“I know. You’re a Raiders girl.”
“Actually, I’m more of a Lakers girl. I look fabulous on those big screens sitting courtside.” She grinned when he laughed again. She loved the deep, throaty quality of his laugh without any hint of nasal distraction or worse, the polite tee hee of humoring the blonde.
“Been to any games recently? A lot of the guys recorded them. I can check it out for myself.”
“During the playoffs. My agent wanted me to make nice with the lead in the movie I auditioned for—you know, see and be seen, get some buzz on TMZ—and see if the casting director went for it.” The tabloids loved her ringside positioning next to the Hollywood bad boy with his oversexed reputation and permanent bachelor status.
She hated that part of her job. The auditions were professional, but all the ‘play for the press’ made her look like an exhibitionist. Lately, a desperate exhibitionist trying to cling to her youth.
“Did you get the part?” A guarded look came over his expression.
“Nope. I’m actually kind of glad because the man didn’t seem to understand the need for Tic Tacs before you whisper in someone’s face. He smelled like hot dogs and bad coffee.”
The waitress reappeared, stealing away their salads and setting their meals in front of them.
“Good. Well, not good,” He frowned dropping his gaze to his plate. Her heart bounced like a puppy scrabbling for attention. “Sorry, would you like more wine?”
“Yes, please. And why are you sorry?” She slid her wine glass toward him, and he refilled it carefully.
“Being happy you didn’t get a job doesn’t seem like the right thing.”
“It depends on why you were happy. Because if you knew about the production, then you might be happy that I’m not somewhere in Indiana filming right now. Or you could be happy because the lead has a lecherous reputation and has slept with every woman he’s ever shared screen time with. Or you could simply be happy that I didn’t want to kiss him….” She lifted the wine glass to her lips, daring him with a playful look.
“Fine. I’m not sorry at all that you didn’t get the part because I’m extremely happy you’re not in Indiana, nor being pawed by a letch whose arms would need to be broken, and that you didn’t want to kiss him.”
Her sex clenched. “I’m glad I didn’t get the part, too.”
“Are you glad because you didn’t want to kiss him? Because you didn’t want to sleep with him? Or because you wouldn’t be at dinner with me?”
An hour ago, she wanted to be anywhere but the Sybarite Club waiting for some stranger with expectations of sex no matter how libidinous her needs were. An hour ago she’d argued with her agent on the phone about the latest offer to play mom to Aqua Williams, Hollywood’s latest It girl in a role that she herself would have been offered ten years before.
An hour ago, she hadn’t met James Westwood and decided that kissing him would be better than cheesecake dipped in melted chocolate or that lead in the next action film would be poor recompense for the laughter-tinged desire humming through her system.
“Lauren?”
“Hmm?” She covered her mouth mid-chew and swallowed the salmon with a choked chuckle. “Sorry, I think that I was happy I didn’t get the part because I wouldn’t have known what I missed, meeting you. I really thought this whole thing was a bad idea….”
“Which segues beautifully into the question I wanted to ask, but didn’t want to offend you.” He set his knife down and captured her hand. Her insides somersaulted. His calloused thumb stroked her palm.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She shattered her second rule of dating. Although hardly fait accompli, she didn’t care if he’d signed up because he just wanted to get laid. She hadn’t had so much fun in a long time.
He slid out of the booth, still holding her hand. “Dance with me.”
She let him tug her out of the booth. “I can’t dance.”
“Fine. Step on my toes with me.”
Curiosity trumped nerves and she nodded, following him onto the dance floor and gliding into his arms, barely aware of the drifting melody of sobbing saxophone and nerve-thumping guitar. Up close, cradled against the warmth of his chest, enjoying the beat of his heart against his ribs beneath her palm, she found her four-inch heels gave her no advantage to his height. The cage of his body wrapped around hers, pulling her into a gentle to and fro sway far sexier and simpler than any choreographed number she’d had to practice.
“Why a one-night stand, Lauren?”