by Tracy Ewens
“We should probably get going,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes I did, you look comfortable.”
“No. Comfortable and having a good time are states of being. They aren’t descriptors.”
“Wow, we’re dealing in parts of speech now. I feel underqualified.”
“I’m serious. You’re in this visual business, and I’m asking you as a friend. If I don’t look polished, then what do I look like?”
West ignored the thud in his gut at the friend label because it was stupid to think they were anything more. He toned down the imagery of how he saw her but still went with honesty.
“You appear to be a woman who has more important things on her mind than what she’s wearing. Like you’ve spent your life on the other side of the camera. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Their eyes met. “Why do you ask?”
“Still no adjectives, but thank you. I’ve never given much thought to how people perceive me. I guess it’s new and I’m curious. Amy keeps telling me I need to polish things up, so I put some effort in today and I was wondering if I’m any shinier.”
“Well, I think you look great the way you are, but if it’s polished you are going for, that’s easy.”
“Okay. Who polished you?”
He laughed as they walked toward the car in the dark. “Hannah would argue that I’m still not polished.”
“The beard,” she said as West held the door open for her this time.
“Yeah, she’s a fan of shiny things too.”
“Huh. I liked the beard.”
West felt a juvenile jump in his pulse. It was the first time she’d even acknowledged that she noticed he had a body, apart from the sexy comment in the conference room. Yeah, he was still holding onto that one like a starved fan.
“It honestly wasn’t intentional. Hannah made a big deal, but I didn’t want to shave or be anything that day. I was heading to my parents’ house after the meeting and saw no point in dressing up. Something about you being there made that okay for a moment, so thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime you want to be unpolished with me, let me know.” She caught herself, which was fun to watch.
“But in the meantime, any tips? Can someone polish me up to Amy and everyone else’s standards so I can get back to occupying my time with things that matter?”
“I think I can help you.”
The car pulled up in front of her apartment and West resisted the urge to get out and walk her in. The woman was asking for a professional reference, not a nightcap.
“I will set up some appointments for you at R House and I’ll text you the address. Tomorrow?”
“You don’t need to call a salon for me. I’m sure Amy has an entire list.”
“R House isn’t a salon. They’re a one-stop shop and it’s private. You can’t call them yourself.”
“That name is ominous. It sounds like some kind of underground club.”
“They specialize in polish, Meg. Tomorrow?”
“Are they going to make me look goofy? I saw this one place on the Internet that waxes the inside of your nose.” She flinched. “No, thank you.”
“Do I look goofy?”
She seemed to stumble over her words but recovered quickly. “Do you wax the inside of your nose?”
He nodded.
“Really?” She tilted her head as if in the dim light of the car she was going to be able to tell.
“Well, it’s not waxed right now. I’m not filming, but when I’m working, I get it waxed. If I have a crazy nose hair during a close-up, someone on set will pluck it out, and that hurts more than having all of them yanked out at once. Are we truly discussing this?”
The sound of her laughter filled the car. “I’m sorry. That’s ridiculous.”
“It is, but that’s polish. Every hair in place. At least in my world. Do you want me to make the appointments or not?” His face was starting to hurt from smiling and the tiny space of the backseat seemed to push her closer.
“Yes, please. Let’s get this over with. How long will this take?”
“They’ll probably want you for half the day.”
“Good God.”
West’s fingers hovered over his phone.
“Fine, fine. How do you know they’ll have time for me?”
He raised a brow in answer. Meg shook her head and grabbed the car door handle as Vince let her out.
“Oh, that’s right, you’re the sexiest man alive,” she said as the door closed behind her. West rolled the window down.
“Not the sexiest. A runner-up. I guess that makes me sort of sexy.”
“I guess it does.” Her eyes were saying more, but West still couldn’t figure out what. She crouched down and looked through his window. “Thank you for the stairs.”
“You are more than welcome. That’s what BFFs are for. Next week, we’ll hit the pier.”
“I’ve been to the pier, West. I have lived here my whole life.” She seemed to mentally correct herself because she hadn’t been in the city her whole life, but he didn’t push.
“I’ll bet you haven’t been to my pier yet.”
“Ooh, again with the mystery. Hey, they’re not going to wax my butt, are they?”
He burst out laughing. “Not if you don’t want them to.”
“Do you…”
West began to interrupt, but she beat him to it.
“I know, I know, only when you’re working. I honestly don’t know why I can’t control my curiosity.” She turned toward her building.
“Still thinking about my butt?”
“No one wants that.”
“Actually,” he teased and was rewarded when she turned back to him.
“I know. I’m sure there are many women who—”
“Hundreds.” This was fun, and her expression turned from silly to heated. Damn, the woman was a fatal combination.
She scrunched her face. “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration. They may want you, but your butt specifically? Do you have any real data on that?”
“I’m sure we could find some.”
She laughed again and his hand went to the car handle of its own free will.
