He made that smile look challenging somehow. “You really do like to have your way, don’t you? I might point out that a good relationship is built on compromise.” He moved over to let a woman pass pushing a high-end baby stroller. His shoulder brushed mine, and a wave of tingles spread from that point.
That was good. McKenna was right. This attraction would sell our story, which would keep me in the running for the job. I should just think of any time Reeve and I spent together as prep work. Whenever I pitched new producers, I researched the production company, all their films or shows, and any personal details that would help me make a connection. When I could, I found out as much as I could about the project they wanted to cast, the roles, and what type of actors they seemed to prefer.
For this, I needed to make sure we were convincing on a non-verbal level—which was where the chemistry came in—and that we had our backstory straight.
“Right,” I said, intending to make the best use of our time shopping. “We can practice compromising while we work on our backstory. I want to make sure all the details are ironclad. I propose we go with the truth as to how we met—I cast you in a day part for It’s Raining Men.”
“Yes, dear. I remember how we met.”
I slanted a glance at him as we walked. Yes, he was joking. I wanted to keep an emotional safety zone, but not to alienate him. Rapport—that’s what I was aiming for. “So, let’s start with the basics. Janelle already knows your name, since you met her already.”
“Damn.”
I stopped walking and looked at him in not-quite alarm. “What?”
“I wanted to be a Sven.”
That surprised a laugh out of me. “Sven?”
“Don’t I look like a Sven? What do you think?” He struck a model pose, tilting his head to highlight his cheekbones and jaw. The fact that he knew exactly how to do that was a good reason to keep telling myself “rapport” until it stuck.
“You don’t, actually, look like a Sven. Sorry.”
With a huge sigh, he let his shoulders droop. “Okay, I guess.”
We continued toward the men’s section at a less purposeful clip. “So, I’m Reeve Larkin from Ohio. My dad’s a cop. My mom’s a teacher. I went to Ohio State.”
I rolled my eyes. “Very funny.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“No one will buy that. It’s such a cliché. Cop dad and teacher mom? You look straight out of Central Casting—the too-good-to-be-true boy from Middle America who went to the hometown college to boot. Did you have a Collie named Shep too? Or was it Rex?”
“Lady, actually.” I glanced at him and found humor but no cheekiness. “It’s the truth, I swear. Studied American Lit for my major.”
“Okay, fine. Best we work with that.”
“Good. It’s easy to remember, being as it, you know, happened.”
I kept my eyes forward, not hiding my smile, but not ceding the win, either. “And we started dating shortly after the premiere of It’s Raining Men six months ago.”
“Ah, May is the perfect time to begin a love story. And you looked so incredible at the premiere in that slinky black dress.”
I stopped walking, putting a hand on Reeve’s arm so he stopped too. “You remember the dress I wore?”
He made a pfft sound like it was no big deal. “You’re gorgeous. You cast me in a movie. Yes, I remember.”
Biting my lip, I fought to ignore the feeling that swept through me. It was a very big deal, somehow, in some way I’d better examine alone at home.
“So . . .” I continued with our fabled affair, “we went out the next night.”
“To Italian,” he added. “Because that’s my favorite. Along with grapefruit.”
I gave him the side-eye. “I don’t think I’ve ever had grapefruit served with Italian food.”
“Independently, not concurrently.”
“I’m vastly relieved they’re not getting up to some kind of culinary abomination fusion food in Ohio.”
Reeve rolled his eyes. “Oh, she’s a lady boss, a comedienne, and a food critic too.” But he smiled crookedly when he looked at me again. “This is where you tell me your favorite food.”
“Fish and chips.”
He stared for a moment, then shook his head. “You have no business telling me that I am playing to the cliché.”
“I like tea too,” I said, then I let my folded arms and most British stare serve as the rest of my reply, and from his chuckle, it served well.
“So tell me something I don’t know about Sutton Brenner’s usual day.”
“Get up, walk the dog for an hour . . .”
