Chapter 15 #2
“For the record, I do have other friends. But mostly in this business, you have friends for a season. You get incredibly close to people for several intense months while you’re filming, and they become your life, and then you only catch up in passing, if you happen to be in the same town or at the same event. ”
“Their phone numbers fall off your contacts?”
“Exactly. Gotta admit, I’m a sucker for those small-town sitcoms where you see the same people every day, all your life.”
“Not as great as it’s cracked up to be.”
“Most things aren’t. But look, I grew up enormously privileged. I don’t get to complain.”
“You are allowed to acknowledge if you’re not happy.”
“Who said I wasn’t happy?” A note of defensiveness crept in.
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying, it’s not indulgent or unforgivingly privileged to look after your mental health.”
“I make my life work for me. Happy enough.”
She scoffed, recognizing the phrase. “And who needs more than that?”
“Right?”
That was obviously as far as he was prepared to go into the question of loneliness or happiness. And wasn’t that what she did—lived a completely functional life, if not one in which she felt gloriously fulfilled?
They turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard and the late-afternoon sun blasted into her eyes. She lowered the shade. Was Griffin expecting she’d stay the night? Was it even safe to go back to her place? Her car was still outside Vivien’s. And if she was staying with him, would she be on the sofa, or…?
She rubbed her belly. What was their status now?
He’d soundly rejected the possibility of a future between them—and she would have too, if the situation were reversed.
But then, they’d made plans that went beyond this crisis.
Big plans—watching movies and reading books.
Just the thought made her body fizz and warm.
She’d made plans with a guy she seriously liked.
And with every slow, reluctant reveal of himself, she liked him more.
He was thoughtful and smart and funny, and his heart was so big, even if he tried to keep it shut away and safe.
If all he wanted out of this was friendship—if that was all they could have—she could be that person.
The thought of having him in her life in any capacity made her feel five pounds lighter.
And being his friend would be way easier than being his …
anything else. Surely even she could stop herself from sabotaging a friendship.
As they approached his street, she hid in the back, and again there were a few shouts.
There was no sign of his parents at the house, though she could hear a vacuum droning in a distant room.
In the pool house, a pile of neatly folded women’s clothes and underwear sat on the coffee table, with a bag of toiletries.
There was a note: Lana—thought you might like these.
I’ve had the guest room made up for you, in case you need somewhere to stay. Evangeline.
“That is so lovely.” Lana picked up a T-shirt. The tags were still attached. There was a mix of new clothes and vintage items—the less valuable pieces in Evangeline’s closet, perhaps.
“She’s probably scared of what I’ll pick out for you next. Plus, she wants her Chanel back. And the guest room is a major hint.”
Without meaning to, Lana met his gaze. She could swear she saw intent in it. Or was that her own wishful thinking?
“So, this list…” she said.
“Want to spread it out on the kitchen counter? I’ll cook us something while we look at it. It’s a little early for dinner, but I am hungry.”
“Me too.” Maybe the hunger she thought she felt for him was actual hunger. She watched as he wandered out to the pool, pulling an arm across his body in a stretch, and then the other. No, it wasn’t. “Mind if I have a shower? It’d be an insult to these clothes to put my dirty body into them.”
She hadn’t meant the double entendre, but he grinned, and she felt herself heating from the inside out. Did she seriously think she could be satisfied with just being friends?
“Mi cabana, su cabana.”
By the time she emerged in a T-shirt and jeans, her hair wet, Griffin was sliding a dish into the oven.
Oh, how domestic. Evangeline had underestimated her bra size, so her chest was even tighter than it might be from the sight of his denim-clad ass alone.
The sunlight was softening over the city, a dusky glow settling in behind the hills.
Griffin had selectively opened a few glass sliders to channel the breeze.
He showered too, and emerged in a khaki T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans.
He was barefoot, and there was something so damn sexy in that.
Holy crap—she was getting turned on by his feet now?
She pulled her bar stool closer to the counter and forced her gaze back on the list spread out in front of her. “None of these names means anything to me.”
“Yeah, I had a good look too. I know a few, but…” He strolled into the kitchen on his sexy feet and pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge. “Wait, do you even want wine, under the circumstances? Reflex action.”
Reflex action because that’s how things usually unfolded when he brought a woman home?
“I would love a glass of wine. It’s not like we’re about to dash out and solve the mystery of my missing sister.” He poured her a glass, and she sipped. It was mellow and syrupy. “Even I can tell this is lovely, and I deliberately keep my wine tastes budget.”
“I no longer have many vices, not since I experimented with pretty much all of them at once. But I do like a good wine. Just a glass or two, at home. Usually alone, because I’m just that cool.”
“You don’t drink when you’re out? Not a wine with dinner at a restaurant?”
He shook his head. “It’s too easy for a photographer to find an unfortunate angle that makes it look like I’m off my face, and next minute, there’s another photo of the nepo baby with the drinking problem. Even now, production companies try to add clauses to my contracts banning me from drinking.”
“I don’t know a lot about your public persona, but I’m getting a clear picture that it’s very different from this you.” She gestured. “Even the way you’re standing.”
