He’s rubbing his thumb across the top of my hand as he speaks. I don’t think he realizes that it’s making me feel kind of breathless.
He leans toward me. “So, just how old are you?”
I regain my composure and whisper back with a completely straight face. “Twenty-one, of course. Almost twenty-two.” I’m pretty good at this lie, because I tell it often. So often, I almost believe it myself.
He leans back on his elbow and studies my face.
I notice he has a dark eyelash loosely dangling dangerously close to his eye. I automatically reach out to brush it away.
“Close your eye.” I gently grab the eyelash when he complies. “Okay, you can open now. You had a loose eyelash. See? Now you have to make a wish on it.”
He leans into my hand, closes his eyes, and blows warm air across my fingers. “I wish you were twenty-one.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because then this would be okay." He leans forward and places a little kiss on my cheek. “That’s for being so sweet to me yesterday.”
“What does my age have to do with a kiss on the cheek?”
“Let’s table that discussion for now. So is there anyone special you’d like to work with? Someone to play your boyfriend in the movie?”
“A boyfriend? Do I really need a boyfriend? I’m sort of sick of boys. You’re a man. Do you treat women well? Different than you did when you were a boy?”
He doesn’t answer. Just raises an eyebrow at me and takes a sip of wine.
I look at the appetizers that were brought to our spot a few minutes ago, at the wine chilling in a bucket, and at the platform bed he chose for us to lounge on rather than a booth or the ottomans. I laugh. “Of course you do.” I wave my hand across the spread. “Look at all this. Boys don’t really do dates like this.”
“Are we on a date?” he asks with little smirk.
“Oh no,” I say, embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant. I know this is all business.”
“It’s not all business,” he replies.
My cheeks flame thinking about being on a real date with Vincent. “Okay, then it’s a thanks-for-being nice-to-you thing. Dinner, whatever.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I’m not sure what I think, honestly. I just said that because you’re obviously too old for me.”
“And you're probably not old enough for me.” As he reaches over to grab the bottle of wine, his hand brushes across my knee. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. “Now, tell me how old you really are, Miss High School Drama,” he says as he refills my glass again.
“You’re serving me alcohol,” I whisper. “Do you really want to know the answer to that? Plus, I can't tell you here; they think I'm old enough.”
“Then tell me quietly.”
I look around and notice the waiter is giving me a stare down. I decide it’s best not to say it out loud, so I put my index finger on top of the scrolling Abby tattoo on his forearm and draw my finger down it in a straight line.
“The first number is a one?” he asks.
I nod. Then I trace an eight and tell myself it’s the truth.
“Well, that's a relief,” he sighs. “People are already looking at me like I'm robbing the cradle. At least you're legal.”
Vincent squints his eyes at me, and I think he’s just figured out I’m lying. Damn, I tried to use my most trustworthy look.
He taps his finger a few beats on one of the pillows. “You’re lying to me. Tell me the truth this time,” he says in a stern voice.
I trace another one down his forearm. Then I trace a six.
“Seriously?” he says, holding my gaze. “You do not look,” and then he takes his finger and slowly traces a sixteen on my forearm.
I close my eyes and let out an involuntary, “Mmhmm,” when his finger glides across my skin.
I should not have done that, because Vincent looks concerned by the fact that he practically made me orgasm just by tracing a number on my arm.
“When will you be?” He traces a one slowly on my wrist.
I swallow hard and try not to act like a horny, sixteen-year-old boy. But I can’t help wondering what that finger could do to the rest of me. What a man could do to the rest of me.
Okay, Keatyn. Stop.
Stop this.
You're being ridiculous. He wants you for a movie, nothing else. Stop with the silly school-girl crushing and be professional. That's Mom’s number one rule. Don't get involved with anyone in your movie.
When he traces the figure eight, I don’t sigh. I pretend like it didn’t affect me.
“Next August,” I say flatly.
He leans back on his elbows across the platform, and I can tell he’s doing some mental calculations.
“So, technically, I have fifteen months until you're legal.”
“I won't tell if you don’t,” I flirt.
“Unfortunately, you will when you fill out the paperwork,” he pauses. “Assuming you'll want to be paid for the role?”
“Uh, well sure.”