“Hmm. This might be the time to discuss compromise as I raise the question of how early we have to get up to take the dog for a walk.”
“We?”
“I can’t walk the dog with you?”
How could a question be as powerful as a kiss or a touch? Something like goose bump shivers shook me as I considered the idea of us walking The Artful Dodger together, mostly moving at our usual power-walk pace, sometimes, maybe on Sunday morning, taking it at a leisurely, couple-time stroll. When had I last had that kind of togetherness with someone?
“If you can keep up with us.” I kept it light. “I need to buy him a new jacket, though. Last year’s fleece has gotten tatty, and it’s getting colder.” The poor little love had been shivering this morning, and moving as fast as his little legs could manage. “I also do yoga and Pilates.”
“Of course. What’s your favorite book? Wait. It has to be Oliver Twist. Because of your dog.”
I flashed him another grin. “Heavens. Somebody was a Lit major in college, after all.”
“Well, it’s not rocket science, since your dog is named after a character in the book. Is your Artful Dodger a pickpocket too?”
“Nope. Trained him out of it. Your favorite book?”
“Toss-up between Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or The Great Gatsby.”
Those were good picks. He had excellent taste. More points in his favor. “Favorite movie?”
“Anything you’ve cast,” he said with a wink.
I arched a brow playfully. “Oh, we are a perfect pair. That’s my favorite movie too.”
“Okay, when are we moving in together?”
“After the wedding. I’m old-fashioned.”
“Right. Virtue. On the subject of virtue, what’s your favorite position?” Reeve asked as we walked past high-heeled shoes.
I stopped. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I’m not buying the protecting-the-virtue thing. I doubt they will either. So, what is it?”
“I highly doubt that will come up at dinner. Besides, our deal was for pretend. So I don’t think we need to go there.”
“No. We don’t need to go there. But yet, that Janelle . . .” He trailed off without finishing the thought.
That drew my attention. Had he sensed something from her? Some suspicion? “What do you mean, That Janelle?”
He shrugged as he stroked his chin. “I don’t know, but her casting couch comment made me think she’s not quite as conservative as she pretends to be.”
“And because of that, we need to prepare a briefing doc on our fictional sex life?” I raised an eyebrow, daring him to keep going.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swept a strand of my soft brown hair behind my ear and asked in a low, sexy voice, “What could it hurt for me to know how you like it, Sutton?”
Oh, he was good. He was very, very good, because I felt that swooping feeling in my belly. But I wasn’t going to be rattled by it. I was going to play along too. I took a step closer to Reeve, giving him a “you naughty boy” look. Wetting my bottom lip, I whispered, “I like it on all fours, from behind, feeling hands on my back and in my hair and gripping my hips.” His chest rose and fell, and he pressed his lips together, as if he were trying to hold back a word, or maybe even a moan as I followed up with a question, asking, “What’s yours, Reeve?”
&nb
sp; He locked eyes with me, and goose bumps spread over my arms. Then, he dipped in closer, his mouth inches away. “That one. The one you like best. That’s my favorite. My favorite thing is making you feel good.”
I drew in a sharp breath, then clamped my lips closed. But it was too late. A fuse had lit inside me. Deep in my belly, sending heat throughout my body, sending warmth between my legs. Then I reminded myself—he was an actor; he was playing the role I’d cast him in. But oh, he could sweep the awards with the way he’d said making you feel good. It seemed so true and authentic, as if Reeve really had made me feel all those things in the bedroom and would again.
“We better get moving.” I led him to the men’s section, choosing several high-end dress shirts for him, sharp pants, and a few neat ties. Much safer topics.
I held a green button-down against him. “This shirt is perfect for your eyes.”
“I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman,” he joked.
“Cue the shopping montage,” I said. “I do love a good shopping montage. Arms loaded with clothes, rejected outfits flying over dressing room doors . . .”
“May I help you with that?”