He looked down. “How am I standing?”
“You’re so at ease, and … fluid, if that’s not a weird word to use. When you’re in public, you’re all straight spine and neutral expression. But then in your movies, you’re completely different again.”
“I’m a professional chameleon. Different things to different people. Gotta say though, I like the version of me that I am to you.”
“So do I.” Somehow, her words came out sultry. An inadvertent escalation.
Griffin studied her curiously, then sauntered around to her side of the counter and leaned back against it, his body inches from hers. “Lana, I don’t know if you realize how seductive it feels to be with someone who sees into me the way you do.”
She swallowed, transfixed by his bright eyes. “Seductive?” she echoed. It seemed like an escalation on his part, but a deliberate one.
His mouth drifted into a smile. “You like that word?”
“It’s a beautiful word.”
“Where would you shelve it in the library, if it were a book?”
She gulped in a breath and audibly released it.
“Uh, let’s see.” She shut her eyes, because no way could she concentrate on the Dewey decimal system under that gaze.
He thought she saw into him? He was practically giving her an MRI.
“The six-hundreds for technology.” She heard and sensed him moving closer, and her body went on delicious alert.
“The tens for medicine and health.” He skimmed past her back.
“Uh, three, for personal health and safety.” He lifted her hair from her nape.
“Then, point six.” A soft touch on the side of her neck, like he was picking up where he left off earlier—except this time with his lips.
“Point six,” she repeated shakily. “Birth control, reproductive technology, sexual hygiene, sexual techniques.” His hands slipped around her waist, and she leaned back into his warm, solid body, elongating her neck.
“Is that it?” His voice murmured over her skin, her veins sucking up the vibration and spreading it around her body.
She shook her head, letting out a desperate pant. “There’s a … a … nine. Point six nine. Sexual techniques.”
He spun the bar stool so she faced him and she opened her eyes. His gaze was darker now, his cheekbones cut, his smooth lips a deep pink. This was the Griffin Hart who’d dominated her fantasies in the past week—the Griffin Hart she’d studied on screen and freeze-framed.
No, that wasn’t true. This was a more intimate Griffin Hart. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that was missing from the films, even the most emotional scenes. He was letting her into a secret that was hers alone.
He cupped her cheek and leaned in, touching his forehead to hers. “You said sexual techniques twice.”
“It’s a sub-category.”
“Did you say ‘technology’?” He touched his lips to hers, soft and testing. “Sex is under technology?”
“I don’t make the rules.”
Taking advantage of her open mouth, he swept her into a kiss that made her gasp, lifting her from the bar stool. She slid her hands up the sides of his torso, driving up his T-shirt. His skin was so smooth and so ripped and so hot.
“Are there ever arguments about where a book belongs?” He pulled back just long enough to whip his T-shirt over his head, one-handed.
She stared at his chest. It was one thing to admire it in theory, quite another to be presented with it knowing she had permission to touch. She didn’t know where to start, but she settled on the rift in the middle, kissing it, then darting her tongue out for a taste.
“Oh boy, yes,” she said. “And woe betide if you shelve one in the wrong place. That book might as well be lost forever.” Again, he kissed her, this time walking her back to the bed.
The back of her legs touched it, and his arms tightened around her, lowering her onto the mattress.
He lifted the hem of her T-shirt and kissed her stomach, turning the liquid in her body molten.
“I have broken up fights between librarians about it.”
“Librarian fights? Plural?”
He nudged her T-shirt up and she sat so he could lift it over her head. The too-tight bra served up her breasts like they were dinner, and he took them in with a gratifyingly heavy-lidded gaze. Thank you, Evangeline.
“Okay, so only two fights, but still a plural.”
“Wild.”
“You have no idea.”
“I might be starting to get an idea.”
She expected he would come for her bra next—and she was very keen to take it off—but instead he pulled back. He wasn’t changing his mind, was he?
“Lana, I need to know that you’re as into this as I am.”
“What can possibly make you think I’m not into this?”
“Just checking that I have permission to touch.”
“No freaking kidding you have permission to touch. Thoroughly. Inside and out. Unequivocally.”
“Unequivocally? That’s quite a word.”
“I’m pretty impressed myself considering there’s no blood going to my brain right now.” His gaze grazed down her body, settling on the spot between her thighs where her blood indeed was rushing. She desperately needed to be naked.
As she reached around to undo her bra, he looked toward the pool. She flinched, covering herself. No one was there.
“You know what?” he said, getting up. “I’m going to shut the doors and lower the blinds.”
“That is an excellent idea.”
While he was at the tablet making the required adjustments, the oven pinged.
“Cannelloni’s ready,” he said, bounding to the oven and switching it off. “But it can wait.”
“Cannelloni?” Lana propped herself up on her elbows. “All this and cannelloni?”
He leaned over her, smiling—and there was not a hint of reserve in it.
“Oh, I am so goddamn into you, Lana.”
“Me too. I mean, you—I’m into you, not me. I’m into me and you. This, now.”
Fortunately, he shut her up with a kiss.