Chapter Seven
“Is that her?”
Sebastian cast Thomas a sideways smirk as the doorbell’s chime faded.
Thomas scrunched up his face. “Dude, I really wanted you out of here before she arrived.”
Reaper bolted through the living room, yapping and banging into furniture on his way to the foyer.
Sebastian chuckled. “Your mutt likes her.”
“Reap gets that excited when a bird farts on the front step.” He swallowed, rising from the chair. Maybe it was Shelby. If his agent had also seen the image in the paper, she would want to talk to him about it. And how they could use it to their advantage. Sebastian had broken the no-visits-when-under-deadline rule, after all.
“So?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow at him. “You going to answer it?”
He stared toward the door, Reaper’s barks bouncing through the house from the foyer.
“If you don’t, I will.”
Swinging back to Sebastian, Thomas pointed a stilling finger at him. “Keep your ass in the chair and try not to be a dick. I don’t want you scaring her off.”
Sebastian pulled a hurt face. “Hey. Everyone loves me.”
“You’re an egomaniac with a God complex. No one likes you.”
“That’s the spirit.” Sebastian settled back into his seat, fingers threaded behind his head again, ankle resting on one bent knee. “Now, go let your muse in.”
Throat tight, chest tighter, Thomas made his way to the door and opened it.
Mila stood on the other side.
Black Ray-Bans concealed her eyes, her glorious hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and she’d covered her curves with faded-blue jeans and a loose black T-shirt with the words Stephen King is My Jam printed in red on the chest.
“Nice shirt.”
A small smile played with her lips as she bent down and scratched Reaper behind the ears. “Thought you might like it.”
He studied her, incapable of moving for a moment. He’d half convinced himself—during his conversation with Sebastian—that the impact she’d had on him last night was a one-time deal. Had wondered if it was all due to the pressure of a looming deadline and his protracted, self-imposed exile from social life. It wasn’t possible for one person to affect him so much.
Now, from the concealing sunglasses, to the mocking shirt selection, to the lush thighs encased in denim and the full lips trying not to curl into a wider smile, he knew whatever was going on, it sure as hell wasn’t a one-time deal.
It wasn’t just his physical reaction to her. Taking her in, he just felt…better.
One dark auburn eyebrow arched above the rim of her sunglasses. “Well? Are you going to ask me in, or do you just need me to stand on your doorstep for a few hours?”
Dragging in a steadying breath, he turned sideways and motioned inside. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“I doubt that, but thank you for the offer.” She crossed the threshold, removing her sunglasses as she did so.
Gone was the dramatic black eyeliner and shadow of the previous night. Instead, she wore no makeup at all. A smattering of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. Last night her face had been flawless, but free of makeup, her pale skin was all the more interesting.
“You’re staring,” she said, withdrawing a glasses case from the handbag hanging from her shoulder.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“Don’t make this weirder than it already is, St. Clair.” She opened the case, removed a pair of clear-lensed black-framed glasses, and slipped them on.
Goddamn it, he wished she hadn’t. A hot lick of tension curled into his groin and his chest tightened. Who knew he had a glasses kink?
“Too late,” he muttered, dragging his hand over his mouth. “Come in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“If it’s your mother, I’m leaving.”
Her dry retort made him laugh. “Not my mother,” he said, heading back into his living room. “Someone much worse.”
Was it possible to be worse than his mom? Well, his father had given it a damn good try.
Sebastian straightened to his feet as they entered and met Mila halfway across of the floor, hand extended. “Muse.”
Thomas pressed his palm to his face. “Jesus, Hart.”
“Sebastian Hart? The director?”
Sebastian preened at Mila’s recognition. “Yep.”
She studied him, expression contemplative, before letting out an indifferent, “Huh.”
Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. “How’s that ego going, dude?”
Sebastian threw him a grin. “She likes me. I can tell.”
Thomas jabbed his thumb toward the door. “You can leave, that’s what you can do.”
“I can do that.” Sebastian turned back to Mila. “Muse. I’m sure I will meet you again soon.”
Mila’s lips curled. A little. “Maybe.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Oh, I like you. Give the bastard hell, okay?”
With a smirk at Thomas, a wink at Mila, and a playful rustle with Reaper, he left.
Thomas stood, heart thumping. Why the hell did he suddenly feel like a nervous, horny teenage boy? His palms were sweaty, for fuck’s sake.
Rubbing them on his thighs, he swallowed.
Mila watched him. “Remember how I told you not to make this weird?”
“What do you like to do for fun?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t have time for fun. Aren’t you meant to be writing?”
“I wrote all night, thanks to you. Now I want to have fun.”
“With me?”
“You make it sound dirty.”
A soft snort escaped her. Hiding in the sound was the hint of a laugh. And a little nervousness. Was she nervous because she couldn’t miss the energy sparking between them, either? Or because she was expecting him to tell her to undress? He’d told her sex was off the table last night, but he still had no idea where Shelby had found her. As soon as he could, he’d give his agent a call and find out.
Waving his hand toward the sitting area of his living room, he gave her a smile. “Let’s start with a chat.”
Expression unreadable, she contemplated his question. “Okay.”
Okay. It was a start.