She put her hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, and he imagined her in her apartment in his sweatshirt and nothing—
Yeah, that’s enough of that. Back to BFFs, you idiot.
“I’ll text you the appointment time and the address.”
“Thank you.” She raised her hand in a good-bye and was gone behind the door.
West finally stopped smiling when the car pulled onto Market Street. It was the best night he’d had in a long time. Hannah was going to be pissed—the beard was definitely making a comeback now.
Meg closed her apartment door and stood in the darkness replaying the evening. Had he been any other man, some blind date or a guy she met at work, she would have allowed the butterflies dancing right under her skin to continue, but he wasn’t merely some guy.
No matter how easy he made it for her to forget, he was famous. Crazy famous and while they’d spent uninterrupted time together, she wasn’t sure what was going on. Was he simply lonely in his self-imposed isolation and their agents had secured him a playmate for a while?
That sounded harsh, but it was insane to think that some Hollywood A-lister enjoyed hanging out in backseats and on city steps discussing her need for an image makeover. Meg dropped her purse and hit the light switch near the door.
Did she just ask him if she looked polished? More than once? When the hell was she going to find the off button for her mouth, or at least the pause until her brain engaged?
He’d given her a straight answer eventually and while “comfortable” and “the other side of the camera” were not exactly key words splashed all over fashion magazines, they were truthful. She was comfortable with him, which was crazy considering the situation. But despite the spotlight turned on them now, West had a way of distracting
her as if they were sneaking under a blanket. Probably not the best visual considering she could see the vulnerability in his eyes when he asked her to go to the steps and still feel the warmth of his body when he sat next to her in the pink and orange of the setting sun.
Vulnerable and heat—a difficult combination to resist indeed. Not that he was offering her anything. He was a nice guy. A friend helping her navigate a different world. That was all. He probably looked at all women like they were fascinating. She would admit that particular look was a drug for Meg. She’d always preferred fascinating over sexy. He probably knew that, could sense it. After all, giving people what they wanted was his job, and he was good at it.
Too good, was the last thought Meg had before she drifted off to sleep hoping for dreams about orangutans or spiders even, something she understood.
Chapter Ten
Was it an unspoken rule that wedding planners had to be snotty bitches? Weren’t weddings supposed to be rainbows and happiness? Meg was simply checking on the snapdragons. She’d promised Anna she’d take care of the vague florist and after two voicemails without a return call, Meg was getting pissed.
Dane sent Anna snapdragons after their first date. Anna wanted them in all the bouquets and “come hell or high water,” as their Uncle Mitch would say, Meg was going to make this happen for her sister. Which explained why she was taking a deep breath as the wedding planner meanie transferred her to their “master florist.” Christ, did everyone have a title?
Following some obnoxious music, the master florist informed Meg that creativity took time and “she was still inviting all of the colors onto her palette to create something truly unique for the couple.”
Meg thunked her head on the kitchen counter and guessed she was now privy to what Anna meant by vague.
“Right. So, will there be snapdragons?” Meg asked again.
An exacerbated huff came through the phone before the florist said, “Most likely. If I say yes, will you promise me that you won’t encroach on my creative space again?”
“You’ve got it.” Meg felt encouraged for the first time since picking up the phone.
“Then yes. We were able to procure blush and ivory with rosy tips. I will include them in my creations. Good-bye, Maid of Honor.”
Hanging up the phone, she texted Anna with a thumbs-up and that she would have snapdragons. She also mentioned that Frida would be bringing her EpiPen and their mother almost apologized for being “troublesome.” Meg followed all of that with an eye-rolling emoticon and tapped the send arrow.
She rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder as if she’d managed to win an arm wrestle. Sometimes it felt like a cruel joke that Annabelle chose the sister least likely to own a lacy bra as her maid of honor, but when she teared up and told Meg she had missed her so much, there was the guilt again.
Guilt and love. She wanted to help, needed her sister to be as happy as the other two, but Meg was barely getting used to wearing heels. A wedding was akin to wearing high heels while gardening. But over the past couple of months, she’d realized that Anna didn’t actually need her for dress fittings and cake tastings. She’d chosen Meg because she wanted someone at her back. A sister to fight some of her fights and keep her standing even at the “classy, but a little crazy” bridal shower Meg had put together with Cindi and some of Anna’s other colleagues. Meg excelled in all those areas and discovered she fit in just fine as a maid of honor.
The wedding was five short weeks away and now that the florist had figured out her damn palette, the only things left were confirming things for what felt like the hundredth time and finding a dress.
Annabelle gave her some leeway in that area, as long as it went with the blush-and-ivory color scheme. Meg had put off shopping for a dress, but now that she was silky smooth and polished within an inch of her life, she was feeling equipped to head into some of the boutiques and check the dress off her list too.
