Meet Cute (Love, Camera, Action #5) - Elise Faber Page 0,3

Tammy into my bed.

But Mags was my friend and my publicist.

And I, for lack of a better and less crass phrase, I didn’t shit where I ate.

“Come on,” I coaxed, sliding my hand up the calf above her bare foot, feeling silken skin under my palm and determinedly ignoring the way my cock twitched. Mags’ friend. Mags’ friend. Mags’—

She teetered, gripping tighter, her weight moving forward and her thighs brushing against my face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, immediately putting distance between us.

“No worries.” I slipped the other shoe on when she lifted her foot, resisting the urge to shift my hand higher, kicking myself for playing Cinderella, as she’d called it.

The hint of her against my nose, knowing there was black lace beneath, adding my hand on her bare skin and having caught a glimpse of those luscious thighs as she’d peeled the stocking down one inch at a time . . . yeah, none of that was great for my self-control, nor for the whole Mags’ friend thing.

Good times.

I set her foot down, forced my hands to drop away from her skin, and stood.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome.” And then I stood there like a dope.

My only consolation was that she was standing there like a dope just like me. For my part, I was transfixed as the twinkling strands of bulbs hanging over the garden flashed across her face, transforming the colors of her eyes like the most intoxicating light show.

She . . . I didn’t know her well enough to say for sure.

But I did feel the heavy weight of her gaze on my body, tracing down and back up, as though her fingers were stroking across my chest, my torso . . . lower.

I don’t know who shifted closer—if it was me who’d taken the first step or her—but suddenly I found my chest against hers, my fingers brushing along the outside of her arm.

My voice was a murmur. “Are you—”

A mistake. Speaking right then. I should have continued with the stroking, kept on with the brushing, the moving closer, then maybe . . .

She straightened, taking a huge step back, kept retreating as she pointed a finger at my chest. “Next time, if a woman starts disrobing, thinking she’s in private, you need to speak up.” Eyes narrowing. “Before she takes off her clothes.”

I bit back a smile. “One might say that a woman who’s disrobing, thinking she’s in private, should, perhaps, confirm that she is in private.”

Thunderclouds sailed through those eyes.

But she didn’t snap back as I’d half-expected.

As—I might as well be honest—I’d half-hoped.

She was gorgeous just standing there as she was, but she was absolutely beautiful while pointing a gun at me like some deadly assassin. I could see the camera angles, picture the shots. If a director could capture that fierceness in her expression and deliver it on screen, it would be a hit.

Especially when it was juxtaposed with this.

The girl next door.

Except, I didn’t want to share her with the world. I didn’t want her face on the big screen or in millions of homes. And suddenly, I thought, to hell with the fact that she was Mags’ friend, screw that she lived several states away.

I wanted her for me.

My feet carried me to her. “Tammy—”

The tink, tink, tink of someone tapping a glass invaded the space, the voices outside the garden quieting, until just one rose above all else.

Maggie’s.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” she said.

Tammy stiffened, slanted one more glance in my direction, before darting from the garden, leaving me with the urge to chase her down, to clock her over the head, and drag her back to my home, caveman style.

I didn’t, obviously.

Because one, I wasn’t a caveman and I’d never been with a woman who’d not wanted me, let alone chased one down who was clearly trying to escape my presence.

And two, because Maggie kept talking.

“But I wanted to extend the biggest thank you to the man who brought Aaron and me together, who was instrumental in our dueling engagement plots—” The crowd laughed here, and I knew I needed to get out there, knew that she would be saying my name. I headed for the exit then stopped.

Because . . . the stockings.

Probably, I should have left them.

But some perverse part of me wanted to touch the silk that had encased those sexy legs.

“My boss, my best friend, and one of the greatest people in all the world . . .”

I snatched them up, darted out of the