“Wow.” Jake stopped in the doorway, surveying the island bench where I was standing. “How many are coming for dinner?”
“Just us.”
“That’s funny. There’s enough food here to feed a football team.” He walked into the room and came to stand opposite me. He wore a black T-shirt that showed off his broad chest and a pair of jeans that hugged him in all the right places. He looked good. Not that it was a surprise. The man would look good wearing nothing. Oh boy, bad train of thought.
I cleared my throat. “I’m from an Italian family. There’s no such thing as too much food. Besides, my pizzas are made to order. What would you like?” I busied myself spreading the tomato paste—secret family recipe, of course—and trying not to think about the fact I hadn’t had time to dry my hair.
After I’d finished my shower, I’d annoyed myself by agonizing over what to wear. My wardrobe was limited on account of me having no life back home and only bringing one suitcase with me. Eventually I’d chastised myself for my indecision and threw on a pair of my nicer jeans. Then I’d selected one of my favorite tops: a loosely fitted white and black striped T-shirt that had a tendency to slip off one shoulder. It was classy but comfortable and I’d worn it to numerous family dinners. The aim of the comfort factor was to remind me that Jake was just another guy and that I was an average girl. As for my hair, I’d run out of time and left it to dry naturally. It would probably end up falling in loose waves around my face, which I secretly hated. I usually preferred to straighten it, but I stubbornly refused to do anything that might be considered going to an effort to impress the movie star. Some lip balm, a quick sweep of blusher and mascara was as far as I allowed myself to go. He was here for my pizza anyway.
“I get to choose my own toppings?” he asked.
I returned my focus to the pizza, doing my best to ignore the wide-eyed pleasure that accompanied his question. It was so weird. I’d seen those blue eyes a million times before on movie posters and in the media, and now they were focused on me.
The pizza, Ally, they’re focused on the food, I reminded myself.
“Of course you get to choose,” I replied. “If we’re going to prove pizza is better than endorphins, I’m not taking any chances. Let me guess? You’re a meatlovers kind of man?”
He grinned and I resisted the urge to grin back. His good nature was catching, but this was serious business. The Valenti pizza’s reputation was at stake.
I pointed at the bowls in front of me. “Choose.”
He selected all the typical ingredients, like salami, ham, pepperoni, mushroom, and peppers, then watched in silence as I constructed the pizza. When I was done, I stood back and surveyed it.
“Why do I feel like this is a work of art?” he asked.
“Because it is. Laugh all you want, but this is a creative process. It’s a fusion of flavors and if you do it right, you can create something extraordinary.” I paused when I realized I was waving my hands around in the air. “Or I’m sounding extraordinarily full of it. You choose.”
“Not full of it. Said like a true Italian.”
“What gave it away? The surname or the hands?” I’d returned my focus to the pizza because I wasn’t finished yet. “My grandparents on my Papa’s side came out here after the Second World War. Same with my Mama.”
“But this isn’t traditional Italian pizza.”
“Are you criticizing my pizza?” I asked, my voice sugar sweet.
He held up his hands. “Not criticizing. Just an observation.”
“My father was American as much as he was Italian,” I told him, then reached for a bowl of freshly chopped chilies. “Do you trust me?”
“You’re the professional.”
“How hot can you take it?” I asked, then lowered my head in secret horror and focused on sprinkling the chili. Way to go with the innuendo, Ally.
His low chuckle sent shock waves of longing through me. Maybe this was a bad idea. And I was so pathetic. The man oozed charisma as naturally as breathing, and I had to get a grip.
“I can handle spice, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I let his reply hang in the air between us, because I knew if I opened my mouth I’d say something stupid. He watched in silence as I finished with the chilies then added the mozzarella.
“Alright, pizza number two is the chef’s special. You get what you’re given,” I informed him.
“Not arguing.”
I started making the second pizza and shot him a curious look. “Not that I’m downplaying the awesomeness of my pizzas, but don’t you have something more important to do on a Friday night?”
He shrugged and shifted to sit on one of the kitchen stools. He put his elbows on the counter and rested his chin in his hands. “Filming starts next week and then it will be awards season. It’s nice to do something normal.”
“Do you miss it?” I asked. “Being normal?”
He laughed, but there was a tightness to it. “Last time I looked I was still a normal person.”
“I know that,” I said. “All I meant was your life isn’t normal. I get it. Lena’s my closest friend. We may not see each other all that often but we tell each other everything.”
He blew out a breath and straightened in his seat. “It is what it is, you know? Comes with the territory.”
“The lack of privacy doesn’t get to you?”
“Sure it does. I just try to remind myself I’m not that person.”
I stopped scattering the chopped basil, my hand hovering in mid-air. “So it’s all an act?” I asked with a hint of incredulity. If his Jacob Swan persona wasn’t real, he had me fooled. He wore his fame easily, same as his sex appeal.
“No, it’s still me, only it’s a version of me. Kind of like a Facebook profile, you know? You only show people what you want them to see. Or in my case, I only show the public what they want to see.”
