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Max drums his fingers on the table. “You like him?”
Yes, I like him. But he’s not Keith. He’s definitely not Keith, and I want to find a Keith. Someone I can fall in love with again. Someone I can believe in again. But I suppose to do that I have to stop dating men who live thousands of miles away. “Yes, Max.”
“Good. When do you see him again?”
“I don’t know. As you’re aware, he’s on location in France. I work here. It’s not an easy commute.”
“So you’re going to leave him alone with Kiki?” Max asks shrewdly, knowing, as I do, that Kiki has a reputation for seducing her co-stars.
“Max, I have a career, too. A career that might be in trouble— ”
“Yes, and Trevor’s good for you.”
What Max really means is that Trevor has upped my fair market value. I’m a hotter, more exciting commodity with Trevor attached to my name.
So maddening. So L.A. But also so true.
Dinner is finally served at nine o’clock. Everyone has taken their places at our table save for two, and I’m delighted when the salad course appears. I have never in my life been so happy to see field greens with beets and crumbled feta cheese.
The empty chair next to me scrapes back, and heads lift at our table, everyone pausing to welcome the final couple, Alex Frost and his date— only Alex isn’t a man. Alex is a very tan, very sexy blonde, and Alex’s date is none other than Michael O’Sullivan.
Lightning, apparently, can strike twice. Lucky me. Alex takes the chair next to the gentleman on her right, leaving the chair to my right empty, which means Michael and I are going to be sitting next to each other for the next couple of hours.
How is this possible?
I detest this man, yet he keeps turning up everywhere that I am. And of course his date, Alex Frost, is a voluptuous blonde poured into a red beaded gown with a keyhole opening at the sternum, showing the firm magnificence of her breasts.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Michael apologizes to the group as he helps Alex with her chair. “Alexis was paying homage to Jessica Simpson’s hairdresser.”
Is he serious? Or is this a joke? But Alex beams. “I adore Ken Pavés,” she says.
I guess he was serious.
“She’s a huge fan of his work,” Michael says, grinning, as he sits next to me.
“We’re just glad you’re here,” says Irene, Max’s wife. “As I’m a huge fan of your work.”
Irene explains to the table that Michael is Dr. O’Sullivan, the renowned Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. “I owe everything to Dr. O’Sullivan,” she adds, holding out a slim, bejeweled hand to Michael. “A couple years ago he gave me my pre-baby body back, and then this year he erased the ravages of time.”
Max catches my gaze across the table and gives me a significant look.
He deliberately put Michael and Alex next to me. Max is hoping that by putting me close to Michael O’Sullivan, surgeon to the stars, I’ll suddenly find plastic surgery less offensive.
I shake my head at Max and look away, catching Michael’s eye instead.
“Lucky us,” Michael murmurs, taking his napkin from beside his plate and spreading it on his lap. His arm bumps mine, sending little frissons of feeling up my arm and down my spine. My chest constricts and I take a quick, surprised breath.
Why does he do this to me? I don’t like him. I don’t want to like him, but he has so much energy, such vitality, that I can’t help but be aware of him.
“Someone’s laughing somewhere,” I answer flatly, trying to ignore the way his body takes up all the space, trying to ignore the way my body responds to him. Not even sexy Scottish Trevor makes my skin feel hot and my nerves scream. I shuffle to my left to put more space between us.
Michael notes my sideways maneuver. “Uncomfortable?”
“Not at all,” I lie.
He muffles a laugh and leans toward me, his tuxedo-clad shoulder nearly brushing mine. “You remind me of my favorite Sunday school teacher, Miss Littleton,” he says softly, his voice pitched so low that I feel as if he’s telling me something very serious. “She was twenty-one and beautiful and very, very virtuous.”
He pauses, dense lashes lifting, revealing those deep blue eyes that aren’t natural at all. “And then she ran away with the priest Father Flaherty.” Michael clucks. “Tragically, Father Flaherty was excommunicated.”
“And what happened to her?” I ask, curious despite myself.
“She became Mrs. Flaherty and had five little Flahertys.”
I don’t know if it’s the hint of an Irish brogue in his voice or the glint in his eyes, but I blush. “That’s not a true story.”
“It is. Every word of it.”
Alexis suddenly wants to be part of our conversation, and she laces an arm through Michael’s and leans across him. “What’s not a true story, darling?” she asks, her blue gaze fixed on me.
In her mind I’m competition.
If only I could tell her I loathe her man.
“Father Flaherty and his five little Flahertys,” Michael answers with a half-smile.
She frowns, arched eyebrows flattening. “I don’t understand.”
Michael introduces us instead of attempting to explain. “Alexis, this is Tiana Tomlinson. Tiana and I were on the Larry King show Thursday night. Tiana, this is Alexis Frost, an expert on cosmetic surgery.”
Obviously, I think.
Alexis looks at me critically. “Are you considering having work done?”
I smile, but it feels brittle. “No. I’m not a fan of plastic surgery.”
“Why not?” she asks.
Michael gestures to her. “We met on the show— ”
“His show,” Alexis interrupts. “Dr. Hollywood. You’re familiar with it?”
This is torture. I can’t believe I have to sit here next to these two for dinner. “I’m familiar with it, but I never had the chance to watch it. It was on for only a year, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s in syndication now.” She glances at Michael. “I had a guest role on an episode. One thing led to another, and here I am.”
And here she is. A work of art.
Michael’s gaze meets mine. A smile tugs at his mouth. I’d love to ask him what he sees in Alexis. I’d love to ask him why he— by all accounts a brilliant surgeon— is with a blonde bimbo, but I know the answer to that. Men love beauty, even if the beauty is brainless, which means even brilliant, charismatic surgeons can be shallow.
I’m feeling very shallow the next morning when Trevor calls me and we struggle to find something to discuss other than his movie.
I’m sitting curled up on the couch with my morning coffee, sunshine streaming through the windows, the phone tucked between my chin and shoulder as I leaf through the Sunday papers while we chat.
“I can’t believe it’s only been a week since you left,” he says. His voice is rough, and he sounds tired.
“Long week?”
“Very.” He yawns and then adds with a grumble, “Sometimes I hate the long-distance thing.”
“Me too.”
“So when will I see you again?”
“When is your next break?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We’re behind schedule. Two of the producers are here this weekend, and they’re tearing into the director as we speak.”
“That’s not going to help things tomorrow, is it?”
“No, but the money people don’t care.”
And just like that we run out of things to say. Again. Always. I struggle to come up with a new topic and grab at the first thing that comes to mind. “So how’s Kiki?”
“Why do you ask?” His tone is less friendly now.
I try to make a joke of it. “Everybody keeps teasing me that you’re on location with Kiki Woods.”
“And what does everybody say?”
He’s not laughing. He’s angry. I swallow hard.
“What are they saying, Tiana?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, don’t be coy now.”
“They say she’s a man stealer,” I answer defiantly.
“Then they have it wrong. Kiki doesn’t steal men. I don’t know why you’d repeat gossip.”
I close my eyes, press my fingers to my brow. “I’m sorry.”
He’s not mollified. “I don’t know why you’d believe garbage like that.”