The question came from a cute, perky dressing room attendant. Reeve nodded, and the woman took the potential purchases and showed him to a dressing room. I sat on the leather couch just outside and took out my phone, firing off a few quick replies to agents asking questions about next Monday’s plastic surgeon audition. Were there pages? Yes, already attached. How should the actors dress? In scrubs. Clean-shaven look or stubble? Stubble, but of course. But I couldn’t help picturing Reeve pulling off his T-shirt, standing there alone in the dressing room, shirtless, only jeans on.
Damn. He made it hard to concentrate. I took off my glasses and pressed on the bridge of my nose as if I could push away all the thoughts of him.
The attendant walked by. “If you want to go in and help your boyfriend choose a shirt, it’s totally fine with me.”
Apparently, Reeve had the same idea, because I heard him call out to me. “Hey, Sut. I could use a little help.”
8
Reeve
A boyfriend would definitely want to show potential purchases to his girlfriend, I reasoned. This was part of the role, and I had to play it well. I wanted to impress her. I wanted something else, but I had to think about how to go about it—or rather, if I should.
The thing was, I’d meant to be provoking, asking about her sexual preferences. But oh, had it backfired, when her answer finally came, all smoky and breathy and accompanied by images of trailing a hand down her naked, gorgeous back.
To play this part, I had to ask myself, what would Reeve do if he was dating this beautiful, sexy woman? I’d follow-up on the interest I glimpsed when she was off her guard. I’d test the waters and let her know I was open to any invitation. No strings, no contract, no conditions.
That’s what was on my mind as I opened the door a bit and watched her walk toward me. She had a hell of a body, a true hourglass shape. I could picture her on top of me, imagine wrapping my fingers around her waist. Or her pressed against the wall, that fabulously sculpted ass of hers jutting out, and I could hold her that way.
My eyes drank her in as she gave a perfunctory rap of the knuckles on the open door.
“Funny. I thought you had clothes to show me.” Sutton slid inside the dressing room. When she pointed to my naked chest, she came within a hair’s breadth of touching me, but I felt it as if she had. “Did you need me to help get your shirt on?”
“On. Off. Ladies’ choice.” I closed the door behind us.
“Doubt the theater has a shirts optional policy. So on, don’t you think?” she asked, sounding the tiniest bit breathy. She could talk a good game, but her gaze kept drifting to my chest and abs. I worked out a lot. I didn’t just need to look good, I needed to look better than any other actor auditioning for the same parts.
“Okay. Let’s try this green one.” I started to reach for a shirt. She stopped me.
“You have a tattoo.” With avid eyes, she pointed to the swirling calligraphy that lined one side of me, from my hip bone up to my arm.
This couldn’t be news to her. But maybe she was noticing it in a whole new way. “You’ve seen my tattoo. You required shirts off for It’s Raining Men.”
“I know,” she started, but her voice was shaky. “I just haven’t seen it this close.”
And I threw caution to the wind. Here we were in a tiny space, and we were playing our parts. “Want to touch?” I asked, and I really wanted her to say yes.
She did so with a nod, then reached out as if she were mesmerized, as if she were lured in by some uncontrollable force toward my skin, my muscles, my body. She started at the hip bone, one fingertip making contact. She glanced up, and I drew in a breath. In this moment, I wasn’t acting. As she trailed a finger up my side, everything about her touch made me buzzed. I wanted to grab her and do everything, but I let myself exist in the moment, in the way she seemed so drawn to the marks I’d made on my body.
“They look like very fancy letters. Three of the letter H?”
“They are. For the three most important things in the world,” I answered.
“And those are?”
“Health. Happiness. And hope.”
She gave me a quick smile. “Yes. I agree.” Then she traced her fingertip from my chest down to my waist as if she were painting my skin. Her touch was as soft as a butterfly, but it was full of fire, and I liked it. Her fiancé would know if and how she liked to be touched too.
“This is more convincing now.”
She tilted her head as if to ask what I meant. “I’m not sure I’m following?”
