Page 54 of First Touch

I started to refute him, but I couldn’t. So I sighed. “It’s not a dream part, no. But the show’s a hit. And next year the producers have talked about making me a simulated life form instead of just a voice that comes from the walls.”

“So you’d be on screen but you’d be playing a robot?”

I probably imagined the mocking in his voice, but if I didn’t, could I blame him?

I let out a groan and covered half my face with my hand. “I know. It’s not much better.” My hand fell to the counter. “But neither are the roles my agent is suggesting for me. They’re all fluff. Pretty face, valley girls with no substance. They’re just as humiliating. Only in a different way.”

“The curse of being beautiful,” he said, and this time I knew he was mocking me.

I wadded up my napkin and threw it at him. “Not a curse. But being attractive doesn’t always put me in a position of power despite what it does for you.”

He’d suggested that at his spa, and while I’d understood what he meant, I enjoyed being able to throw his judgments back in his face.

Except it didn’t work quite the way I’d hoped. “I don’t know about that. I bet you could get the roles you want. You simply aren’t going about it the right way.”

“You’re right,” I said tersely. “I should invite myself over to my agent’s house some Saturday and swim naked in his pool, and I’ll probably get my pick of scripts.”

His eye twitched, the only indication what I’d said bothered him. “You could also demand that he give you better parts. Remind him that, yes, you could play those bimbo roles, but since you’re also smart and talented, it would be a waste of your time. If he fails to acknowledge that truth, then you need a new agent. And with the success of your show, I’m sure finding someone else to represent you shouldn’t be a problem. If that’s what you really want, you should go for it.”

It had been an idea I’d tossed around more than once, always deciding against it for no other reason than habit. I was used to being told what role I was supposed to play. By men.

But here Reeve was telling me something different. Telling me I had options. Encouraging me to make my own decision.

I didn’t know how to respond so I faltered and dismissed him. “You don’t even know if I’m talented. You’ve never seen me act.”

But he wouldn’t let me get away with that. He tilted his head and said, “There are some things you just know.”

There were layers to his statement and in the back of my mind I wondered what other things he just knew. What things he just knew about me. But more dominant than those questions were the strange emotions surging inside me, noisy and bright and overwhelming like a carnival. Maybe I wasn’t fun or sassy or “entertaining,” but I was here. He’d made me breakfast. He’d given me options. He’d fucked me like I liked. And maybe he’d hurt my friend.

But he made me breakfast.

I picked up my coffee and sipped it, swallowing down the tight knot forming in the back of my throat. Reeve was still staring at me, and it made me feel both self-conscious and prized. Threw me off balance.

Needing something else to steal my attention, I glanced toward the rest of the newspaper stacked in a pile next to us.

The lifestyle pages were on top and as soon as I saw the featured article, my grip tightened on my mug. It recapped the Valentine’s Ball that Reeve had been at the night before, and, fittingly, his picture was front and center. He looked fantastic in his black-on-black Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo, almost as stunning as he’d looked when I’d seen him in it the night before.

“I would have gone with you,” I said, nodding toward the paper. The offer wasn’t coming from disappointment or a need to push forward in our relationship, but from a genuine want to be that for him. To be his plus one.

It surprised me and immediately I tried to think of a way to take it back.

Before I could, he spoke. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” His smile slipped away. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that.” His tone was serious, and I braced myself for whatever he was setting me up for. “I can’t date you right now. And I’m not going to take you out in public.”

My chest tightened and the knot in my throat returned, and I felt like crying or screaming.

I couldn’t do either. So I sat up straighter. “When you said I wasn’t entertaining, I didn’t realize that you meant I was miserable to be with.”

He laughed. “‘Miserable.’ Very funny.”

I scowled, hurt by his declaration, humiliated by his amusement, on the verge of deeper, more intense emotions that I refused to reveal. I stood, ready to gather my things and leave.

“Sit down,” Reeve ordered, suddenly sober. He waited until I, reluctantly, did. “I meant, I won’t take you out yet. I don’t appear in public with women I’m seeing until I’ve been with them at least two months.”

“You don’t?” I was astonished as much as relieved.

“No. I don’t. No exceptions.”

I did the math in my head, calculating my own two-month graduation date. “So you won’t take me out in public until the end of March?”