“I’m allergic to science classes. I have a doctor’s note excusing me from taking them.”
“And what exactly does this note say?”
“That they induce severe narcolepsy, followed by incurable boredom, and finally metastasizing into absolute numbing of the brain tissue. So, as you can see, it would not be beneficial for me to take them. And I suppose that, combined with the school’s twenty thousand–plus attendees, explains why I’ve never seen you around campus before.”
“Maybe you have seen me,” she said, posing it like a challenge. “Maybe you just don’t remember.”
I shook my head and leaned closer. “No. I’ve never seen you. Because I’d remember you,” I said, and maybe I was laying it on thick, but again, I was speaking the cold hard truth. I had an excellent memory for many things, but especially for pretty girls with sexy lips and trim little waists. Mix in the attitude, chase it with a California accent, and you were pretty much permanently imprinted on ye olde little brain of William.
* * *
Jess
* * *
He might be studying East Asian languages, but he clearly double majored in the art of flirting. “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “You’re a junior? Are you twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Senior, actually. And yes, twenty-one. So no need to worry. I’m totally legal. For anything you want,” he added, in a far-too-inviting tone that made me want to say yes to anything. My stomach flipped, like a disobedient little witch.
I shifted away from his talk of anything. Because, despite all his charms and quick wittery, something was nagging at me. The sheer coincidence of us. I crinkled my brow as I posed the question, “What are the chances that there’d be two seniors at the University of Los Angeles working for J.P. and his coterie of celebrity magazines and sites?”
“College isn’t free,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on me the whole time. His dark, stormy-eyed gaze such a contrast to that sunshiny personality.
“Hmm. That’s usually my line,” I said. Though these days it would be medical school isn’t free and the bill is due in two months for your first semester.
“Looks like we have something in common, Jess,” he said, leaning back in his chair as he took the final bite of his cone. He had the casual, laid-back attitude down pat. He looked damn fine, too, playing that role. That’s what worried me—was this whole banter-like-the-best-of-them part of a plan to bamboozle me? Was it all a role? “We’re both working stiffs,” he added.
“Seems we are,” I admitted, and I partially wondered if he was paying his way through college, too, in the pursuit of the next thing like I was, as I aimed for money to pay down the monster of med school. But if I started asking, as curious as I was, I’d wind up in a longer conversation, and that would be grade A top-choice trouble. Because I already liked talking to him.
Just as I liked the ice cream cone.
My brain warned me: danger ahead.
I took one more lick of the cone, a bite of the chocolate shell, then tossed the cone in the nearest trash can.
His eyes widened. “You chucked your ice cream? How can you chuck an ice cream cone?”
“That was all I wanted.” Because it was true. Because I’d worked hard to be able to stop at a few bites. I could do the same with His British Hotness. I was damn proud of myself for having mastered restraint in matters of food and hot guys. I stood up. “Thank you for the ice cream.”
He rose, too. He was taller than me by a good six inches. Which gave me a perfect view of his full lips as we stood face-to-face. Which made me want to touch them. To run a finger over them. Assess how they felt. Lean in for a kiss. A guy like that, funny, hot, totally at ease—he had to be a great kisser.
Scratch that. I bet he was an excellent kisser.
He tilted his head to the side, pressed those nice lips together, then took a beat as if he were a touch nervous. “Do you want to go out for another bite of an ice cream cone sometime?”
Oh no. Was he asking me out? No way. He was just being friendly. He was scoping out the competition. Nothing more. “So I can have another bite and then toss it?” I asked, because it was so much safer to avoid the possibility.
“How about a chocolate cake? You wouldn’t throw that out, would you?”
“I might toss it.”
“What about pizza instead?” he suggested, undeterred by my lack of an immediate yes.
I shook my head.
“Fries?”
Another shake.
“Sandwich? Burger? Hot dog?”
Shake. Shake. Shake. Restraint. Restraint. Restraint.
“Don’t tell me a salad,” he said, and flung his hand dramatically across his forehead. “Now I know I’m in L.A.”
I raised my cheap sunglasses on top of my blond hair. I was going to have to kick the door closed. Whatever he was doing—asking me out or egging me on—it needed to end. Because if I went along with him then I’d have the whole ice cream. Him. Lick him up and down and all around like the tastiest ice cream there ever was. Kiss him all over. Grab him and pull him against me, and feel how we aligned. He had to go the way of the cone. “Harrigan, this isn’t the part in the script where the heroine caves and agrees to go out with the guy.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so I’m the guy in the script? Does that mean I’m the hero?”
“Well, you’re either the hero, the villain, or the gay best friend,” I said, my lips curving up in a traitorous grin. Damn him for being so easy to talk to, and about my favorite topic.
“Definitely not the gay best friend,” he said quickly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“I already have a best friend, and she’s a she, so that part isn’t being cast for this picture.”
“But there are other roles still open? Like, could I be an antihero?” he suggested playfully.
This man was trouble. Too much trouble for my secret little predilection—casting the movies that played out in my head. Naturally, I had to keep going. “Possibly.”
“Or what about an accomplice?”
