Chapter Four
Her meal was delicious. Salmon seared in coconut, crusted with pistachios and cherries, served with a crisp baby-leaf salad and balsamic-glazed baby potatoes.
Mila barely touched it. What the hell was going on here? She’d kissed him once, and she’d let him kiss her a second time? Not really what she’d planned.
Planned. Huh. Nothing about tonight had been planned. She’d planned to go to Josie’s wrap party, where Josie would—as she always did—try to hook her up with one of her actor friends after giving her a lecture about living more of her life for fun.
Of the two of them, Josie hadn’t inherited their parents’ need to succeed. Josie had succeeded, though. She was now a sought-after actress landing numerous roles in more than one off-Broadway play. But unlike Mila, Josie breezed through one achievement after the other.
Mila didn’t breeze. She planned, scheduled, set goals, assessed, and considered. Pretending to be someone else? With the man who’d destroyed her first planned life goal? Completely unplanned.
Kissing him?
Ridiculous.
And yet, it was hard not to admit she was having a good time. Sure, so many of those at the dinner were there only to bask in the fame-by-association their school years with Thomas brought them, but contrary to her expectation, he didn’t encourage it.
At times, he almost seemed uncomfortable with all the adoration.
Which confused her. The Thomas St. Clair she’d written about had almost demanded attention and idolization.
Moving a potato around her plate with her fork, she ran her gaze over those sitting at the table with them.
The mayor, the principal, their wives, a man called Rodney Jordan who—according to his own haughty proclamation—could buy half of Manhattan with the loose change in his underwear drawer, and his wife. Or maybe girlfriend? It was tricky to tell, what with the denigrating and possessive way he spoke and touched her.
Success and fame definitely came with a surreal lifestyle.
“Tell me, Mila.” Rodney Jordan fixed her with a look, his gaze raking over her face, her lips, her cleavage. “You strike me as being a feminist.”
She blinked. Was he complimenting her? Or insulting her gender? It was hard to tell.
“What do you think of St. Clair’s habit of killing off most of his female protagonists? Bit sexist, don’t you agree? Doesn’t it make you want to smack him?”
She looked over at Thomas chatting with the mayor. She’d never tell him but she’d read every book he’d written. Some were incredible. Some not as good, but still powerful.
“I think,” she said and turned back to Rodney, “his habit of writing emotionally haunting bestsellers can’t be smeared in any way by someone attempting to belittle him on a night dedicated to his success.”
Rodney’s eyebrows shot up his Botox-smooth forehead.
She traced her fingertip over the rim of her glass and smiled at him. “But I tell you what, when you have a night dedicated to your success, we can chat about Thomas then. How does that sound?”
Why the hell was she being so protective?
A low chuckle rumbled beside her as Thomas’s distinct scent filled her breath. The warmth from his body played with her senses as his shoulder brushed hers. “Don’t mind Roddy over there, Mila.” He threw Rodney a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s still holding a grudge I beat him on the school’s tennis court, as well as in the debating championship.”
The laughter in his voice was cut with steel. His stare didn’t waver from Rodney’s. If ever Mila had witnessed a challenge being laid down, it was right there.
“And now,” Thomas went on, sliding his arm along the back of her seat, drawing closer to her still, “he’ll be holding another one that my date for the evening has a mind sharper than his.”
Rodney narrowed his eyes.
Thomas laughed. His thumb brushed her bare shoulder, the slight contact reawakening her unexpected hunger for him in a rush of tight heat. “It’s all good, Roddy. Your dick is still bigger than mine, I’m sure.”
She smiled at him. “Oh, I doubt that, Thomas. Yours is, quite frankly, huge.”
The statement was out before she could stop it. What the…? Why the hell had she gone and said that?
He studied her for a long moment, long enough for the silence around the table to press upon her. Everyone was staring. At her. At them. God, was she out of her mind?
Why had she done that?
“I think”—he straightened to his feet, his gaze locked on hers—“it’s time for me to make my awesome speech.”
She swallowed. Was he angry? Embarrassed? Regretting bringing her along?
“Thomas…” she began.
He chuckled, a mischievous light in his eyes, and brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “I’ll be right back.”
He strode toward the stage, owning the space around him. Her throat tightened at the way his suit highlighted the exquisite breadth of his shoulders, his back. How the jacket did nothing to hide the sculpted strength in his arms. How his butt bunched and coiled with every step.
A hot lump filled her throat and she swallowed again. Was it possible to be in lust with someone you despised?
Her purse vibrated on the table, jerking her stare from Thomas’s ass.
A prickling heat crept over her. She knew exactly who was trying to call her. Exactly who was currently at a wrap party, waiting for her to arrive.
Thomas St. Clair had bamboozled her so much she’d forgotten to call Josie.
Cheeks hot, stare flicking between Thomas climbing the steps to the stage, and her vibrating purse, she snatched at the damn thing and shoved it beneath the table.
Rodney Jordan smirked at her. The mayor frowned.
