get your mojo on.”
Without a doubt, Bradley would know what to do. This morning on set, he’d replaced cool and aloof with warm and willing for the camera. I stood on the sidewalk, more anxious than hungry, and studied the tapas bar across the street.
Exactly one minute later I found myself staring at a blackboard filled with spicy appetizer specials. I just didn’t feel much like eating. What I wanted wasn’t on the menu.
I ordered a liquid lunch made with Patron tequila, Cointreau, and some sort of magical lime juice mixer shaken over ice.
My phone rang and I dug in my bag. A text message from Bradley.
My office. 10 minutes. No panties.
A massive wave of arousal swept through my body. Nipples peaked, womb and clit tingled and tightened. My toes even curled.
I would have trembled, but for the angst that bubbled up inside. Bradley was making sexy. He had obviously received the ‘wow moment’ talk as well.
The fifteen-dollar margarita came in its own plastic cocktail shaker. I slipped the bartender a huge tip and walked out the door with my drink.
The black SUV pulled alongside and I thumbed a ride. Spider eyeballed the cocktail but said nothing. “Back to the office?”
I nodded, sipping directly out of the shaker.
My body simmered pleasantly from a morning spent in close proximity to Bradley. The scratchy, familiar nuzzle of his beard stubble. His hand slipping down my back to cup a buttock cheek. And now this text message.
Why, why, why, had I met with Troy?
In front of the bar on Stone Street, Bradley had accused me of harboring some kind of distasteful attraction to my ex-rapist boyfriend. Like I was the kind of woman who wrote love letters to Charles Manson.
I gulped down icy margarita and silently fumed for the rest of the ride. Anger mixed with arousal and tequila is a potent combination. Two city blocks and one elevator ride later, I burst into his office.
Bradley sat behind his desk, relaxed and casual. I crossed the room and slammed the drink down. “Do you really think I’m in the mood to fuck you?”
One side of that damnable, sexy mouth curled. “You came here to be fucked.” He reached for the plastic cocktail shaker and drained it.
The Do It List (The Do It List #1) Page 29