“That’s another role for sure. So is nemesis.”
“I could be a good nemesis. Or maybe even reformed bad boy?”
I suppressed a smile. He looked like a reformed bad boy. He talked like a good guy. He could be a bad-boy-makes-good. Everyone loved that role. “It’s really up to the writers. Which role you’ll play,” I said.
“What do the writers think?”
I didn’t answer right away. I narrowed my eyes, and sized him up and down. Which fit the conversation, and also afforded me the extra bonus of checking him out close up and cataloging his features. Captivating eyes like thunderclouds. Chiseled cheekbones with a hint of stubble. Fantastic dark hair. Gorgeous smile. Toned, tall, and strong body. Verdict? Too good to be true. He had to be a mirage. A figment of my imagination. “The writers haven’t decided yet.”
“Is that a yes to pizza? Because pizza is like sunshine. You can’t not like it.”
“Pizza as in a pizza date?” I asked, as I furrowed my brow, deliberately wanting to keep him on his toes.
He smiled again. He was imperturbable. “Yes. Like a pizza date.”
I stroked my chin, as if considering his request.
I did want a date. Very much so. I knew where it would lead, though. To trouble. To distractions. To a supreme lack of focus on my goals.
But a kiss? A kiss was just a kiss. I could say yes to a kiss. He hadn’t asked for one, but I had a hunch I could take one. Besides, what were the chances I’d see him again? I wasn’t going to run into him at school. If I hadn’t so far, then it wasn’t going to happen now. I’d already proven I was faster on a stakeout than he was, so I’d smoke him as the competition.
He was the ice cream. I was the eater. I didn’t need the whole cone. I could take a lick. One tasty, decadent lick, and then walk away.
Piece of cake.
I leaned in, brushed my lips against his, and took him by surprise. He wa
s startled momentarily, and didn’t respond for about a fraction of a second. Then, he kissed back. It was a tentative kiss at first, his lips soft as he slanted his mouth against mine. A starter kiss on the boardwalk while the sun fell in the sky, its lingering rays warming me. He gently placed a hand on my cheek, exploring my mouth more, running the tip of his tongue across my lips, then deepening the kiss in a way that made me very nearly forget where I was. I shuddered, and tingles raced from my stomach to the tips of my fingers, lighting up my insides. The kiss radiated throughout me, dizzying and delicious and a promise of so much more. It was the kind of kiss that took over your brain. That made you believe in possibilities, in perfect chemistry.
This kiss was the sun warming me, it was cool ocean waves lapping at the shore, it was the song you wanted to blast in the car.
As his tongue slid over mine, my heart beat faster, and I gave in to the moment, relinquishing all my fine-tuned control. My mind was hazy, and I kissed him harder, craving more. Because he tasted so freaking good. No, he tasted fantastic. Like chocolate and a hot, sexy guy all at once. A hot guy who knew how to kiss a girl. Who kissed both tender and insistent, his touch hinting at all the ways he could do other things to me, and wanted to. He looped his hand around my neck, threading his fingers into my hair, tugging me closer. He’d taken the reins on the kiss, exploring my lips, brushing his fingertips along my cheek, dropping his other hand to my waist, our bodies sliding snugly into place. There was something that felt far too right about the way we aligned, his strong, firm chest against mine, his hips near enough to me that I could tell precisely how much he liked kissing me.
A lot.
And as much as I liked kissing him. I ran my hands in his hair, so damn soft and thick, the kind I just wanted to hold onto. All night long.
Come to think of all—all day, too. Yeah, I could skip a class or two for more of this.
That was the problem. The last time I’d had a kiss that made me melt, I nearly failed organic chemistry. And that had sent me spinning.
After a few minutes of fantastic kissing on the beach, I had to put a stop to it.
I broke the kiss.
“That would be a maybe to a date,” I said, then I smoothed my hands over my shirt and walked away.
5
William
* * *
The black and white ball sailed over the net. I watched and waited for it to hit pay dirt or be slammed back into my face. When it pummeled the sand on the other side, I pumped a fist and my friend John clapped me on the back.
“World’s meanest serve,” he said.
“You know it,” I said as we returned to the back of the line and waited for the other guys to have their shot. It was two against two, and we were playing some of the guys I’d run into with Jess in the late afternoon. The sun rested on the edge of the ocean now; it would drop down below the horizon any minute, and leave behind peach-pink brushstrokes of color against the blue sky.
“I got a number today,” I added.
“For what? Pizza delivery? I got that number, too. It’s called Red Boy’s and they make the best pie in Venice Beach.”
“They do make extraordinary pizza. Thank God you’ll be able to get it whenever you want,” I replied, then locked fingers, lunged forward, and returned the incoming serve. Seconds later, it screamed back over the net and John made a run for it, then spiked it cleanly into the opposing team’s side. The guy who’d retrieved the ball from me earlier signaled a time-out to talk to his teammate.
“So did you get the number from a bathroom wall, William?”
“Yes. It was your number. It said for a good time, don’t call John.”
“Ooh,” he said, clutching his chest as if I’d wounded him. “What’s the story for real?”