Sinking a little in her seat, she withdrew her phone, killed the incoming call, and opened her last text conversation with Josie.
I’m coming. I got caught up with something. I’ll explain later, she typed and hit send just as Thomas cleared his throat on the stage.
“I failed freshman English.” A wave of laughter and chuckles rolled through the room at his opener. “There was some…stuff going on in my life at the time that made it hard for me to get into Shakespeare and Yeats and…and…Mrs. Hooper, are you here?” He scanned the crowd, hand shielding his eyes from the spotlight.
“I am, Thomas,” came a voice from the back of the room.
He grinned. A disturbing little flutter bloomed in Mila’s stomach at the boyish expression. “Who was that author you insisted I read in ninth grade?”
“John Steinbeck?”
He pointed at the unseen woman. “John Steinbeck. I need to add him to my to-be-read list. I guess it’s too late for me to hand in my homework on his book?”
“It is.”
The room reverberated with laughter.
Thomas scratched at the back of his head, his smile self-effacing. And yet, his eyes…
Mila frowned. Was the stuff he mentioned referring to his parents’ messy divorce? She’d written about the way his parents used him as an emotional weapon during the breakdown of their marriage, finding the information out via research she’d conducted after every missed interview with him. In her article, she’d questioned if the demons and monsters his characters so often fought were metaphors for his parents.
She licked her lips. Why was her mouth dry all of a sudden?
“Damn it.” He clicked his fingers. More laughter. “Of course, I deserved to fail that year. The only thing I did during English, the only thing I did during any class, to be honest, was write—almost obsessively—in a notebook I hid under the desk.”
Mila’s phone vibrated in her hand. She gasped, her pulse fast. Tearing her stare from where Thomas commanded attention, she read the incoming message.
As long as you’re caught up with a hot guy having crazy monkey sex, I’ll forgive you. And I expect details. If you’re not here for some lame reason like remembering you have assignments to grade like the last time, I’m advertising for a new sister.
An image shot through her head. A completely X-rated one.
“Insane if I didn’t. Or insaner, as it were. Yes, yes, Mrs. Hooper, I know insaner is not a word.”
The room erupted in laughter.
She jerked her attention back to where Thomas stood speaking on the stage, a hint of a dimple teasing the right side of his face as he grinned at the crowd, his blue eyes glinting with mirth, his raw masculinity tempered not one iota by his self-mocking words.
Goddamn it, why did he have to look so good?
“Writers write.” His smile faded a little. His eyes grew a little distant. “It’s what we do. We process the moments of our lives, the shadows, the light, the angels, and the monsters by playing God with words. We unpack what our brains—always in overdrive—absorb, what our psyches digest, through words that form sentences. Sentences that form paragraphs. Paragraphs that tell stories. Stories of hope, despair, dreams, and fears. A writer knows that’s what they need to do to stay sane. Sometimes, those words, those sentences? It’s like pulling teeth, but even then, a writer writes. Because they must. Because if they don’t…then what purpose do they serve the world?”
Quiet fell over the guests. Mila drew in a breath, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Never had she known Thomas St. Clair to be so open about himself, his career.
He stood motionless under the light, eyes gazing at something beyond anyone in the room, and then he shook his head. “Okay, that’s what I get for not writing a speech for tonight. I go and get all maudlin. Sorry about that.”
A hesitant chuckle rippled through the room.
He grinned, his gaze scanning everyone until settling on her. “And sometimes, a writer writes because his muse stumbles into his life and all there is are words and a hunger beyond comprehension.”
A tight heat bloomed in the pit of Mila’s stomach. She frowned at him, unsettled. Excited. Confused.
“And on that note,” he went on, “it’s time for me to get off the stage and go do what I get paid a ridiculous amount of money to do—write. Thank you for tonight. I am humbled. And Mrs. Hooper? I’ll get that assignment to you soon.” He flashed a smile toward the back of the room. “As John Steinbeck says, the writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. He must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true. Thank you, everyone. Good night.”
To thunderous applause, he walked off the stage, acknowledging people as he made his way to her.
Her heart thumped faster the closer he drew, until, as he stood directly in front of her, his gaze holding hers, she expected it to burst from her chest. “Ready?” he asked on a playful murmur.
Oh God, was she?
…
Had he ever wanted to take someone’s hand in his own so much? To thread his fingers through theirs? To feel their palm against his?
If he had, he couldn’t remember when.
Thomas kept glancing at Mila as they made their way through the crowded room.
To check that she was still beside him? Or to just look at her? He liked looking at her. A lot.
Every time someone else demanded his attention—whether it be to shake his hand, congratulate him on his success, or just to share a brief moment of their life with him—he found himself growing agitated.
All he wanted to do was to get the hell out of there and get home. To sit with her, listen to her voice, find out her favorite book, her favorite performing artist…have her be in his place as he wrote. Hear her moving around his home.
See her. Breathe her in.
Taste her lips as he smoothed his hands down her back to her—
“Thank you,” he blurted out, shaking the hand in his. Who the hell was he talking to at that moment? He frowned at the man now looking at him with startled confusion.