I nodded. It made sense. It was the same for Lena. Her elegant persona was real, it was part of who she was, but I knew there was so much more to her than that. Her kindness, her quiet sense of humor, her loneliness. Those more intimate aspects of herself she kept carefully guarded.
“Must get tiring though,” I said. “I know Lena’s found it hard in recent months after her split with Duncan.” I didn’t feel bad discussing Lena’s personal life with Jake. The split was hardly a secret.
“Yeah, that side of things definitely sucks. Apparently we don’t get private lives.” That tightness was back in the way he thrummed his hands on the counter and the clipped tone of his voice.
“I can’t stand all that bullshit,” I agreed. “The way celebrity has become this career ideal, like fame is more important than anything else. It’s ridiculous. It’s like the acting is secondary now. It puts pressure on you. Look at Lena. She’s acting in a romantic comedy, for goodness’ sake, because she feels she needs to soften her persona.” I bit my lip the moment I said the last part and cringed. “Sorry. That wasn’t a criticism of you.”
His smile returned. “Not offended. I’d kill to act in some of the films Lena’s done. All I get offered are the same old action and romantic comedy roles.”
“Then why don’t you go for others?”
“Like I said, you’ve got to give the public what they want.”
“Screw the public!” I winced. My expressiveness sounded out of place in LA. “What I meant to say is that it’s your career. The public doesn’t own you.”
“But I’ve got to make a living, Ally. And in a way, they do,” he said, with a hint of resignation. “If I don’t live up to the public’s image of me I’ll stop getting offered roles and I won’t have a job. Better to take advantage of it while I can. It’s a fickle business.”
I stared at him for a moment then went back to spreading out the ingredients. The real Jake was starting to reveal himself, I realized with interest. “So, you balance the risk. For every chance you take on an unconventional role, you do a conventional one. I know it’s not qu
ite the same thing, but our chefs would get bored and quit if we didn’t give them opportunities to experiment. So we let them come up with a few seasonal specials and still serve the customers all the traditional favorites. Or perhaps you shouldn’t take career advice based on Italian food.”
He reached over and plucked some chopped pepper from the bowl and chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, my agent probably wouldn’t agree.”
“You could get a new agent,” I suggested.
“I like you, you know that?”
I froze and forced myself not to squelch the olives I was holding between my fingers. I managed a smile. “What can I say? Food has a way of making people like you.”
I picked up the finished pizza and turned to open the oven.
“It’s more than that,” he said.
I tightened my grip on the tray, sliding it carefully onto the wire shelf.
“It’s that mean shoulder charge you’ve got, too,” he added.
I withheld a sigh. I wasn’t sure if it was from relief or from some other emotion I refused to admit. When I faced him again, he was grinning at me.
“Yeah, I have lots of male cousins. I had to learn to protect myself.”
“No brothers?” he asked.
“No, I’m an only child, but I have a community of cousins to make up for it,” I explained, used to people feeling sorry for me about my only child status.
“Must have been nice.”
“What? My cousins?”
“No. Being an only child.”
I leaned on the counter and looked at him properly. “Why would you say that? Most people assume I’m either spoiled or sad and lonely when I tell them I’m an only child.”
“Are you any of those things?”
“No,” I said. “I was never lonely on account of all my cousins and it meant I was close to both Mama and Papa. I was happy. Still am. I take it you have brothers and sisters?”
“Three older brothers.”
I sucked in a breath. “Your poor mother.”
“They finally gave up when I wasn’t a girl.”
I picked up the other tray. “Surely it would have been great having all those brothers to play with?”
“I think my older brothers liked it. I could have done without it. I always felt like I was born into the wrong team or something.”
I paused, and studied him. “You talk about teams a lot. Is that a football thing?”
He grimaced. “More like a Team Swan thing.”
“Did you all play football?”
“Yeah, but I was the only one to play college football.”
“Your parents must have been proud.”
He shrugged. “Dad was. I think Mom was secretly thrilled when I got into acting, not that she ever made a big deal about it. She taught high school drama.”
I nodded and put the other pizza in the oven, hiding a smile. “She must be a very happy woman now.”
“She would be if she were still alive.”
The oven door slipped from my hands, slamming shut. I turned back to Jake. “I’m really sorry.”
He was studying the bowls laid out on the counter. He picked up a leftover piece of salami. “Ovarian cancer. Five years ago.”
“Same time I lost my Dad,” I said without thinking. Our eyes met and there was something new there—understanding. “He died of lung cancer. Mom was at him for years to quit smoking, but he never listened. It was horrible.”
He held my gaze and blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining pizza night, aren’t I?”
I waved a hand at him. “Not at all. My pizza makes everything better anyway.”
His smile broadened and I squashed the sense of achievement that went with it. It was unreasonable I should want to puff out my chest at my ability to make this man smile.
“Why don’t we have a beer while we wait for these to cook?” I suggested.
“You’re just getting better and better, you know that?”
I ignored him, and turned toward the fridge. I was starting to learn he was generous with his compliments. It was all part of his charm. “Why? Because I cook pizza and drink beer?”
