I blink, thinking of the wilderness I drove through to get here. “There’s a town?”
“Just down the beach,” Will says, motioning past me. “The road isn’t the best, but we could walk it in twenty minutes.” He pauses. “Or the two of us could have a drink here. We never did get around to very much of that catching up. We can celebrate your victory, you can tell me all the details . . .”
I do want to celebrate. A twenty-minute walk through the dark jungle before I get to doesn’t sound super appealing. And whatever else Will has done, he was always a good person to celebrate with. He had a competitive streak a mile wide, for sure, but he never got insecure or weirded out by anything I accomplished. Unlike a lot of guys whose dicks seem to shrivel the second they find out you’ve ever cashed a paycheck bigger than theirs, Will’s dick always seemed . . .
Wait, where was I?
I try to drag my thoughts out of the gutter—or above the belt—and rethink having that drink with him. Maybe it’s safer not talking to him at all. Safer not thinking about his good . . . points.
Before I can fumble out an excuse, Will adds, “The former would be more of an adventure, I’ll give you that. But the hotel bar stocks better alcohol. We might even have that whiskey you liked so much.”
I waver, looking back at him. Looking at his expression, which right now shows nothing but good humor and what looks like a very authentic desire to have a conversation with me.
I don’t know what to do with that. So maybe because I’m already slightly tipsy, or maybe because I did really enjoy that whiskey—definitely there are no other factors coming into play—my mind makes itself up for me.
“Scrounge that up and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I hear myself saying. Too late to back out now.
Chapter Five
“Wait,” Will says more than an hour later, “was this the actor or the director?”
“Oh, he wanted to be both.” I swing my legs beside the bar stool, feeling slightly giddy—which I’d like to think is mainly because I’m on my second very smooth whiskey sour, and not because of my drinking partner’s rapt attention. “It very quickly became clear he thought he was the second coming of Orson Welles. So he invites me to visit him ‘on set’ for what’s sort of our fifth date, and when I get to the place it’s literally someone’s backyard. In West Hills, but still. There was barely room for the crew and all the patio furniture they’d shoved over by the fence.”
Will chuckles, leaning his arm against the marble bar counter. “I suppose a masterpiece could be filmed in a backyard.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “I thought it was weird that he’d invite me for that particular shoot, but okay. That was before I nearly got eaten alive by the owner’s Doberman as I was coming around back. And before the owner—who I guess was also a ‘producer’?—ran over and shoved some pages into my hands, and asked me how fast I could memorize lines. Apparently the lead actress hadn’t been able to swap out her waitressing shift after all.”
“It can happen,” Will says with a twinkle in his eye. “So you’re a movie star now? You should have mentioned that earlier.”
His knee grazes mine as he shifts on the neighboring stool. I don’t think the contact is deliberate, but it sends a flare of heat up my leg all the same.
I’m playing with fire here, but right now I’m having too much fun to dwell on the risks.
I guffaw. “Ah, no, I had to turn down that offer. But the best part was when a weather helicopter made a couple passes overhead, and I guess the noise just did not fit with Christof’s vision for the scene—never mind they hadn’t even been able to start shooting yet—because he got up on a stepladder and started hollering at it to take a hike, as if the pilot would hear him all the way up there . . . or care.”
I drop my head against my hand and shake it. “So, you know, that was also our last date. I can still see him shaking his fist and shouting, ‘Damn you, you robotic sky beast!’ ”
Will cracks up, like people always do when I get to that line. He’s got a better laugh than most, though—a deep baritone one that makes you feel like you’ve made his day.
I always loved that laugh.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d go for the Hollywood type,” he teases. “Seems like you should have learned your lesson after the first few guys.”
“Hey,” I protest, “I live in LA. I take what I can get. With my crazy schedule, it’s hard to do normal. Anyway, I do get good stories out of the experiences, even if I don’t have much else to show for them.”
Not to mention there’s something reassuring about dating guys I know from the start are in the habit of putting on an act.
“But not much romance,” Will remarks. “Or is that not your thing?”
I shrug. “I guess it depends on what kind. A lot of guys think ‘romance’ means some epic public display, like proposing on a Jumbotron or arranging a big flash mob in the hopes it’ll go viral.” I shudder at the thought.
Will grins. “No flash mobs, huh. You don’t think taking the internet by storm with the power of love is romantic?”
“Maybe, in very select situations. But most of the time they’re only thinking about how they’re going to look. You’ve got to wonder what they’re trying to prove.” I shift on my stool. Enough about my romantic preferences. “What about you? All that travel, you must have a girl in every port.”
I say it lightly, but those gray-green eyes flick away from mine for a second, in a way that makes me suspect there’s a little truth to that suggestion.
Will shrugs. “Ah, like you said about crazy schedules—I haven’t been able to pay attention to much other than the business. So, a little fling here and there, nothing serious. It’s easier keeping things casual.”
I find I’m weirdly jealous and glad at the same time—jealous of the girls who got at least a fling, glad no one’s amounted to more—and neither reaction is appropriate to our history. I throw back the last gulp of my drink and eye the whiskey bottle. It was already mostly empty when the bartender set it on the counter; now there’s not a drop left. Pity.
“You know,” Will says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, “I believe there’s a whole case of that stuff in the back.”
“Oh, really?”
“Come on.”