Page 20 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“I’m sorry,” he says roughly, staring down at the steering wheel. “I’ve had a bad morning. You’re not an idiot. Far from it.”
“I thought you didn’t do apologies,” I say, magnanimous as always.
He takes a deep breath. “I don’t, but you’re switching up the rules on me.”
What the hell doesthatmean?
Another tense silence falls between us. “I know it’s none of my business, Jake, but why did you really come back to L.A.?”
He sighs and stares out of his window at a family shuffling past with white paper bags dotted with red palm trees. “You’re right. It’s none of your business.”
This man! Offending me one minute, apologizing the next. And now he’s back to his usual devoid-of-emotion curtness.
“Do you really want to quit?” I can feel his eyes on me again, seeking out my truth, no matter how deep I’ve buried it.
“No,” I answer honestly. “Although I’d appreciate less of your attitude. Oh, and a raise. You’re like a volcano erupting every five minutes and I could use the hazard pay.”
“Good. Because Max would kill me. He says you’re the best assistant he’s ever had.”
“Nice to hear I’m appreciated bysomeone.”
“Don’t get cocky with it, Books. He appreciates anyone who’s not male.”
The smirk is back, toying with those perfect lips. I can only gaze at them, drinking in the last remnants of hot, angry male, now that his perfect jawline is loosening. I look away quickly before he catches me staring. “God, this job is exhausting,” I mutter, my head flopping back against the headrest.
“I didn’t realize you had such a sparkling repertoire to compare it with. Your CV seems to suggest otherwise.”
So, he did look at it.For some reason this makes me smile. “I may lack experience but I reckon I’m doing okay. What’s more, despite all your nefarious predictions—”
“Nefarious?” His eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “You’re using big words again. Have you always spoken like a Bronte novel?”
“Despite all yournefariouspredictions,” I repeat, glaring at him, “I still haven’t screwed your brother.”
“Not yet.”
“Notever. My next employer is going to be a breeze compared to you Daltons.”
“Not if it’s Brad Wilson,” he says darkly.
What the heck is that supposed to mean?
Chapter Twelve
Jake doesn’t tell me where we’re going, but I assume it’s back to his place. I get the impression that he’s trying to put as much distance between Brad and me as he can.
On the way, we take a detour down Hollywood Boulevard. I know he’s doing it for my benefit, but I sort of wish he hadn’t. What greets me is a cliché of heat, sweat, and fading neon, with crowds of wide-eyed tourists in chinos and dead-eyed street performers in their faded Batman costumes, all spilling over the brim of the extra wide sidewalks. Even famous buildings like the Dolby Theatre have a disappointing dullness about them.
“The stars shine brighter after twilight,” murmurs Jake, catching sight of my face.
“How profound,” I say lightly. “And so do producers’ egos, by all accounts.”
“I wasn’t talking about me. Shit!” He curses as the Maserati is nearly rammed off the road by a celebrity sightseeing bus.
I burst into laughter. I can’t help myself, and even Jake stops scowling for a second. The irony would have been beautifully poetic.
I’m savoring the lighter atmosphere as we enter the Platinum Triangle—the three super-affluent L.A. neighborhoods of Bel Air, Beverly Hills, and Holmby Hills—and then my phone starts ringing. I glance down and the eye roll is automatic. It’s as if she cansmellthe money.
“Who is it?” demands Jake.
