washing through her.
How could she reverse this? Be funnier, more insistent, more detailed? While she racked her brain, Brody talked to his producer about red tape in San Francisco, then something about Kirk Canter’s surgery at Santa Monica Hospital.
Abruptly, he clicked his phone shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to hit the road. They moved Kirk’s surgery up a day and I need to go wish him luck. Let me get you a cab.”
“But I—we—I mean—”
“You’re too smart for this job, JJ,” he said with a compassionate smile. “Wait for something that suits you. Never forget how good you are. Never sell yourself short.” Somehow, he got her on her feet and hustled her out the door and into a cab, handing the driver money for her fare.
“Good luck to you,” he said, leaning in the window. “I’ll watch for your next piece.”
“Wait,” she said. “Is it because Kirk’s a guy? Because it won’t matter. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Whatever Kirk would do, I’ll do.”
“Score a hooker? Would you do that for me?”
She swallowed hard. “If I had to.” The idea sounded awful, but her chance was slipping away and she couldn’t bear it.
“Don’t think I’m not tempted,” he said, taking her in, dwelling on her mouth, “but this is better for both of us.” He patted the taxi door and backed away.
Her head spun. She’d just been rejected so smoothly she hardly felt the sting. He’d teased her, poured her wine, fed her by his own hand, told her no, then paid her way home. She watched through the rear window as he climbed into a cab and left, taking her hopes and dreams with him.
2
DAMN, THAT WOMAN smelled good. Brody inhaled his fingers where he’d shaken her hand. What was the scent? Fresh laundry, a floral perfume, but also a homey spice that reminded him of something from childhood. What?
Barmbrack. Yeah. The Irish fruit bread his mother used to bake. JJ smelled like home. No wonder she’d caught his attention.
She was beautiful, too, in a way that snuck up on you. Like a young Julia Roberts with a soft mouth and big, intense eyes. Steady. Smart. Interested.
He’d liked that she didn’t flirt. All the women he knew flirted. The head tilt, the teasing smile, the light touch on the arm or the pressure of a thigh…it was as common as breathing in his world.
J. James would be direct. Straightforward. I want you.
He could go that way. Sure. You. Me. Naked. Now. That would be just fine with him. In fact, it sounded damn good.
But he had enough on his plate at the moment. He didn’t need an earnest filmmaker who smelled like childhood and looked like an actress. Even if he did have a thing for Julia Roberts.
He was sorry about the hooker remark, but he had to make the point that Jillian James was out of her league.
Maybe Brody was, too. Sometimes he believed his own hype. Worse, he feared that was all there was to him.
He was more than Doctor Nite. Jesus. He had to be.
He was weary of the role and the fame, tired of people always wanting something from him—to be with him, to be on his show or in his bed. He was actually sick of sex—or at least the one-night stands that served as his nightcap.
He watched L.A. traffic crawl by. Thudding music filled the cab from cars on either side. The night air was thick with the day’s smog. This was his city, these were his hours and he loved it. But he was changing, moving on.
He was done with the show. He wanted to write. He’d started a book. The idea of it twisted him up inside. Writing alternately delighted and terrified him. When he was doing it, putting words on the screen, he felt like the Road Runner dashing over the gorge on thin air. He was good until he looked down.
His cell phone went off and he fished it out of his pocket, startled to see his parents’ number in the readout. It was midnight. God. Had his father had another heart attack?
He answered the phone, fingers shaking. “Pop? You okay?” He held his breath.
“I’m fine, son. I can’t sleep and you’re the only night owl I know.”
“Good. That’s good.” He blew out air, so relieved he wanted to laugh out loud. “So what’s keeping you awake, Pop?”
“I get restless is all. Your mother kicks me out of bed when I get the jimmy legs.”
“That’s understandable.” Brody scrambled for something to talk about. They’d only recently been having these conversations and it took a while to get a comfortable rhythm going. “How’s the work on that Mustang coming?”
“Not too bad. Carburetor’s giving me fits.” He lapsed into a description of what he’d done so far and what he planned.
“You’ll get it. I’m sure you will.”
“Got to before your mother drags me on that cruise.”
“You’ll like it, Pop. There’s bingo and dancing and the food never stops.”
“That’s no good for me, son. Gotta watch my ticker now.”
“They have heart-healthy crap, don’t worry.”
“If it makes your ma happy, what choice do I have?”
He smiled, letting his dad’s voice fill his head, listening as he talked about Ma’s plans for the garden, how good her chiles were, how hard it was to get good help at his auto shop these days, and why the hell was everything so computerized?
Brody was just glad his pop was still around to complain about cruises and carburetors and computers. It had been his pop’s heart attack six months ago that had made Brody decide to change his life.
After a bit, his father yawned.
“You getting sleepy?”
“Guess so. Good to hear your voice. Keep in touch now.”
“I will, Pop.” In fact, he’d put a reminder on his calendar so he’d make a call every two weeks.
When he’d heard the news about the heart attack, Brody had flown home and raced to the hospital, where he was startled to see his parents in a new light. He’d always thought they despised each other, but watching his mother pat Pop’s hand, promising to hide the Jameson and bake only low-fat pasties, while tears rolled down Pop’s cheeks, he knew he’d been wrong. They clearly adored each other. They’d changed or he’d been blind.
He realized something else. He wanted what they had—a life with one special someone and years and years together. The whole trip had been like that. He’d seen his old friend Cal Taylor differently, too. In his heart, a door opened to a world he’d almost missed.
His contract came due soon and he’d decided not to sign a new one.
