The Things She Says(27)
Kris’s lips were twitching. “Glad you could find some amusement at my expense.”
More giggles slipped out, and the tears threatened to spill over. “Sleepless night catching up to me. Sorry.”
He captured her hand and kissed the back of it. Casually, like they were an old married couple—except the way his lips grazed her skin should come with a hazard warning. “Sleep, then,” he said. “I’ll let you argue with me about this later, since you’re not going to win anyway.”
She folded her still-sparking hand into her lap, all traces of humor dried up. “Okay. I am exhausted.”
She faked a yawn, pillowed her arm against the door, then lay on it. When she closed her eyes, she swore she’d only think about football and what kind of job she’d get in Dallas. But the Ferris-wheel kiss drove all that out of her mind. Instead, she replayed it over and over and over, extending it in a torturous parade of images where Kris swept her away in a sensual haze and made love to her until dawn.
With a start, she woke and only then realized she’d fallen asleep. “What time is it?”
Kris glanced at the dash clock. “Almost two. Are you ready for lunch?”
“Yeah. I’d like to get out of the car for a while.”
And prolong the inevitable. Dallas loomed at the edge of the horizon and she’d slept away a good bit of her precious few hours with Kris. In no time, they’d go their separate ways. Nothing had changed that, and nothing likely would—unless she came up with a heck of a Hail Mary.
They ate more fast food and talked. Kris told fascinating stories of growing up in Greece and spending his youth on his father’s boats. She entertained him with anecdotes of redneck politics, of which she had an endless supply.
How in the world had Kris ended up so down-to-earth instead of obnoxious and stuck-up like all the rich people on TV? He’d grown up Trump wealthy, and after a painful fallout with his father, turned his back on the money and left Greece forever to follow his dreams of being a filmmaker, on his terms. She couldn’t even find a way out of her pathetic life on her own.
No wonder she’d been thus far unable to pile-drive through the brick wall in his chest. She’d invented a crazy notion about saving him from a bloodless engagement to Kyla Monroe, one of the most successful and accomplished actresses in Hollywood.
But they were made for each other. Even if they weren’t in love or getting married, at some point, they’d found a mutual appreciation and likely enjoyed common interests. A woman like Kyla didn’t have to resort to flirting and stupid games like romance instruction to get Kris’s attention. She already had it.
Somehow, VJ had convinced herself Kyla would be thrilled to get out of an engagement with someone who was only doing it for the sake of a film and it never occurred to her that the star of Kris’s movie might be in it for the same reason.
Until now.
It was way past time to stop fantasizing about what could be and get some traction on the rest of her actual life.
“I need to borrow your phone again,” she told him. “I’m sorry I have to be such a freeloader.”
“VJ, I have an unlimited usage plan. You’re not going to bankrupt me with two five-minute phone calls.” He motioned to the Ferrari parked outside. “Help yourself.”
“You’re the only person on the planet who doesn’t keep their phone on them.” Even in Little Crooked Creek, ranchers dropped cell phones into the pockets of their jeans and teenagers texted each other as they walked to school.
He shrugged. “No one is so important they can’t leave a message. Find me when you’re done.”
She slid into the Ferrari and dialed Beverly Porter on the first try. No one could say she didn’t learn from her missteps.
Her only hope of shelter answered. “Beverly, it’s VJ Lewis.”
“Oh, hi. Just a minute.” Beverly said something but it was muffled as if she’d put her hand over the speaker. “You’re not calling to cancel on me are you? The condo’s almost done.”
Relief sang through VJ’s veins. “The opposite, in fact. I’m on my way to Dallas and was hoping you wouldn’t mind a roommate a little early.”
She was pathetic, mooching off Beverly and barging into the one-person home of a girl she’d last seen over Fourth of July weekend last month. Friendship had its limits, and she was pushing them.
“Oh.” Beverly’s pause did not put VJ at ease. “You’re on your way now? As in today?”
“I should be there by nine at the latest,” VJ chirped, and winced at the fake brightness. “That’s not too late, is it?”