Looked at that way, I had to admit that scary might just be good for me.
And besides, Cullen Slater was a male model. A male model. As in über-hot. Odds were good he’d ignore me completely and I’d never be forced to face the sheer lunacy of my plan.
Thus reassured, I hung up from Carla once again, then stood there, peering into the living room. The bits of unassembled furniture were still scattered about. Apparently, the house fairies hadn’t taken pity on me and assembled the things while I was taking my break.
I frowned at the couch, under which the Allen wrench still resided. I didn’t want to rummage under there for the wrench any more than I wanted to sit on my rump staring at doodles that were supposed to be assembly instructions. This was my one rare weekend off! What the heck was John thinking, making me do construction work? Hadn’t he ever heard of worker’s comp? What if I hammered a finger? Or chipped my manicure?
I had a sudden mental image of John in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, panting after some former child star, hoping she’d either shoot up on camera or deign to sleep with him. And all the while, he’d be mainlining Bloody Marys and soaking up the sun.
With a picture like that in my head, is it any wonder I decided that Carla was right? Debauchery really was the way to go. And the damn furniture could wait. After all, I had relaxing of my own to do.
“MATTIE, RIGHT?”
The smooth, masculine voice wafted over me, and I peeled my eyes open, then looked up at him through my RayBans.
“Mike Peterson,” he said, apparently in answer to my blank stare.
“Oh, right. I know. Hi.” In my sunscreen and margarita-induced haze, I’d fantasized the voice belonged to Cullen, home early from this weekend’s photo shoot. I hoped I didn’t sound too disappointed.
He dragged a lounge chair closer. “Do you mind?”
“Um, no.” That was a half lie. After abandoning furniture assembly, I’d rummaged in my cabinets until I found my blender, then repeated the process in the freezer until I found some limeade. The tequila didn’t require a search. I keep it handy, right on top of the refrigerator. One can frozen concentrated LimeAid, a bunch of ice cubes, and a can full of tequila, and I was good to go.
I’d finished one glass and was nursing my second when Mike joined me. Since I’m a lightweight, I already had a nice little buzz going, and I was perfectly content to lie there in the sun, reveling in my newfound status as the rebel of John Layman Productions.
Still, I supposed I could manage to revel and be polite to the new guy. Especially a new guy who looked so damn sexy in swim trunks and a black Universal Studios Hollywood T-shirt. Too bad he was the computer geek, nice-guy type. Too much like Dex to be a candidate for my “guy to have a sexually adventurous relationship” plan. Besides, Carla and I had already picked Cullen. And he was, undoubtedly, perfect for the role.
“Playing tourist?” I asked, gazing meaningfully at the shirt.
He grinned, not at all embarrassed by the fashion faux pas. (I mean, what L.A. local actually advertises the area attractions?) “I’m entitled,” he said. “Until I stop confusing the Hollywood and Santa Monica freeways, I figure I am still a tourist.”
The man had a point. “You’ll get it down,” I said. I pointed once again at the shirt. “So what was your favorite thing?”
“The Back to the Future ride,” he said, referring to the amusement park ride where the guests climb into a mock-up of the famous DeLorean-turned-time-machine and then race around Hill Valley, narrowly avoiding all sorts of obstacles and, of course, barely escaping with their lives.
Since that’s my favorite ride, too, (well, with the exception of the tram ride that takes you through the actual Universal back lot), I gave him a thumbs-up sign and gestured toward the pitcher of margaritas I’d brought down on a tray with two glasses, the extra one for Carla on the off chance Mitch got held up. “You pass,” I said. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” He picked up Carla’s glass, then filled it with my frozen concoction. He took a sip and made a face that suggested pure bliss. I grinned in satisfaction and leaned back, tilting my face up to the sun. Anyone who likes my very bold, decidedly not watered-down margaritas is okay in my book.
“I should probably confess something,” he said. I turned to the side. “The Back to the Future ride is really only my second favorite thing at Universal.”
I shifted, propping myself up on my elbow. “Oh? That answer earned you a margarita, bud. I expect some serious explaining.”
“Of course,” he said, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the moment. “My real favorite ride is the tram ride.” He held up a hand as if to halt my protests. “I know. Major Cheez Whiz, but it’s just so damn cool. I mean, you get to see the Psycho house. How do you beat that?”
Okay, I already knew that I liked this guy, but now I really liked him. “You,” I said, with an appropriate tone of respect and awe, “may have as much of my margaritas as you want.”
“I passed?”
“You totally passed.”
“I’m glad,” he said. But this time, the casual banter was gone, replaced by a voice that seemed to trill over me, making me shiver despite the relentless rays of the sun.
I took a long sip of margarita, wondering if he’d put that heat into his voice on purpose, and also wanting to quell the the way the warmth had bloomed inside me. I blamed it on the sun and the alcohol. Not my reaction to the guy. After all, I’d already determined that he was a nice guy. And I’d had my fill of nice guys with Dex.
I took a quick glance his direction and was immediately vindicated. He was, I noticed, holding a battered copy of Asimov’s The Robots of Dawn. For the record, I’m a big fan of Asimov. But so was Dex. And in my experience, guys who read Asimov tend not to be the kind of guys who can provide serious assistance in the sexual satisfaction department. Unscientific, possibly biased. But in Mattie Brown world, that’s a fact.
I told myself that was a good thing. Because that sensual little trill I’d felt a few moments ago was a fluke. A mistake. An alcohol-induced reaction. Not real, and certainly nothing to get excited about. Pun totally intended.
Besides, the truth is that there was no way that Mike I-Read-Asimov-And-Ride-The-Tram Peterson could have pulled out all the sexy-voice stops on purpose. I mean, why would he? Since I happened to know that Cullen was on a photo shoot in Aruba until tomorrow (he’d asked me to bring in his mail), I’d gone to the pool wearing no makeup, and decked out in my rattiest bathing suit, threadbare and sun-faded. The one that does not create the illusion that I have thin thighs. (For the record, my thighs aren’t huge; I know that. But they are disproportioned, or at least I think so. Bigger at the top than oh, say, Kate Moss. Which always makes buying jeans an adventure. At any rate, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my thighs since puberty, with the hate part of the equation usually coming out on top.)
This afternoon, I’d thrown caution and thigh camouflage to the wind. Not to mention makeup, hair and a remotely attractive bathing suit. In other words, I wasn’t exactly exuding sexuality. But I told myself that that was fine, because Mike wasn’t exactly Cullen. Which, to my margarita-soaked mind, put us on pretty equal footing.
I
