The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance

When she finally calms down, she apologizes for ruining my shirt. “This old thing? I’m pretty sure I have hundreds of them. I can give it to you as a souvenir, and maybe you can sell it on the internet.”

Her answering giggle warms me, a perfect tinkling sound cutting through the silence.

“Tell me about her,” I push, taking a cue from my therapist.

She shifts under my arm and I’m fearful that she’s going to pull away. Luckily, she just repositions her head against my shoulder allowing me to drop my arm around her waist. I wonder what her bare skin would feel like, if it’s as soft as her hair.

“Susan was the most selfless person in the world. Everyone loved her. Everyone. She saved me. I’m not sure where I’d be if it weren’t for her.”

“She was married to your Uncle Jeff, right?”

“Yeah. They had been together since they were fourteen. Uncle Jeff is not family by blood, but he’s family in every other sense of the word.”

Ah, so the plot thickens.

“Want to tell me about how you got your scar?”

“Not today. Want to tell me what you’re running from?”

Damn beautiful and smart.

“Who says I’m running?”

“Considering the registration for your car isn’t in your name, you have no valid insurance, and you don’t seem to be in a rush to leave, there really is only one conclusion to draw.”

“True.”

Larsen’s head tilts upward from its position on my shoulder and I look down at her, our noses and lips only separated by a few inches of space. The moment is far too intimate for two strangers. But nothing about Larsen feels like a stranger.

“So, what are you running from?” she repeats. I watch her lips move, vaguely hear her words, but I’m focused on what she will do if I kiss her right now. The pull is strong, too intense to resist.

As if a silent voice calls to her, she turns her head and pulls her body out of my reach as she stands. “I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to head inside. Have a good night.”

She ducks into her window but something bugs me about our moment, something inside that doesn’t sit well.

“Hey, Larsen,” I call and her head pops back out, her eyes landing at my feet and not my face. I’ve made her too uncomfortable with the eye contact. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Working.”

“Maybe I can take you out after your shift? Dinner? Movie? I saw a bowling alley, I think.”

“Oh.” Her brows rise in surprise, the soft yellow from her room casting beautiful shadows on her profile. “Um. . .are you sure?”

“Yeah. Maybe we can work on how to get you to talk to that guy you’re crushing on.”

“I’m not crushing on anyone!” she yells, and I’m certain if I peeked my head past her window, I’d find her stomping one of her adorable feet.

“Sure you’re not. Come on, it

’ll be fun, like a date.”

“A date?” she screeches and I have to fight against my chuckle. I’m not sure I’ve ever had such an alarming reaction to me asking a woman out on a date. But then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever had to actually request one.

Something to ponder about later.

“It’ll be good practice and I can give you some insight into the male mind. What do you have to lose?”

I watch in fascination as she slouches, almost as if she doesn’t have anything within her body capable of keeping it upright.