The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,12
the resultant night of scorching sex, a hangover was a small price to pay.
The sexy brunette had been insatiable, and he’d been all too eager to please. How many times had they done it? Four? Five? It had been a long time since he’d met a woman so into it, and the memory of her beguiling mix of shyness and sex kitten made him grin.
He’d wanted to stick around this morning, to see her coy smile when she woke and discovered him up for it. But no matter how great their night, he knew how the morning after panned out. Awkward and stilted at the best of times, he hated struggling for words while trying to extricate himself. Much easier leaving her a brief note.
The temptation to jot down his number had come from left field. They’d both been drunk and seeking a night away from the norm. He, to obliterate the terror of the upcoming audition for his own TV show; she, he had no idea. Feeling homesick and seeking comfort wherever she could? Just out for a good time?
Whatever her motivations, he hadn’t scribbled his number on that note for the simple fact they were worlds apart. What would a physical therapist here for only a few months want with a stuntman? Beyond the obvious, that is. Besides, one-night stands rarely turned into anything more, and in this case, it wouldn’t. He had too much going on right now, and a relationship would be a giant complication he didn’t need, so he’d slunk out of her apartment and headed home.
Home. What a crock. He could never call this one-bedroom studio apartment on the ground floor of a grungy block of flats in Middle Park home. With its peeling mauve paint, cracked mock-wood linoleum, and damp patches on the ceiling corners, it could never be anything more than a stopgap. But he couldn’t afford to move. Not with every cent he earned being directed toward a cause close to his heart.
With his mouth as dry as the Simpson Desert, he padded into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He’d drained half of it when the blinking light on his answering machine snagged his attention. Nobody rang his home number. Everybody called his cell, which he’d switched to “do not disturb” mode while at Samira’s last night.
Hoping Chris hadn’t been trying to reach him, he stabbed at the button on the machine and braced against the small island bench.
“Rory, it’s me. I hate to bother you at home, but we’ve hit a snag with some of the recent donors. Is there any chance we could meet to discuss possible solutions?” Amelia’s nervous laughter made him clutch the glass tighter, as the implications of what she was saying sank in. “I hate asking for help when you’ve been more than generous with your time, but maybe if both of us contributed money, it could work? We really need the funds if I’m to help those kids. So please call me.”
She hung up, and as the dial tone hummed, he slumped into the nearest chair, downed the rest of his water, and placed the glass on an overturned crate he used for a coffee table before he was tempted to fling it at the wall in frustration.
If he could, he’d fund Amelia’s entire program. She’d been the only speech therapist to truly get him, and he credited her with the fact he could string more than a few words together these days without stuttering. She’d changed his life, and he owed her.
It had been a no-brainer helping her establish a small start-up program with housing commission kids. He’d been one of the lucky ones, having a rich father to pay for endless therapy sessions. But other kids, mostly migrants and refugees, weren’t as fortunate, and not being able to speak fluently would affect their entire lives.
But it sounded like the program wouldn’t get off the ground if she didn’t have more money, and she’d asked him to contribute, which he’d be more than happy to do . . . if he had any to give.
No way in hell he’d approach his father for the cash, so that meant he’d have to nail this upcoming audition no matter how much he balked at the thought of it.
“Fuck,” he muttered, as his cell buzzed in his back pocket.
Sliding it out of his jeans, he glanced at the text from Chris, sending him details on the dialect coach. An appointment scheduled for tomorrow