“Met this girl on a job today. Got her number from the employer.”
He held his hands out wide. “You couldn’t even score her digits yourself?”
“She pretty much jumped me on the boardwalk.”
“Oh, this gets better and better,” he said, chuckling deeply. “What you’re telling me is she made out with you, and left you without her number, and you somehow think she wants to hear from you?”
The other guys called out that they were ready. We resumed play, and after a few more fast serves and returns, the ball roared straight at me. I dove for it, returning it quickly over the net as I got acquainted with the sand. I rolled on my back, looked John straight in the eyes, and said, “As you American schmoes say, ab-so-fucking-lutely.”
“Cocky English bastard. Here for two years and you think you’re God’s gift to women.”
Hardly. But there was just something about Jess that made my pulse race. Okay, fine. My heart was sprinting anyway from the game. Still, she had a certain way about her that made me want more of her. Maybe it was her boldness, because let’s face it—most girls don’t just kiss you on the boardwalk and then walk away. The ones that do? Smart guys need to follow them.
I was a smart guy.
* * *
Jess
* * *
The roasted potatoes with rosemary seasoning were delicious and I told my mother so when I visited my parents that night. I lived in an apartment by the university, but I liked my parents, and I tried to have dinner with them once a week. The mission was made simple by them living a couple blocks away from the hospital where I volunteered a few hours a week, so I stopped by after a quick visit to the children’s ward with their dog, Jennifer.
Plus, I needed wedding intel and my mom was often a good source of celebrity whereabouts because of her job.
“This chicken is pretty much the best I’ve ever had,” I said, then speared a piece of broccoli sautéed with lemon. Jennifer, a bullmastiff–Great Dane mix, lay on the floor several feet away, a hopeful look on her big jowly face as she scanned for anything that might fall. She knew better than to lunge, though. I’d trained Jennifer myself after we adopted her from a local shelter four years ago when I was a senior in high school. She was phenomenally obedient because I’d relied on the best, using tips from Wednesday Logan, host of the popular dog training show I’m a Dog Person on the cable channel Animal World. Jennifer was also certified as a therapy dog, which meant she was well behaved enough to visit patients in hospitals, rest her snout on their beds, and endure lots of petting and loving. We’d just finished visiting some of the kids in the long-term care wing, and the dog had done her job brightening their day.
“Oh, stop,” my mother said and pretended to be embarrassed. But she was an excellent cook, and she knew it. Plus, it couldn’t hurt buttering her up.
“No, seriously, Diane,” my father chimed in. “I read an article today in Chicken Connoisseur that said Diane Leighton has officially been declared the best chicken cooker ever.”
“What else can I ever want for in life than to be a great chicken cooker? Besides a grandmother and thank the heavens that’ll be happening soon,” my mom said, beaming.
She hadn’t stopped beaming since my brother Bryan had emailed us all an ultrasound picture two weeks ago. His wife Kat was ten weeks pregnant, and expecting twins.
“It’s going to be like this for the rest of Kat’s pregnancy, right?” I said playfully to my father.
He nodded several times. “Every single day. She’s working through combos of twin names.”
“Chloe and Cara,” my mom offered. “Those are today’s picks. If she has two girls.”
“Obviously,” I added.
“Jess,” my father said. “How’s the star shooting business? Get any great pics lately?”
“Every day,” I said because it was true, and because I didn’t want my parents to worry about my job or my ability to pay my own bills. My parents were what you’d call mortgaged to the hilt. It wasn’t their fault, but it was their and our reality after my dad’s firm—through no fault of his own—had become a poster child for the kind of financial problems that typified the last recession, as in cooking the books.
I didn’t want to stay on this subject for too long, so I moved to another one. “Mom, did you fill in on The Sandy Show this week?”
“Yes, the regular gal wanted to extend her maternity leave one more week,” my mother said. A freelance makeup artist, she specialized in last-minute avails and fill-ins for TV shows. It was a strange niche, but yet her ability to jump in at a moment’s notice put her at the top of most Rolodexes, including that of the producers at The Sandy Show, one of the top daytime talk shows. The host was friendly with Veronica Belle and Bradley Bowman, and had once joked on air that she could officiate at their wedding since she’d been ordained to perform ceremonies.
But where there was a joke, there was often a kernel of seriousness. Maybe she was going to the wedding. Maybe she was going to be at the altar declaring I now pronounce you man and wife. Or maybe someone on her staff knew something about the wedding. I had nothing, and I had to get something, if I was going to try to stake out a money shot.
“I wonder if Sandy is going to the wedding,” I said in my best off-hand voice.
“Oh, I’m sure she is,” my mother said, and none of us needed to say the names of the soon-to-be-betrothed. We all knew there was only one wedding anyone in this town was talking about right now.
“Maybe they’ll hire you to do the makeup, mom,” I mused as I sliced a final piece of chicken. I estimated with the chicken and potatoes, not to mention the ice cream, that I’d hit my calorie limit for the day, so I ate the last bite, then carefully laid my fork and knife in a crisscross on my plate.
My Charming Rival Page 4