put in his head. Then again, it would be helpful to know if he was going to come on set. Make sure that Nicole and Paulo weren’t humping in the bushes when he strolled in. I smiled at the image, a bit of wicked glee at the idea of her getting caught.
The dots stopped. Then restarted. I imagined him biting his lip, thinking over the response. When it finally came I sighed in relief.
Probably not. I’ll let my girl work in peace.
A good response. One that a trusting and loving husband would make. My girl. So freaking sweet. I locked my phone and tucked it underneath my legs.
My girl.
It bothered me, a pang of sadness hitting hard at the endearment. I must be lonelier than I realized. Single didn’t sit well with me, not in this big city, not in my empty apartment.
I scrolled through the texts and deleted them all, including the video I had sent to him. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the communication … but still. Something about the whole thing felt tainted. The video. The lies. My girl.
I confirmed the deletion and wondered how this would all implode, and when.
31. Am I a Terrible Kisser?
Shit. One of the lids was coming off. The lid was on one of the two cups of coffee between my elbow and my body, one decaf and one regular because I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember which one Nicole had requested. I also carried two plates, one of fruit and one of sushi, the queen’s breakfast of choice, a banana jostling close to one edge. Eyeing it, I rounded the corner of the props warehouse, hugging the edge in case anyone was coming in the opposite direction.
Someone was. Someone in a white oxford and slacks, his head down, phone out. I tried to dart left, tried to call out a warning, and didn’t manage either before BLAM. Impact with the beautiful Joey Plazen.
I’d never heard such a sexy curse in my life. He spoke Italian in some part of it, a rough accent coming into his voice as he stepped back, coffee going EVERYWHERE, a California roll sticking on his shoulder. I gasped, covering my mouth, which was convenient, because the next sound that spilled out of me was a laugh. A laugh. I had no earthly idea where it came from. Or why it came out. It was a disaster, coming out around my hand, and his head snapped up when he heard it, his eyes locking on mine with murderous intent. I shouldn’t have laughed. It wasn’t funny, and he was probably due on set, but coffee was dripping from his chin, and a piece of mango was sliding down his arm, and I was so horrified by the entire thing that a laugh was the only thing my body knew to produce. So I laughed. And then, to make matters worse, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t stop when he shook out his hands. When he flicked the California roll and the mango off his previously crisp shirt. I didn’t even stop when he stepped closer and pushed me back against the wall, his warm hand covering my mouth.
“Stop laughing,” he gritted.
I couldn’t. My body was shaking I was laughing so hard.
I finally did stop. I stopped when he moved his hand and silenced me with his lips.
My last kiss had been outside a club, in the snow, with an asshole. This kiss was with a different asshole, against a wall, on a movie set. Unlike the other asshole, this asshole … God, he knew how to kiss.
I was laughing when his lips pressed into mine, a hard and insistent *shut the hell up* move that instantly worked, my laughter halting, his body pushing against mine. His coffee-soaked shirt was cold and wet against my Vince sweater, but I didn’t care. The hard press of his lips lifted then immediately came back down, this time softer and sweeter, my mouth opening, our kiss deepening. I gripped at the wall behind me, fought the urge to reach for his head, dig through that hair, and I almost moaned when I felt his hand wrap around my waist and pull me away from the wall and into his body. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and his fingers bit into my waist in the moment before his mouth ripped from mine. He let go and stepped back, leaving me panting against the wall, my glazed vision fighting to