going to change. Soon.”
“I have to clock in.” And put some distance between them before she asked him how and when. What his work was like, his plans. His dreams. She could listen to him talk all night. Sophisticated conversation, the likes of which she’d never had the opportunity to participate in.
She turned to go. His fingers grazed her arm, and tightened with a luscious pressure, holding her in place. What a thrill it would be to have that golden hand—both hands—wandering all over, undressing, caressing—and enough of that, now.
“Change fast. I’m starving,” he said, his eyes went liquid and a brow quirked up. Before realizing he was taken, that was the kind of comment she would have misread, mistaking his smoldering expression as invitation.
“You’re the boss. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She edged away, terrified if she shifted her eyes, he’d disappear.
So what if he did? He belonged to Kyla Monroe, the blonde goddess of the screen.
Her stomach flipped. They were from different worlds. He was only here by an accident of navigation, not some divine plan to make all her wildest dreams come true.
Kristian Demetrious was another woman’s man who’d landed in the middle of Little Crooked Creek for a heartbeat and then would be gone.
Two
Kris leaned against the hard booth and watched his desert mirage do a dozen mundane things. Punching her time card in the antiquated machine mounted to the wall of the open kitchen. Making a phone call at the honest-to-God pay phone nestled between the upright video game and the bathrooms.
She moved with vibrancy, like the progression of a blooming flower caught in time-release photographs. Suddenly bursting with color and life. Magnificence where a moment before had been nothing special. Where was his camera when he really needed it? Anything that visceral should be captured through the lens for all posterity.
No. Not for anyone else. Only for his private-viewing pleasure. A selfish secret celebrating artistry instead of capitalism. Maybe that was the key to unlocking the yet-to-be-conceptualized theme for Visions of Black, a frustration he’d carried for weeks.
The light in this dive was sallow and dim. All wrong. He’d position her outside, with the late-afternoon sun in her face and mountains rising behind in an uncultivated backdrop. Maybe an interview, so he could capture that mellifluous drawl and the unapologetic raw honesty. With VJ, everything was on the surface, in her eyes and on her tongue, and he was greedy for transparency after drowning in Hollywood games.
He’d left his condo in L.A. before dawn this morning, intending to drive straight through to Dallas, where he’d meet up with Kyla to start the engagement publicity and get rolling on preproduction work for Visions.
But one more Kyla-free night now felt less like a reprieve and more like a requirement.
He just wanted to make films, not deal with financing and publicity and endless Hollywood bureaucracy. Visions of Black was the right vehicle to propel his career to the next level, with the perfect blend of accessible characters, high-stakes drama and a tension-filled plot. Audiences would love Kyla in the starring role, and her charisma on the screen was unparalleled. She was a necessary part of the package, first and foremost because executive producer Jack Abrams insisted, but Kris couldn’t disagree with the dual benefit of box-office draw and high-profile PR.
The need to commit this story to film flared strongly enough that he was willing to deal with his ex and any other obstacles thrown in his path.
Tomorrow.
VJ skirted the tables and rejoined him, smiling expectantly. “Fried chicken?”
“Absolutely.” Nobody in L.A. ate fried chicken and the hearty smell of it had been teasing him since he walked through the door. “And a beer.”
“Excellent choice. Except you’re in the middle of the Bible Belt. Coke instead?” she offered.
“You don’t serve alcohol?” A glance around the diner answered that question. Every glass was filled with deep brown liquid. Five bucks said it was outrageously sweet tea.
“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s dry as a bone here.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrows. “We’re all good Baptists. Except behind closed doors, you know.”
He knew. Where he came from, everyone was Greek Orthodox except behind closed doors. Different label, same hypocrisy. “Coke is fine.”
“I’ll have it right out for you, sir.”
He almost groaned. “You can stop with the sir nonsense. Come right back. Keep me company,” he said.
Keep the locals at bay. A convenient excuse, but a poor one. He liked VJ, and he’d have to leave soon enough. Was it terrible to record as much of her as possible through the camera in his head until then?
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Doing what?” He waved at the dining room. “This place is practically empty.”
Her probing gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for something, and the pursuit was so affecting, he felt oddly compelled to give it to her, no matter what it was.
“Okay,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”
She glided through the haphazard maze of tables and bent over her order pad, then handed it to the middle-aged woman in the kitchen. Pearl, if he had to guess.
The brutish brothers, clearly adopted, continued to shoot malevolent grimaces over their shoulders, but hadn’t left their stools again.
Only a couple of things were guaranteed to rile Kris’s temper—challenging his artistic vision and picking on someone weaker. Otherwise, he stayed out of it. Drama belonged on the screen, not in real life.
A slender young woman with a wholesome face whirled into the diner and flew to VJ’s side. Amused, he crossed his arms as they whispered furiously to each other while shooting him fascinated glances under their lashes. Benign gawking, especially by someone who intrigued him as much as VJ did, was sort of flattering. After a couple of minutes, the other woman flounced to the bar, her sidelong gaping at him so exaggerated she almost tripped over her sandals.
“Friend of yours?” he asked as VJ approached his table.
VJ was giving him a wide berth, something he normally appreciated, but not today and not with her. There’d been an easiness between them earlier, as if they’d been friends for a long time, before she got uptight about his connection to Kyla. Friends were hard to come by in Hollywood, especially for someone who cultivated a reputation for being driven and moody. He lost little sleep over it. Different story with VJ, who made the idea of being so disconnected unappealing.
“Yeah, practically since birth. That’s Pamela Sue. She’s only here to ogle you.”
He laughed. “I’m not used to such honesty. I like it. What does VJ stand for?” he asked and propped his chin on a palm, letting his gaze roam over her expressive face. Women were manipulative and scheming where he came from. This one was different.
“Victoria
