Page 75 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Don’t be.” Brad picks up the menu again, his expression thawing slightly.
The waiter arrives to take our order and is promptly sent packing.
“Jake told me a bit about her in Morocco. I know she left his father to be with yours.”
Brad seems bothered by this for some reason. “So, hedidshare something with you.”
“I caught him off guard. It was a moment of weakness.”
Don’t think about Marrakech. Don’t think about Marrakech.
“Jake…weak?” Brad’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s a lot of things, Charlie, most of them unpleasant, but I’d never accuse him of that.” He starts to toy with his wineglass, his finger and thumb running grooves up and down the elegant stem. “Jake sided with his father after his parents divorced. He made my life hell.” Brad grits his jaw and I watch the muscles tense beneath his golden skin.
I can’t imagine Jake being vindictive. It’s not his style. He’s more a cold shoulder, leave-you-out-in-the-freezing-wilderness kind of a guy. Then again, he stole Cassie from Brad, which fits with the whole jealous older brother thing.
I glance up to find Brad watching me. He turns and signals for the waiter straightaway.
“Check, please.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, relief washing over me. “I’m in too much of a reflective mood to do this restaurant any justice tonight.”
He nods. “I think we both just lost our appetites. Let’s go find a bar instead.”
Outside, I brace myself against the breeze that’s whipping up the streets of East London. I’m used to the desert temperatures of Morocco, and I’m shaking like a leaf in Lucy’s dress.
“I’m sorry about dinner.”
He frowns and wraps his navy mohair jacket around my shoulders. “Don’t sweat it. Talking about Jake tends to turn my stomach, too. Let’s go lose ourselves in a bottle of somethingreallyexpensive.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Brad’s driver drops us off on Shaftesbury Avenue. We avoid the tourist bars, strolling arm in arm through Soho in search of something smaller and more anonymous. The pavements are crammed with the overspill of cafés and restaurants, and we take a short detour to admire the kitschy colors of Carnaby Street.
Brad is easy company once we stop talking about Jake. He’s more like the man I met in L.A. We walk and talk for miles before my blisters start to sting like hell. Kicking off my heels, I produce a pair of ballet pumps from my bag. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I like dwarfing women. Brings out the caveman in me.”
His words rumble with flirtatious interest. They should tingle me in all the right places, but I’m empty inside. Jake’s gone and carved out all the best parts for himself.
What the hell is wrong with me?Brad’s hot. He’s single…
We’ve retraced our steps. We’re now circumnavigating the hordes that are milling about Leicester Square.
“What time are you shooting tomorrow?” I ask him, noting the late hour on the billboard outside theEmpire.
“We’re not.”
Something in his voice makes me glance up. Brad’s expression has taken on that dangerous quality again. “Jake shut us down this afternoon. Says we crossed a line by going into production without his approval. He’s flying someone in for crisis talks tomorrow.”
Is Jake flying in, as well?A thousand emotions start punching my thoughts.
Scared, anxious…Hopeful.
“Wow. Closing down the whole production must be costing him a fortune.”
“As I said, Jake doesn’t give a shit about stuff like that. As long as he’s seen to be the one in control.”
Control.