Ah, the head of the district’s education board.
“Sorry.” He clapped his free hand on the older man’s shoulder and grinned. “Just got hit with a sentence.” He pulled a face. “The life of a writer is a weird one. When the muse strikes, it can take everyone by surprise.”
An uncertain laugh followed as the other man dropped his hand.
Thomas grinned wider, pressing his palm to the small of Mila’s back. That was better. “Thanks for coming.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Steering her through the crowd, he hurried them out of the building. He wasn’t normally rude or dismissive, but then he normally didn’t open himself up as much as he had tonight. He really should have written a speech. Winging it was the norm for him in situations like these. Being in the room with a woman who stirred him on every level imaginable—creative, sexual, emotional—not so much the norm.
Home. He had to get home.
The humid night air wrapped around him as they strode through the doors. He sucked in a long breath, pulse still racing.
“Are you okay?”
Concern laced Mila’s voice.
He closed his eyes and tugged his bowtie loose. “I’m good.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He looked at her, throat thick, and sighed. “Sometimes crowds make me antsy. Usually I…”
Hide it behind being a jackass. Okay, probably better he didn’t share that particular aspect of his personality. Not when he was planning to ask her to stick around tonight. It was one thing to be famous for being a joker, another to admit it was—most of the time—an act.
She studied him, straight eyebrows dipping into a slight frown. “I’m not a fan of people in general. According to my sister, I have no clue how to interact with them.”
Her confession sent a ribbon of warmth unfurling through his chest. Getting to know more about her was proving to be addictive. “You have a sister? Older or younger?”
A flash of light nearby told him they were being photographed. As always when he was the focus of such an uninvited invasion of his privacy, the urge to turn to the photographer and pull a childish face rolled through him. Instead, he found himself content to ignore them.
Talking to Mila was far more enjoyable.
“Younger.” She opened her small purse, withdrew her phone and showed it to him. On its screen were two women. Mila, expression serious and stern, the other a younger carbon-copy of her, with strawberry-blond hair instead of deep auburn, and a zany craziness in her smile as she held her fingers behind Mila’s head in the rabbit-ears position.
“She’s the solemn one in the family.”
He laughed, another lick of warmth ribboning through him at her words. She was such a contradiction. A woman who looked like she was put on this earth to feed every hot-blooded heterosexual man’s fantasies, with the seriousness of a strict librarian, and a biting sarcasm he damn near envied. Added to all that, she brought with her that itch in the back of his head he hadn’t felt for a long time.
Another contradiction thanks to Mila. He wanted to go home with her, be with her…just as much as he wanted to go home and write like a fucking demon.
“Okay, Mr. St. Clair. I think our time together is officially over.”
He snapped his stare up to her face. “No.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “No? I mean, I was planning to drive you back to your place. I wasn’t going to make you walk, but tonight I was…was…” She frowned, as if searching for how to complete the sentence. “Employed for dinner and dinner only, yes? Or was there…more?”
The uncertainty in her voice scraped at him. As did the unreadable tension in her body.
He swallowed. What had Shelby told her? Hell, what had he told Shelby he wanted? He couldn’t remember. He remembered having the conversation but couldn’t recall the words, fighting as he was with finding the words he needed for his WIP. Something along the lines of I need a date. Someone to distract me. What had she interpreted distract as?
“More.” The word fell from him in a tight rasp.
She drew in a swift breath, her stare locked on his.
“I mean.” He shook his head. “I mean, I just… I don’t want…” Talk about the King of Cool and Confident. Closing his eyes, he scrubbed at the back of his head and then his mouth. He was making a goddamn mess of this.
Opening his eyes, he met her enigmatic gaze. “Can we talk about the rest of the evening at my place? When our every move isn’t being watched?”
She glanced around them, another flash from a nearby camera illuminating her face.
His gut clenched. Would she say no? People didn’t say no to him often, but nothing about Mila was typical. Not typical for his life, at least.
“Okay.” She pulled the parking stub from her purse and handed it to the waiting valet.
Thomas let out a shaky breath. Who knew he’d been holding it?
A few minutes later, they were once again in her Hyundai. This time, she sat in the driver’s seat.
“Tell me something about you I’d find surprising,” he said as she negotiated the traffic with ease.
“Given you know nothing about me, anything I tell you should be surprising.”
He chuckled. “Good point. Humor me.”
The soft glow from the dashboard light picked out her frown. “Fine. To pay my way through college, I worked as a gorilla-gram.”
“You went to college?”
She shot him a glare. “That’s the part of my statement that surprised you?”
“No, no.” Way to piss off the muse. “I just…” He needed to recover. “What did you study?”
“Tell me one thing about you that would surprise me.”
He studied her profile. There was a definite tension to her again. Plus, she hadn’t answered his question. He didn’t like the tension. Wanted it gone. “To pay my way through college, I posed naked for a life-drawing class once a month at a local art school.”