Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

He takes a sip of his martini, his expression completely bland. "That might have been part of it."

I gape at him, surprised.

"My turn?"

I blink. "What?"

"Speed dating. Is it my turn now?"

"Oh. Yeah. Shoot."

"You never answered my question from yesterday. What do you need the money for?"

"My house," I admit. "I'm having a slight case of foreclosure."

"What happened?"

I shake my head. "Sorry. Your fifteen seconds are up. My turn."

He nods, and I continue. "Tell me about us. How long have we been dating? How'd we meet? What do I say if someone asks?"

"Three months," he says. "And, let's see. We met--"

"--in the ice cream aisle at Ralphs," I say. "You were cheating on your training diet. And I was shaking off the melancholy of an evening spent watching tear-jerkers."

"And there was only one gallon of cookie dough left, which happens to be my favorite."

I nod. "I remember. You looked so shocked when I invited you over to share it with me. And I was even more shocked when you agreed to watch Love, Actually, while we ate it."

"Well, you were a good sport. After the sappy romance, we watched the first Blue Zenith movie."

"But only because you were showing off for me," I say. "I'd recognized you from The Price of Ransom, but I didn't know a thing about this superhero franchise you've signed on for."

"Is that true?" he asks. "Have you seen Ransom?"

I nod. "I actually sort of know one of the screenwriters. Steve Morton-Gray."

"He's a good guy," Lyle says. "He and Jane did a stellar job on the script."

"Everything I read said it was your big break."

"Honestly, Two Steps Back, was really the turning point for me. That sitcom ran for five years. Probably could have run a few more."

"But there was that thing with your co-star," I say, remembering something else I'd read. "Rip Something-or-other."

He chuckles. "You don't follow Hollywood too closely, do you?"

"Who has the time?"

"You'd be surprised," he says drolly. "And you're right. What happened between Rip and me was the final nail in the show's coffin."

"What happened?"

He glances at his watch. "We should go," he says. And even though he's right about the time, I can't help but think that he's also avoiding my question.

I don't press, though. After all, we're not really dating. I don't need to know everything. But as I slide out of the booth, I can't help but smile, because I'd enjoyed playing the game with him. He's easy to talk to, and the whole conversation felt comfortable. Familiar. All the way down to the way we finished each other's sentences.

"Thanks for playing," I say. "At least now I feel like I can wing it."