“Scotch?”
“Of course.” His smile was more genuine this time, with a hint of mischief.
I held his gaze and returned it. And I could have sworn I felt sexual electricity sizzle between us. My pulse skittered and my tongue felt too heavy for my mouth.
Stop staring, stop staring.
I cleared my throat. “I’m a gin man myself.”
“I love a good gin martini. Two olives, shaken, not stirred.”
“That’s exactly what I’m ordering tonight.” After my shift at the restaurant. Maybe. “Thanks again. I—”
“Care to join me?
I widened my eyes and pointed at my chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, why not? Call it a consultation drink. You can tell me everything I need to know about traffic in London and bill me for your time. I’m good for it.”
“Uh…I’d love to, but I should pick up my car,” an idiot who sounded a lot like me said.
What the actual fuck?
In my defense, I was seriously taken aback. I was all for seizing opportunity, but he’d caught me off guard. It was highly unusual for the head of the studio to ask an actor to go out for a drink…unless he wanted something. Like sex. I’d heard too many stories about entitled Hollywood assholes who used their positions to elicit sexual favors, but I didn’t get that vibe from Seb.
And I could more than handle him. Seb obviously spent some time in the gym, but I was bigger and stronger and had the muscle to prove it. That wasn’t a brag. It was fact. He couldn’t physically overpower me if he tried, and he wasn’t likely to drug my drink and get away with it. I’d worked in the restaurant biz since high school and knew what to look for.
Not that he would do such a thing, but hey…there were creeps out there. It was wise to be vigilant.
No, if I read this correctly, talking about “traffic patterns in London” seemed like a lonely plea for company. Something I could relate to on a different level. The lonely part, not London.
I supposed it was a good time to come clean and let him know I’d exhausted my knowledge of traffic across the pond after I fell and got fired.
Or maybe not. Maybe he needed to think of me as “the London expert.” The Brit. I’d eventually tell him I was just a regular guy from Philly, but right this second, that wasn’t what he wanted me to be. He wouldn’t remember me if I told the truth.
That might sound asshole-ish, but the one thing I’d learned in Hollywood was that you had to sell yourself. You had to have a compelling story or a signature facial expression or something that set you apart, so when your name came up, casting directors remembered you. Me? I played tough guys. But Seb wouldn’t remember me if I was just another gangster-ish-looking dude. However…a gangster with an accent was a whole new angle.
It might be a long shot, but I had to try.
“Ah, that’s right.” Seb gave a lopsided smile and waved. “Good luck with your—”
“Actually, my car can wait. I’d love the opportunity to chat with you for a bit.”
He regarded me thoughtfully as if weighing my sudden acceptance. His expression was neutral, yet professional…and a little haggard. After a long moment, he inclined his head.
“Excellent. Hop in.”
I settled against the plush leather upholstery as Seb made a right out of the studio lot. “Nice ride…I mean, it’s a lovely vehicle.”
“Thanks. I like it. So tell me everything I need to know about the city,” he began before lobbing questions I couldn’t answer without doing some research. What boroughs surround London? Who has the poshest accent? Does everyone buy fish from a fishmonger?
Uh…
I squinted to keep my WTF look from spilling over, then pulled my cell out. “Sorry. That’s my cellular device. I should check this. My friend offered to give me a ride to pick up my car.”
Yeah, I lied, but I had to. I fired up Google and typed Seb’s questions as fast as possible.
“Where did they tow it?”
“Tony’s Garage on Pico,” I replied, scrolling British trivia like a champ.
“Oh. That’s one block over. Why don’t I take you now and save your friend a trip? You can grab your car and meet me for a drink afterward if you’re interested.”
I twisted to face him to be sure I was hearing correctly. “You don’t mind?”
“No, of course not. It’s close.” He lowered his voice, adding, “And…I’m not ready to go home anyway.”
“Brilliant. I’d appreciate it. As for your questions…you can buy fish at Aldi’s or most markets, the Queen’s English is the posh standard, and the surrounding boroughs are…Kent, Essex, and—oh, looks like we’re here.” Thank fuck. I did an internal happy dance at the sight of Tony’s Vegas-style sign complete with old-school font and upside-down letters, unfastening my seat belt as he pulled into the lot. “Cheers, Mr. Rourke.”