13
“ What? What did you say? ” Jeanine shrieked again, before Maria’s ears had even stopped ringing from the first screech.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Peter cupped Maria’s face tenderly, eyes roving her features to check for damage. “Are you
okay?”
Not entirely, no. She was still pretty damned turned on, and her chin and tongue hurt. But those were minor issues, especially
compared to whatever had caused their hair and makeup artist to screech like a banshee getting waxed for the first time.
Maria might not know how that felt from personal experience, but she’d seen The 40-Year-Old Virgin . She could extrapolate.
“I’m fine, but I don’t know if Jeanine is,” she said, tugging Peter away from the wall.
When they rounded the corner and reentered the dining room to find out what had happened, Jeanine was still standing beside
Darrell, eyes wild, jaw agape.
She was also still shrieking, hands flung wide as she stared at him. “You’re forty-fucking-nine ? How the fuck is that possible ? You don’t even use moisturizer , for fuck’s sake!”
“Well—” he began tentatively.
“Are you sacrificing goats ? Or bathing in the blood of fucking virgins ?”
“Contradiction in terms,” Peter muttered, brow creased as he studied the other couple.
Maria nodded. “And good luck finding a virgin around here.”
Jeanine clutched a fistful of Darrell’s sweater and shook him a little. “And you let me think you were in your twenties all this time ?”
“Are you... are you angry at me?” He was looking anxious now. “I never actually said I was in my twenties, honey, but I’m
so sorry if—”
“Angry?” Jeanine pursed her lips. “ Angry isn’t the word for how I feel.”
Oh, no. Poor, poor Darrell. Frankly, Maria had expected better of Jeanine than such flagrant hypocrisy.
The big, muscular PA seemed to be shrinking moment by moment, hunching in on himself in worry and the beginnings of grief.
“Wh-what is the word for it, then?”
“Flabbergasted. Confused.” Jeanine’s hands flattened on his chest. Stroked a little. “ Impressed .”
Apparently it was Darrell’s turn to imitate a stunned cod.
Then Jeanine dropped to one knee, and everyone in the room gasped.
“Darrell Watkins, you are the only man who’s ever beaten me at my own game.” She took his hands in hers. “I loved you when
I thought you were in your twenties, and I love you even more now that I know you’re a geezer.”
Oh, thank goodness. They didn’t have to watch Darrell get his heart broken after all. In fact, a slow, beaming smile was creeping
across that bafflingly youthful face of his.
“You’re still older than me, Neens,” he noted fondly. “If I’m a geezer, you’ve got one foot in the grave and the other on
a banana peel.”
Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Shut it, gramps. I’m trying to propose.”
More gasps. At the table, Ramón snatched up a napkin to blot his tears as Nava patted his back and directed a satisfied look Maria’s way. Told you , she mouthed. Marshmallow fluff .
I believed you , Maria mouthed back.
Darrell was grinning down at Jeanine now, his eyes wet. “I apologize for the interruption, my beautiful Cryptkeeper. Please
proceed.”
“Will you marry me?” asked Jeanine. “Keep in mind that whatever Paul Rudd shit you have happening right now might not last
forever, and I’m a goddamn catch at any age.”
He didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment.
“Yes. Yes. ” Dropping to his own knees, he hauled her into his arms and planted a very passionate kiss on his brand-new fiancée. When
he came up for air a long, long while later, he added breathlessly, “I love you so damn much, honey.”
More tongue-intensive kissing followed that declaration, accompanied by enthusiastic applause and a few wolf whistles from
the other partygoers. Then came several champagne toasts to the happy couple and a sort of reception line to wish them well,
and everyone ahead of Peter and Maria seemed to be in an extremely chatty mood.
It was all lovely, of course, and Maria wouldn’t have wanted to miss such a special moment. But by the time she was ready
to leave the party again, her phone told her she now had less than five hours to pack and snatch a nap before heading to the
airport.
Fuck.
Or, rather, no fuck.
“Peter...” Outside her suite, she turned to face him, smiling ruefully. “I’m so sorry, but—”
“It’s too late. I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair, mouth pressed tight. “My flight to LA is later in the day, but you’re leaving first thing in the morning, and you need time to prepare.”
“I do.” Reaching up, she tried to smooth the deep line between his brows with a fingertip. “I wish I didn’t.”
The line went nowhere. “It’s okay.”
