“What about your friend that’s meeting you?”
Her lips lifted slightly. That amazing awareness between them was back, and he wondered if the people milling on the sidewalk were feeling the charge. “His name is Blake,” she finally said. “So glad you made it.” Her voice was a caress, a promise.
He knew this could be a big mistake, but still, he found himself smiling and moving toward her. “I’ll walk with you. What do you have in that bag, anyway?”
“Frankie had me bring three changes of clothes in case he hated one or more of my options, which he was sure he would,” she said, handing him the bag. “He’s a very cranky man.”
“Artistic types that are too talented for their own good can be that way,” he said.
“Very true,” she agreed. She pointed to her right. “I’m this way.” She wet her lips. Damn, every time she did that his body reacted. He really was ridiculously, insanely, affected by this woman.
He nodded, and they started walking. “What time do you fly out in the morning?” he asked, trying to get his mind back on the present and not on the bedroom that could be in their future.
“Eight. Which means leaving my apartment by six.”
“Ouch. That stings.”
“I’m not complaining,” she said. “I feel blessed to have this opportunity. It’s just a little challenging to film my morning show in between auditions. It’ll be easier once I’m filming from the L.A. studios. And now that I put Lana in her place, I’m enjoying the auditions. I don’t want to worry that I’m going to deliver poor quality content and disappoint my audience.”
“I’m glad to hear you feel things are settled down with Lana, and you have a loyal audience so I don’t think you have to worry. They watch because of your reactions to situations and your personality, not because of the setting you’re in.” He cast her a sideways glance and watched as a slight breeze dusted blond wisps of her hair across her pale cheek. Everything male inside him stirred, but there was more. There was emotion—unfamiliar and potent. Emotion that drove him to the burning questions that demanded to be answered. “You’ve conquered the Lana problem. What about flying? Are you handling that any better than you did that studio guy hitting on you tonight?”
She stopped and turned to him, her eyes flashing with rebuttal. “I handled him just fine.”
“So you admit he was hitting on you?”
“I know what he was doing.”
“You could have shut down his nonsense but you didn’t.”
“I was polite and standoffish. It’s what girls do in that type of situation.”
Right. “I guess.”
“You guess? What did you want me to do? Make a fool of him so he hates me? Make everyone think he’s an idiot? And because I’m reading an underlying meaning here, it had nothing to do with his position at the studio. I would never blatantly make someone feel bad.”
“He was using your eagerness to please the studio to corner you.”
“He’s a jerk,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I have to be. I was brought up better and smarter than that. It’s a small industry, one that breeds enemies without having to look for them.”
Damn. “You’re right,” he said, suddenly relaxing. He hadn’t even realized until that moment just how tense he’d felt. “I’m sorry. I just get irritated at the entire casting couch mentality in this business. I wanted to belt him one.”
Her expression softened. “I appreciate that, but I’m a big girl. I can handle myself. I tried to do exactly as you suggested earlier. Choose my battles smartly.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you on the defensive like that.”
“Then why did you?” she asked, narrowing her gaze at him.
He didn’t offer some fancy talking-in-circles reply. He wanted honesty; he had to give honesty. “I just want to know who you are, Darla. I want to know the real you. Not the public persona.”
“There’s no difference for me, Blake,” she declared without so much as a blink of an eye. “I am all I know how to be.”
An old, suppressed memory surfaced, and with it more raw emotions. A memory of a time when he had been young and naive, riding a wave of early success.
“Who burned you, Blake?” Darla asked softly, drawing his gaze, which had drifted to the pavement.
The question stopped him cold. How easily she had read him, read what he was denying even to himself. A name ran through his mind, a name he hadn’t allowed himself to say, even silently, in years.
He shoved away the memory. He wasn’t ready to talk about this. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to think about it. He hadn’t even realized just how easily he could think about it. It—she—happened ten flipping years ago. He hadn’t really loved her. He’d…