Page 11 of My Charming Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 1)
Just as I liked the ice cream cone.
My brain warned me: danger ahead.
I took one more lick of the cone, a bite of the chocolate shell, then tossed the cone in the nearest trash can.
His eyes widened. “You chucked your ice cream? How can you chuck an ice cream cone?”
“That was all I wanted.” Because it was true. Because I’d worked hard to be able to stop at a few bites. I could do the same with His British Hotness. I was damn proud of myself for having mastered restraint in matters of food and hot guys. I stood up. “Thank you for the ice cream.”
He rose, too. He was taller than me by a good six inches. Which gave me a perfect view of his full lips as we stood face-to-face. Which made me want to touch them. To run a finger over them. Assess how they felt. Lean in for a kiss. A guy like that, funny, hot, totally at ease—he had to be a great kisser.
Scratch that. I bet he was an excellent kisser.
He tilted his head to the side, pressed those nice lips together, then took a beat as if he were a touch nervous. “Do you want to go out for another bite of an ice cream cone sometime?”
Oh no. Was he asking me out? No way. He was just being friendly. He was scoping out the competition. Nothing more. “So I can have another bite and then toss it?” I asked, because it was so much safer to avoid the possibility.
“How about a chocolate cake? You wouldn’t throw that out, would you?”
“I might toss it.”
“What about pizza instead?” he suggested, undeterred by my lack of an immediate yes.
I shook my head.
“Fries?”
Another shake.
“Sandwich? Burger? Hot dog?”
Shake. Shake. Shake. Restraint. Restraint. Restraint.
“Don’t tell me a salad,” he said, and flung his hand dramatically across his forehead. “Now I know I’m in L.A.”
I raised my cheap sunglasses on top of my blond hair. I was going to have to kick the door closed. Whatever he was doing—asking me out or egging me on—it needed to end. Because if I went along with him then I’d have the whole ice cream. Him. Lick him up and down and all around like the tastiest ice cream there ever was. Kiss him all over. Grab him and pull him against me, and feel how we aligned. He had to go the way of the cone. “Harrigan, this isn’t the part in the script where the heroine caves and agrees to go out with the guy.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so I’m the guy in the script? Does that mean I’m the hero?”
“Well, you’re either the hero, the villain, or the gay best friend,” I said, my lips curving up in a traitorous grin. Damn him for being so easy to talk to, and about my favorite topic.
“Definitely not the gay best friend,” he said quickly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“I already have a best friend, and she’s a she, so that part isn’t being cast for this picture.”
“But there are other roles still open? Like, could I be an antihero?” he suggested playfully.
This man was trouble. Too much trouble for my secret little predilection—casting the movies that played out in my head. Naturally, I had to keep going. “Possibly.”
“Or what about an accomplice?”
“That’s another role for sure. So is nemesis.”
“I could be a good nemesis. Or maybe even reformed bad boy?”
I suppressed a smile. He looked like a reformed bad boy. He talked like a good guy. He could be a bad-boy-makes-good. Everyone loved that role. “It’s really up to the writers. Which role you’ll play,” I said.
“What do the writers think?”
I didn’t answer right away. I narrowed my eyes, and sized him up and down. Which fit the conversation, and also afforded me the extra bonus of checking him out close up and cataloging his features. Captivating eyes like thunderclouds. Chiseled cheekbones with a hint of stubble. Fantastic dark hair. Gorgeous smile. Toned, tall, and strong body. Verdict? Too good to be true. He had to be a mirage. A figment of my imagination. “The writers haven’t decided yet.”
“Is that a yes to pizza? Because pizza is like sunshine. You can’t not like it.”
“Pizza as in a pizza date?” I asked, as I furrowed my brow, deliberately wanting to keep him on his toes.
He smiled again. He was imperturbable. “Yes. Like a pizza date.”
I stroked my chin, as if considering his request.
I did want a date. Very much so. I knew where it would lead, though. To trouble. To distractions. To a supreme lack of focus on my goals.
But a kiss? A kiss was just a kiss. I could say yes to a kiss. He hadn’t asked for one, but I had a hunch I could take one. Besides, what were the chances I’d see him again? I wasn’t going to run into him at school. If I hadn’t so far, then it wasn’t going to happen now. I’d already proven I was faster on a stakeout than he was, so I’d smoke him as the competition.