Meg thought of West and wondered if her new BFF might help her find a dress. Why was she picturing an incredibly uncomfortable slit somewhere if Westin Drake oversaw the maid of honor dress? Besides, he hadn’t even seen the results of her day at the R House, which was an unnerving name for a rather friendly place. Meg wasn’t sure she wanted to spend what turned into almost a full day with the amazon beauties, as she’d affectionately termed them while they were waxing her bits, but they were good at their job. Running her hands along the silky edges of her now shoulder-length hair, Meg had to admit there was something liberating and fresh to being polished.
Rudolpho had taken three inches of “dead mess” off her hair and pulled a round brush the size of Meg’s oatmeal container through what was left. The result was lighter and softer. She liked it and as a bonus, when she asked him if their color products were tested on animals, he launched into a diatribe about how he personally selected all their products to ensure they were not only humane, but natural.
“Nothing that touches your body in my house is harmful to anyone,” he had told her with a kiss on both cheeks before he sent her on her way. All in all, it was an amazing day of pampering. It wasn’t that Meg was against pampering, she simply hadn’t thought about it before.
She glanced at the clock in the kitchen and decided that before the community garden event at four, she needed some fresh-air time all to herself. Pulling on her cargo pants and a sports bra, she smiled at the blending of polish and her old life standing together in the mirror. She pulled her glossy strands through a baseball cap and reluctantly decided she would need to shower and blow-dry her hair before the garden event. The idea that she was allotting time to blow-dry continued to amuse her as she grabbed her vest and locked her apartment door.
Considering the route she planned to take to the Mount Sutro Loop, she decided she would need to run the whole way if she was going to be back in time. West had texted that he was sending Vince to bring her to the Next Generation offices. The garden was around the corner from there. She had thanked him and ignored the flutter in her stomach when she saw his name flash on her phone. A good hike was in order. Time among the trees would take care of the flutter. At least that’s what she told herself.
“Yes, it’s palm oil you want to stay away from. Now, there are some small distributors that are sustainable. They’ve been growing palms since before the fast-food boom. Generations, right. Oh sure, I’m happy to help.” West heard Meg’s voice as she left whomever she was talking to and pushed through into the all-glass, all-solar, all-happy-planet meeting room of Next Generation. He was still reading a pseudo-script they’d given him for the community garden shoot they were going to do for Good Morning America, which would air the following day.
After their appearance at the smart house, this thing with Meg had quickly escalated. If Hannah had her way, there would be more than three events, he thought. He almost said it out loud, but Meg set her bag on the table with a clunk, pulling him from his thoughts. As he glanced up, something new raced through him. It was the physical equivalent of the way he felt anytime she talked about her work or made him laugh. Her hair was shorter and she’d lost the poncho. His eyes traveled before he could stop them, causing Meg to look down at herself. Her cheeks went pink.
“My eyebrows feel a little weird. I’m sure Rudolpho’s gorgeous amazons know what they are doing, but I have never had my brows this thin. My face feels a little naked. That’s probably what you’re noticing.”
West didn’t catch much of what she was saying, but her eye contact was fleeting, which hadn’t happened in a while. She was nervous. He recognized the signs now.
“I… don’t see a difference in the brows, but those jeans are tight.”
“So?” She jolted back and again looked down.
“So, pretty sure that’s what grabbed my attention.” His hands gestured of their own free will up and down the length of her. “I mean, I’ll take your word for it that your eyes are… naked”—their eyes met on that appropriate word and West realized she was as beautif
ul with makeup as she was without—“but I wasn’t in that vicinity.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Warmth rose through his body. He needed to get a handle on this, or he was going to throw her over his shoulder. He tried to find a character, a role he could play that wouldn’t be so turned on he could barely speak.
“Huh. So, the polish is working.”
“I don’t know about the polish, but those jeans are working. Yes, you should keep those.” He went with aloof, clueless. He’d played a young dad distracted by a new TV in a commercial once. Young dad, television, that’s where his mind needed to be, but his eyes fell and he dropped character when they found her ass. Before he could look away, she caught him.
Meg turned in a circle, jutted out her hip, and put her hand on her butt. West kept his eyes on the paper in front of him. This was not happening. B. F. F. He reminded himself firmly. She was brilliant and adventurous. But, what about the jeans? a part of his body nowhere near his brain asked. Shaking his head, he looked back to Meg still shimmying around. Their eyes met.
“Holy smokes, these jeans are hypnotic. Look at your face.”
“What?”
“You want me.” She put a hand on her hip.
West laughed and added playful and fun to the already long list of Meg’s irresistible qualities.
“I do not want you,” he lied.
She nodded and stepped closer to him. “Yeah, you do. You are checking me out.”
“Easy does it, shiny pants. I think you’ve been sniffing the polish. I will say that the curves are impressive. I’m a little taken aback. I mean how the hell was I supposed to know all of that was under those rainbow skirts and your poncho?”
Meg turned her back to him and glanced over her shoulder with pouty lips.
Damn, she was pretty good at this.