“You were all weird and awkward when I kissed you at your office,” I added, pointing out the truth.
“I’m sorry. I was just surprised.”
“I know. But don’t jump the next time I kiss you. We need to work on that.”
“We do?”
“Well, that would give it away, wouldn’t it? You need to get used to being kissed by me.”
“Okay,” she said with a businesslike nod.
“That means we need to practice.”
“Practice kiss,” she said slowly, then nodded quickly. “Right. Of course. Like actors. Like a stage kiss.”
She sounded chipper and cheery, as if she were trying to convince herself. Whatever worked for her, I’d go along with it. “Think of this as a dress rehearsal. We’re prepping for the big kiss scene that makes the audience swoon and totally believe we’re in love. Got it?”
She nodded.
“Ready?”
“Right here in the dressing room?”
“What better place to dress-rehearse a kiss than a dressing room?”
“Totally. Absolutely. Definitely.”
I wondered how many more adverbs she’d need either to work up to a kiss that was meant to be seen instead of private, or to get over whatever her hesitation might be. She was terrifically sexy and sensual, but it was intimidating knowing your kiss would be analyzed and critiqued. I’d have to take the lead.
So I looked at her, as if she were the woman I’d been dying to kiss for years. She was my leading lady, the only woman I wanted. She returned my gaze, and then it was as if a flame burst. I pictured her ravenous and greedy, wanting to be consumed with kisses. Her lips were parted slightly, and her breathing had become . . . lustful. Maybe she was acting too. In that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to taste her lips, to feel more of her beautiful body. There was something about her, maybe it was the age difference, her twenty-eight to my twenty-four, or maybe it was the power play. But there was no time for analysis because my head was turning cloudy with a need I hadn’t had before. I wanted to do things to this woman. I wanted to make her feel the way a good boyfriend would—desired, wanted, craved. She deserved all that. I could give it to her now. I could give it to her for a week.
“You look like you want something,” I whispered.
She didn’t answer. She just licked her lips once. That was enough of an answer. That was all I needed. I moved behind her, brushed a strand of hair away from her neck, and pressed my naked chest against her back. I watched her in the mirror as she closed her eyes and sighed into me.
I started with her neck, pressing my lips gently against her skin. She smelled like some kind of shampoo, jasmine maybe, and she moaned the moment I touched her. It was like a chemical reaction, the two of us. We had that kind of physical attraction that smacks you hard and turns you inside out in a second. Instant and electric, and you feel like you can set the world on fire. We could have known each other for years or been two strangers who met on a train—our bodies were magnets for each other. With the softest of flutters, I kissed her neck, barely touching her, but touching her enough to make her move, to make her shift her hips against me. Running my hands down her back, I rested my palms on her waist, and she gasped. I worked my way to her ear, nibbling the earlobe, then kissing her jawline as she said my name in a low voice that gave all her desires away. “Reeve.”
Her voice was needy, full of want. I turned her around, zeroed in on her red lips, then gave her a soft, silver-screen kiss. Not the kind that leads to the bedroom. But the kind you give at the front door at the end of a fantastic date. Tender, gentle, lingering.
She was such an alpha woman in the workplace—all take-charge and full-speed-ahead. But here, in my arms, she was different. She seemed vulnerable, like she was letting down her guard. She was the sexy librarian unpinning her hair and taking off her glasses for me.
She kissed back just as gently. A sweet slide.
The kiss lasted all of five seconds. Maybe ten.
It could have lasted all day and I wouldn’t want to end it.
“How is it going in there?” The voice of the attendant cut in. “Are you finding anything to your liking?”
And I broke the kiss. Sutton’s eyes were glossy, her expression kiss-drunk. Hell, that was a good look for her.
It probably matched mine.
I needed to collect myself, though. I cleared my throat, keeping my eyes on the woman in front of me as I answered, “Yes. Everything is to my liking.”
The Pretending Plot Page 5