Despite the frustration roughening his voice, his hold couldn’t have been gentler when he captured her finger and pressed
a kiss on the sensitive pad. Then he gathered her into his arms, surrounding her with warmth and cedar and comfort. One broad
hand rubbed slow circles on her back, while the other sifted tenderly through her hair.
It was stupid. So stupid. In all likelihood, she’d be seeing him soon in LA, unless she decided to stay in Sweden for good
once she went home. And they’d definitely have another chance at a rendezvous at the next press junket or convention, no matter
where she chose to live.
Still, her eyes prickled with foolish tears, and she buried her face in his neck and clutched his back, unable to muster her
usual breezy cheeriness.
When his phone dinged, he ignored it. When it dinged a second time, though, he sighed and dropped his hand from her back to
dig his cell out of his pocket. Only to glance at its screen for what felt like a millisecond before grunting and shoving
the phone back where it came from.
That expression on his face... she couldn’t parse the mixture of emotions there.
Asking would be nosy. She knew it. She also didn’t care.
“Who was that?” She laid her palm on his shoulder and rested her cheek there. “Your agent?”
It took him a long time to answer, but she was willing to wait.
“My father,” he finally said.
Oh. Well, that made sense, although she’d never gotten the impression he and his dad were close. Largely because Peter never
talked about him. At all.
She made her best guess. “He’s checking when your flight leaves tomorrow?”
“No. He doesn’t know my filming schedule.” Another long pause. “Sometimes he sends everyone in his running club photos from
his latest race. I don’t know why I’m in his text group, but I am, so I get the pics too. Apparently he ran a half-marathon
earlier today.”
Only one thing could cure an acute attack of nosiness, in her experience: finding out absolutely everything she could. “Can
I see?”
Without another word, he produced his phone once more, tapped the screen a few times, and handed it to her. Keeping one arm
around his waist, she took a minute to study the two photos he’d received.
In the first, a small group of older men smiled for a posed shot, all wearing pristine jerseys with the same logo. Members
of the running club, she presumed, commemorating the moments before their race. The second photo was an individual shot, taken
as a sweat-soaked, flushed man in his late sixties or early seventies crossed the finish line.
Flipping back to the previous photo, she found that same man. Who was, presumably, Peter’s father, although that seemed rather
improbable at first glance.
Slim and lean-muscled, like most natural endurance athletes, he didn’t appear overly tall. In fact, he was the shortest of
his group. When he stood next to his son, Peter would likely loom over him: taller, broader, more imposing. Softer around
the edges.
Larger than life. Stronger than hell.
Peter took after his mother in coloring too, because Daniel was a watercolor next to his son’s oil painting.
His hair—pin-straight, sandy blond where it wasn’t gray—lay neatly trimmed above his collar and around the ears, instead of falling in wild espresso waves to the shoulders.
His pale blue eyes peered at the camera with a sort of vague amiability, rather than shining sharp with ferocious intent, near-black irises snapping with wariness.
Ample time spent outdoors had burnished both men, turning their skin golden. That was about all they had in common as far
as appearances, at least upon initial examination.
An exploration of their other commonalities and differences would have to wait for another day, when she had plenty of time
to devote to the task. Because Peter’s past didn’t seem to be an easy subject for him.
The same could be said of her, she supposed. Other than her parents and siblings, she could count on one hand the people who
knew the complete history of her early childhood.
Someday, both of them might have to share more of themselves. But not now.
“Are you certain you two aren’t twins?” After handing back the phone, she patted his chest. “Because you look so much alike.”
The growing tension in his body dissolved in an instant, and he laughed as he tucked away his cell a second time. “If I had
a dollar for every time I heard that—”
“You’d have a dollar?” Arms wrapped around him once more, she snuggled close.
“Exactly.” Something soft brushed the crown of her head, and he spoke against her hair. “Maria, I have an audition in two
days. But after that, if you wanted...”
When he trailed off, she waited a few seconds before giving him a verbal nudge. “If I wanted... what?”
His body subtly tensed against hers. “I could visit you and your family in Sweden. If you’d like that. If not, it’s okay.”
Her heart gave a happy little thump.
In her experience, people generally didn’t offer to book transatlantic flights for a night or two of casual sex. And even
if they did, they definitely didn’t volunteer to meet their short-term hookup’s family.
It wasn’t everything she needed. But it was a start.