Page 12 of My Sexy Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 2)
“It sounds awesome.” Obviously, I wasn’t going to say no. “When?”
“Let’s see. Tomorrow’s Friday, and my lawyer’s in town from New York, so we’re meeting in the morning to review possible projects for my production company. You have no idea how hard it is to find a good script these days,” she said, and she reminded me of my chat with Anaka kvetching about the same problem last night. “And speaking of problems with scripts, then I’m going to be at the studio in the afternoon for a final read-through of The Weekenders because the director made another last-minute change to the script after last night’s run-through.” I cringed a bit inside when she mentioned last night, because twenty-four hours ago I was snapping her face lip-locked with Avery Brock and figuring she’d never call, so I’d never have to feel guilty. Now she’d called, and now I felt mighty guilty. “But that’s neither here nor there, so Friday’s a no-go. And Saturday is out because I have this wedding thing to be at on Saturday and it’s going to last all night.”
“Right. Your sister’s getting married. You must be so excited,” I said, then wanted to kick myself. I sounded like a starstruck sycophant.
“I’m so excited for her, too. I’m going to be a bridesmaid, and it’s going to be amazing. I guess we should make it a Sunday brunch, since I have a thing on Sunday night.”
A thing probably meant a second tryst with Avery Brock.
“Let me just check my calendar and see if I’m free on Sunday,” I said in a playful voice, pretending to thumb through a calendar. I needed to recover and return to the funny girl Riley thought I was yesterday. Because that’s the girl I wanted to be, not a yes woman. “Okay, turns out I’m available.”
She laughed briefly. “Perfect. Can we do eleven? Is that too late? I’m just worried about getting to the restaurant on time after Saturday’s festivities.”
“Not a problem. I’ll see you and Sparky McDoodle at eleven on Sunday.”
“Yay. Can’t wait, Jess.”
The call ended, and I studied the phone as if it would emit a report verifying that I really did have a phone conversation with Riley Belle. Was I becoming friends with an actress? It was an odd notion, but then I was becoming friends, too, with a private detective who’d been following me, and now was my partner-in-sort-of-crime as well as my oh-so-hot-date in an hour, so odd notions were not unfamiliar this week.
I flopped down on my bed, resting my head on my pillow, flashing back to today in the diner, and in the wig shop, and on the street with William. We’d had fun, I’d felt carefree with him, as if I didn’t have the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’d even confessed something I rarely told anyone. But I wanted him to know the real me, not just the me I presented.
Why did I want him to know me?
Because I liked him. I more than liked him. I also liked who I could be with him. With him I wasn’t merely the Jess who wanted to be a doctor, who earned top grades, who kept all her emotions in check. That Jess was restrained. She always had the proper handle on any situation.
But there was another Jess, the one who planned disguises, the one who was daring enough to chase down pictures, the one who let insults and invectives from stars who didn’t want their photos taken slide off her.
The one I was with him.
5
William
* * *
I had an address for tomorrow, some Web research for tonight, and a shopping bag full of the ingredients for chicken stir-fry.
The one item I didn’t have? Time to tail the boy poets. I had yet to bend the time-space continuum of Los Angeles traffic far enough to track the brothers in the three hours I had free in between saying goodbye to Jess and knocking on the door of her apartment. But I was armed with other information, and intel was yet another way to her heart, so I’d take that route for now. I wanted to win her over.
More of her.
When she opened the door, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Words rattled around in my brain but I could barely gather them in a coherent fashion.
“Skirt,” I mumbled, as proper construction of sentences and little details like verbs fled my mind. I was unable to take my eyes off her legs. Her strong, toned, bare legs were on display for the first time. I’d only ever seen her in jeans, and now she was wearing a jean skirt that hit her mid-thigh—God bless short skirts—and a light blue tank top. Her blond hair was swept up in a ponytail that showed off her neck and shoulders. But the skirt, that was all I could think of…well, all I could think of was what was underneath the skirt. How her thighs would feel in my hands. How soft her skin might be.