“Yeah. My perfect woman would watch football, too.”
“What makes you say I don’t watch football?” I handed him a beer.
“You said you don’t play sports.”
“I don’t play sports. Doesn’t mean I don’t like watching them, especially if it involves watching the Patriots destroy whatever team you go for.”
He stood up, a slow smile revealing that row of perfect, white teeth. “That would be hard seeing as I go for the Steelers.”
I didn’t hide my surprise. “You’re from Pennsylvania?”
“West Virginia. I thought you knew that.”
“Why would I know that?”
He blinked and his smile turned lopsided, which was somehow way more appealing than any of the megawatt versions I’d seen. “Figured you’d Googled me like everyone else.”
“You figured wrong, Hollywood big shot. Some of us have better things to do.”
“Like watch football?” He said it with such hope, I actually laughed.
“There isn’t a game on tonight,” I said.
“There’s a replay of a game I missed.”
I shook my head at him. “So you’re telling me you’d like to drink beer, eat pizza and watch football?”
“You bet.”
“That’s very average of you, do you know that?”
“That’s me. Mr. Average.”
I laughed. “I’m happy to watch a game if it means I get to sit down. I’m worried I won’t be able to walk soon.”
“Are your legs sore from the running?”
I held up my thumb and index finger, indicating a little bit. Understatement of the century.
“If it hurts now, you’re probably going to hate me tomorrow,” he told me.
I groaned. “Seriously?” Then my lips curled into an evil grin. “You know something? You are so going down. There’s no way endorphins stand a chance against a Valenti pizza.”
He started walking in the direction of the television. “Let’s wait and see.”
Chapter 9
By the time Lena arrived home two hours later with Jay in tow, we were close to being passed out on either end of the sofa.
“What happened to you guys?” Lena asked, not bothering to disguise her keen interest.
I raised my arm—because that didn’t hurt—and pointed at Jake lying down the other end. “He made me jog. Now I can’t move.”
Lena looked as though she wanted to laugh at me, so she shifted her gaze to Jake. “What about you then?” she asked him. “You can run. You shouldn’t hurt.”
He pointed back at me. “The Valenti pizza. Why didn’t you warn me?”
Lena opened her mouth in recognition and this time she did laugh softly. “Ah. The infamous Valenti pizza. Did you eat too much?”
Jake groaned and I swore I felt the low bass note travel right up my spine.
I grinned at Lena. “I won.”
“You won? I don’t understand.”
“Your co-star here was trying to sell me the benefits of exercise. He claimed endorphins are better than my pizza.”
Lena gave Jake a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. I really should have warned you.”
“He still hasn’t said it.”
“Said what?” Lena asked.
“That my pizza is better than endorphins.” If there was a triumphant tone to my voice, it was purely unintended.
Jake groaned again. “That’s because I was too busy eating. I think I need to go for another run.”
Jay, who had been watching our conversation with an unreadable expression, turned and starting walking away. I’d gotten to know him better in the time I’d been under Lena’s roof. He acted all tough but he was really a softie. I’d bet he was actually hiding a smile, instead of disinterested.
“Oh, Jay?” I called.
“Uh huh.�
��
“There’s some leftover pizza in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Bambi.”
Jake managed to lift his head off the cushion to look at me. “Why’d he call you Bambi?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said quickly, not wanting to recall my first meeting with Jay at the airport.
“It’s coz she goes around staring all innocent and wide-eyed with those big brown eyes of hers,” Jay explained, already chewing a mouthful of pizza. “Damn. This is good.”
Jake let his head fall back onto the cushion. “Ha. That’s cute. And yeah, the pizza is awesome. Best I’ve ever had.”
“Say it,” I demanded.
“Fine! Your pizza is better than endorphins. There? Are you happy?”
“Blissfully. Oh, except for the fact I can’t move, which is completely your fault. OK if I sleep here tonight, Lena?”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Lena replied. “Jake? Are you right to get home? I can have Tim drive you if you like?”
Jake hoisted himself up to a sitting position and I tried not to stare too hard at the muscles in his arms as he shifted his weight. He ran a hand through his golden hair, which was equally as distracting. Although he kept his hair quite short, it had gotten messed up on the sofa and I had the urge to mess it up some more. It made him more real somehow.
“I’m good, Lena, thanks. I’d better get going. While I can still move.”
“Why don’t you take some leftovers?” I giggled when he glared at me. “Better than endorphins,” I said in a singsong voice.
“Better than goddamn sex,” he muttered as he stood up.
I heard Jay cough from behind us, then he started laughing, a big, booming sound that echoed around the open-plan space.
I reddened and looked away, my gaze landing on Lena, who smiled and raised an eyebrow at me.
When Jay had calmed down he nodded at me. “I gotta say, Jake's not too far off. I’m eating it cold and it’s the best I’ve tasted. But better than a woman? Guess it depends on the woman.”
Jake stood and stretched his arms behind his head, revealing a line of bare flesh. I tried hard not to look, I really did.
Heartthrob (Hollywood Hearts, #1) Page 6