She walked passed him and lowered herself into one of the armchairs. Instantly, and with great enthusiasm, Reaper claimed his spot on her lap. She smiled down at him, stroking his head. “You I like a lot.”
Thomas dropped back into his previous seat. “Still not convinced about me?”
She patted Reaper and gave him another enigmatic look.
He chuckled. “Can I ask your last name? Get your phone number?”
“No. And no.”
Damn, he was enjoying this. Enjoying someone not kowtowing to his every demand. It was fun. “Are you wanted by the law?”
She shook her head, lips twitching.
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. “Are you a spy?”
“Yes,” she answered with a perfect British accent. “I’m actually a MI5 agent. Sent to find out all the U.S. government secrets. My code name is 0042. I’m working my way up to the president, one celebrity at a time. My next target after you is Jared Leto.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “That was very impressive. How’d you do that so well? British parents?”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses. “My sister is an actor. I’ve helped her practice accents since we were both young.”
“Film? Maybe I should introduce her to Hart?”
“Stage. And maybe at the end of whatever this thing is you and I are doing, I’ll ask you to do just that.”
“Deal.” A bloom of happiness spread through him. He liked the idea of being connected to her somehow after he’d typed “the end.” Liked it a lot. “So, last name off limits, and no access to your phone number. Does your…boss know you’re here?”
She shifted in her chair a little, tongue quickly swiping over her bottom lip. “I’m off the clock.”
“Do you really like Stephen King?”
That small almost-there smile of hers returned. “I read Pet Sematary when I was twelve. Have been a fan ever since.”
“What did you study at college?”
She shifted in the chair again, enough to disturb Reaper, who jumped off her lap and wandered out of the living room. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be writing? I mean, I’m here. Isn’t my magic muse mojo working yet? Or did my power only come from my cleavage and contacts?”
She’d dodged his question about college again. Why? “No, no, the glasses are doing it for me.”
“Are they now?”
He grinned. “You have no idea. Nice use of alliteration, by the way.”
Her smile finally broke through whatever defenses she had up. Hell, it made her whole face turn from beautiful to stunning. “Thank you.”
He sat still, studying her. If ever he’d met a closed book before, here she was. He didn’t like closed books. Books were meant to be opened.
And I’m an open book? Pot, meet kettle.
With a shaky sigh, she adjusted her glasses. “Maybe we should discuss price before things get too…too…”
“Weird?”
Another smile, this one far more relaxed. Fuck, he was a goner. “Way, way too late for that, St. Clair.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gave her his own smile. “Think of it like this, we’re two people spending time in each other’s company, like strangers on a long train ride who get to know each other by the end. And sometimes that train has a paintball carriage, and sometimes it has an art gallery carriage, and sometimes a walk-through-Central-Park carriage.”
“A paintball carriage?”
He grinned. “Good thing you wore jeans today, yes?” He slapped his knees and straightened to his feet. “Let’s go.”
She tracked his rise with a frown. “We’re going paintballing?”
“Yep.”
“Now?”
“Yep.”
“And this is going to help you write your book?”
He chuckled. “You better believe me, goddess.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Baby?”
“No.”
“Babe?”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “And here I was thinking all I’d have to do is walk around in front of you for a while and you’d be running to your office and pounding on the keys. That’s what you did last night when I first arrived.”
The soft laugh dancing on her words sent another bloom of warmth through him. “Nothing as mundane as that, I’m afraid.”
“Okay. Sure. It’s your wallet. Speaking of wallet, we still haven’t finalized price.”
He grinned again. “Name it. What’s your hourly rate?”
She gave him a number.
He nodded. “Done.”
Her mouth fell open. “Just like that? No arguing? No negotiating? That’s just for being in my company. No funny business, no…no sex. And that’s the per-hour rate. You understand that, right? Per hour.”
“Per hour. Gotcha.”
A shaky sigh slipped from her, and she pressed her hands to her stomach, her gaze darting around the room, the floor. “Oh boy, this is really happening.” She looked up at him, eyes wide and full of uncertainty behind her lenses.
He closed the distance between them, crouched down in front of where she sat, and removed her hands from her stomach, threading his fingers through hers. “Hey, it’s all good. I’m not evil. I only write about it. And I’m not going to get you to sign a degrading contract. Not going to get you to sign any kind of contract at all. I just…” He paused. Christ, this close to her he could feel her body’s heat, smell her delicate perfume. “You just stir something in me. Feed something. Okay, that sounds far creepier than I meant, but you know what I mean. Hell, I just want to spend time with you, because I hope it’ll help me find the words to beat this deadline. Simple as that. No strings, no ulterior motives. No plans to seduce you into my bed—as much as the thought of you there stirs me in a whole other way. Just us, together. Author and muse. Nothing more. Okay?”
She stared at him, eyebrows dipped in a frown. “Nothing more.”
The two words left her on a whisper.
“Nothing more,” he repeated with a smile.
She nodded, and then did the worst thing she could have, licked her bottom lip with a shy little swipe of her tongue.
Thomas groaned as a rush of very male, very carnal hunger swept through him. “Oh, Mila, why did you—”
Leaning toward her, he cupped her face in his hands and captured her lips with his.