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He threw his head back and laughed. “I knew it. You could never hold your liquor well.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not seventeen anymore. I assure you I’m now capable of drinking more than a glass of wine before I’m puking on your shoes.”
“I took them off just in case.” He wiggled his toes. “See? Safe and sound.”
She punched his arm, her cheeks heating up. The last time she’d seen him, on the night of his graduation, she’d snuck into his backyard with a bottle of pilfered wine. She and Mark had sat on his porch and drank all night long. Until sunrise. Knowing he would be gone soon, she’d not so brightly decided to make a move on him.
He was leaving in the morning, so if he laughed in her face, at least she wouldn’t have to see him again. She’d been moving in for a kiss, drunk enough to feel both bold and confident that she looked sexy in his eyes, but she’d ruined the effect by puking her guts up on his Nike’s. And for a second, as she moved closer to him, she’d sworn that she had seen desire cross his eyes before she lost all control of her stomach.
She looked down at his feet, covered in expensive looking socks that probably cost more than her whole outfit combined—including the shoes she no longer wore. “You’ll never let me live that night down, will you?”
“I don’t know. It was a pretty awesome night.” He nudged her with his elbow. “I think about it sometimes when I’m playing a part where I have to laugh. It helps inspire me to actually look amused.”
She put down her glass and dropped her head in her hands. “Oh, God. I’ll never be able to watch one of your movies and not think about you mocking me now.”
“Mocking? Never.” He grabbed her hands, tugging them away from her face. She looked up at him, caught sight of his sparkling eyes, and allowed herself to drown in them. “As if I would ever mock you. You just make me smile. That’s all. It reminds me of how life used to be. How simple things were with you, studying math and talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I was happy back then.”
&nb
sp; There was a haunting emptiness to his words as he fidgeted with his glass.
“So, it’s not what you expected?” she asked, her voice quiet.
Mark looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes locked on her. “I enjoy my career. I enjoy acting. But … sometimes I wish I had picked a different one.”
She shook her head. “Why would you want to give up your Hollywood lifestyle? You wear it well.”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t give up everything.” He pushed the glass away and picked up the People Magazine. He stopped at a page where his picture was plastered across it. “See this? That day I was sick. Felt like shit and dragged my feverish ass out of bed to get my prescription filled.”
She leaned closer and looked at the picture. “You look happy to me. Of course, you’re wearing sunglasses so I can’t see your eyes, but you look content enough.”
“Yeah, because I have to look that way. If the paparazzi take a picture of me with a red nose and puffy eyes—next day they’ll be calling me a drug addict. Saying I was out all night partying and snorting lines of cocaine. Next thing you know, my publicist is making me enter rehab for exhaustion.”
“That sucks.” She pulled the magazine out of his hand and tossed it face down on the table. “Well, how about this? Relax. You don’t have to be charming. Don’t have to pretend to want to rip my clothes off to keep your sex status symbol. Just be you. I promise I won’t tell anyone if you un-tuck your shirt and kick back for a bit.”
He bit back a smile. “You think I’m pretending I want to rip your clothes off to appear sexy?”
“No, of course not!” She bit her tongue, inwardly cursing herself for her choice of words. Way to make it sound like she thought he wanted to get into her bed. Idiot. “How come you latched onto that one part about sex out of the whole speech I just gave you? It’s such a typical man thing.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s ingrained. We can’t help it.”
She rubbed her temples and sighed.
He leaned in closer to her, his eyes latched on her mouth. “What if I want to rip off your clothes and have sex with you?”
She poured herself another glass and ignored the clenching of her stomach. “Nothing wrong with wanting.”
“Tease,” he uttered, grabbing her hands again. Why did he keep doing that? What was he up to tonight?
“Me? Never.”
His laughter melted away. His gaze dropped back down to her mouth and his fingers flexed on her hands. When he moved in closer, her breath caught in her throat. Was he going to kiss her? She tilted her chin up and her eyelids drifted shut. Waiting. Hoping.
Instead of getting the kiss she expected, she got her hands back in her lap, and he jumped to his feet. Of course he hadn’t been thinking of kissing her. She’d obviously imagined the whole thing, and now he was trying to get away from her. What happened to the promise she’d made to herself not to throw herself at him?
Fool.
Here she went again, trying to kiss the poor guy when he so clearly didn’t want to be kissed … by her. Why couldn’t she resist him? What chance did she, a teacher from a small town, have against Hollywood A-list actresses? He didn’t want her. Wouldn’t ever want her. They were friends—if she could even call what they had between them “friendship.” After all, he’d left for California and she’d never heard from him again. If he hadn’t broken down outside of her house, she wouldn’t be seeing him now, either. When would she get that through her thick, thick skull?
