She grinned, cocked her weight to one hip, folded her arms across her middle, and eyed him curiously. “You must have met Brad. Everyone wants to run to Oregon when they meet him.”
“I got a pretty good look at him, yeah.”
“Sort of goofy, isn’t he?” Leah asked with a wrinkled nose. “But then again, I guess most actors are.”
“I guessed doper,” Michael said.
She laughed again. “He’s a Sunday doper—it’s his weekend ritual. And the woman he is seeing these days—Alice—she loves to cook. It’s a perfect arrangement for the two of them.”
“Aha. That would explain the four dozen pancakes,” Michael said dryly. “So is it a perfect arrangement for you?” he asked, wondering how long she had lived with Brad, how long she could keep on living with him, and how she deserved to be living in Bel Air or Brentwood instead of a Venice Beach rattrap.
But Leah shrugged nonchalantly at his question. “Brad and I wound up in L.A. at the same time, in the same acting class, and we’ve been friends ever since. But I keep different hours. I like the daytime.”
Michael smiled, privately appreciating how pretty she was, how genuine her smile. His casual perusal seemed to make her self-conscious; she suddenly lifted a hand and smoothed her hair. “So hey, listen . . . thanks for the perfume,” she said. “I don’t know why you are going to all that trouble, and I really should give it back—”
“No, I—”
“But I’m not going to,” she quickly interjected. “Because it is my favorite perfume, and I ran out two years ago and couldn’t afford another bottle. I figure if you are fool enough to buy it, then I am just fool enough to keep it.”
Sweeter words were never spoken. “Good, because I want you to have it,” he said. “Even if you don’t want to talk to me, or if you find another way to make me the laughingstock in front of the cast, or if you tell me you never want to see me again, I want you to have it.”
“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head graciously. “That’s really very sweet. And I’m not going to make you a laughingstock. That was fun for the week, but I’m over it.”
“Great news,” he said, standing up from the hood of his car and dropping his hands. “I think we’re making progress here. What about seeing me again? Have you decided that?”
She half-laughed, half-groaned, and clasped her hands behind her neck for a moment before peeking up at him. “I’m not going to see you again.”
“Damn,” he said. “Isn’t there anything I can do to convince you that it would be the best decision of your life?”
She dropped her hands, smiled up at him. “You could try feeding me.”
His heart nudged him, and he felt the first real glimmer of hope since he saw her on the gym floor, eyes closed, brought down by a dodgeball.
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but okay, what would Soccer Mom Number Five like to eat?”
With a grin, she put her hands to her hips and rose up on her toes. “Hamburgers,” she said, and her blue eyes lit up with pleasure before sliding down to her heels again. “Please don’t tell me you’ve gone all California and will only eat sushi, because I want a hamburger. A big, juicy hamburger. With cheese. And fries. And maybe even a milkshake. And I know the best place in town to get it.”
Michael laughed and gestured toward his car. “Hamburger it is, then. Your carriage awaits.”
With a pleased-as-punch smile, Leah got in.
Chapter Fourteen
MICHAEL followed Leah’s directions to a hole-in-the-wall burger joint near Venice Beach. They ordered cheeseburgers with fries and a couple of beers instead of milkshakes and sat out on the wooden deck overlooking a parking lot.
Michael was a wealthy man. Personally, he was not accustomed to this sort of joint, but it was clear to him that Leah was. And as he listened to her talk about how she and Brad had found that wretched little house, he couldn’t help but wonder what path their lives might have taken—together—had he not done what he did five years ago. It made him feel a little ill, and he left half of his burger uneaten.
“So what sort of acting have you done since you came to L.A.?” he asked when Leah had exhausted the subject of Brad, thank God.
She snorted, shoved a fry into her mouth. “Nothing great. A couple of national commercials. A ton of regional ones,” she said with a weird little flip of her hand. “A few theater gigs, and now, War of the Soccer Moms.”
So . . . nothing but bit parts and commercials, and no big breaks. He felt even worse.
“Which reminds me,” she said, lifting her gaze and pointing a fry at him. “What’s the truth about this film? I mean, how is it we ended up working together? Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, because it’s too freaky. Be real, Raney—how did we end up here?”