But, he reminded himself again, it was worth it. If he wanted to make Visions, he had to generate plenty of free publicity with an engagement to his beloved-by-the-masses, Oscar-winning ex-girlfriend. A fake engagement.
“Fried chicken is my favorite.” And he was starving. What could a couple of hours hurt? After all, he’d driven on purpose so it would take as long as possible to reach Dallas. “What’s Little Crooked Creek?”
“The poorest excuse for a small town you’ll ever have the misfortune to visit in your life,” she said with a wry twist of her lips. “It’s where I live.”
The Greek god was following her. VJ sneaked another glance in the rearview mirror. Yup. The muy amarilla Ferrari kept pace with Daddy’s truck. God had dropped off a fantasy on the side of the road in a place where nothing had happened for a millennium and he was following her.
Giddy. That was the word for the jumpy crickets in her stomach. She’d been waiting a long time for a knight in shining armor of her very own and never in a million years would she have expected to find one until she escaped Little Crooked Creek forever, amen. Yet, here he was, six feet of gorgeousness in the flesh and following her to Pearl’s. Shiver and a half.
She pulled into a parking place at the diner and curled her lip at the white flatbed in the next spot. Great. Lenny and Billy were here. Must be later than she thought. Her brothers never crawled out of bed until three o’clock and usually only then because she booted them awake, threatening them with no breakfast if they didn’t move their lazy butts.
Hopefully they weren’t on their second cup of coffee yet and wouldn’t notice the stranger strolling through Pearl’s. The last thing she wanted was to expose her precious knight to the two stupidest good ol’ boys in West Texas.
The Ferrari rolled into the spot on the other side of Daddy’s truck, and the Greek god flowed out of it like warm molasses. He was the most delicious thing in four states, and he was all hers. For now. She wasn’t deluded enough to think such an urbane, sophisticated specimen of a man would stick around, but it was no crime to bask in his gloriousness until he flowed back out of her life. Sigh. She grabbed her backpack and met him on the sidewalk.
Pearl’s was almost empty. Her stranger was as out of place as a June bug in January, and it only took fourteen seconds for all eight pairs of eyes in the place to focus on them as she led him past the scarred tables to the booth in the shadow of the kitchen—the one everyone understood was reserved for couples who wanted privacy. She plopped onto the bench, opting to take the side sloppily repaired with silver duct tape and giving him the mostly okay seat.
He slid onto the opposite bench and folded his pianist’s fingers into a neat crosshatch pattern right over the heart carved into the Formica tabletop, with the initials LT & SR in the center. Laurie and Steve had been married nearly twenty years now, a small-town staple completely in contrast to this man, who doubtlessly frequented chic sushi bars and classy nightclubs.
What had she been thinking when she invited him here?
“Interesting place,” he said.
Dilapidated, dark and smelling of rancid grease maybe, but interesting wasn’t a descriptor of Pearl’s. “Best cooking you’ll find for miles. And the only cooking.”
He laughed and she scoured her memory for something else funny to say so she could hear that deep rumble again. Then she abandoned that idea as he pierced her with those incredible melty-brown eyes. She settled for drinking him in. He was finely sculpted, as if carved from marble and deemed so perfect that his creator had breathed life into his statue and set it free to live amongst mere mortals.
“My name’s Kris.” He held out a hand and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “From Los Angeles.”
Surreptitiously, she wiped the grime and sweat off her palm and clasped his smooth hand. Energy leaped between them, shocking her with a funny little zap.
“Sorry, static electricity. It’s dry this time of year.” She folded her hand into her lap, cradling it with the other. Was it too melodramatic to vow never to wash it again? “I’m VJ. From nowhere. And I’ll keep being from nowhere if I don’t get to work. I’m saving every dime to get out of here.”
She jumped up, hating to desert him, but it was almost four o’clock.
“You’re leaving me?” Kris cocked his head and a silky strand of his shoulder-length hair fell into his face. She knotted her fingers behind her back so she couldn’t indulge the urge to sweep it from his cheekbone. Touching the artwork was a no-no, even when it wasn’t behind glass.