“Hell, no. But this thing costs like three times my salary. There’s no way production is letting it out of their sight. That’s why he’s here.”
I gesture to the PA, who taps his watch. Time to quit fooling around. Steve is one thing. I don’t want to piss off the people signing my paychecks.
I sigh and wriggle out of Connor’s embrace. With my fellow actors, I follow the PA to a suite that’s been reserved for us to use as a changing room. When I’m back in my civilian clothes and my costume is safe with the PA, I meet Connor back at the booth, and we make our way out of the Javits Center and into a cab.
“Where are you going, my friends” the cabbie asks in a lilting Jamaican accent as I slide into the back seat.
Connor shoots me a questioning look as he slides in next to me and closes the door. “Do you want to get some dinner? I could try to get us a table at Rezdôra?”
I shake my head and give the cabbie Connor’s address. Our address. The last place I want to be tonight is one of Manhattan’s most popular, most crowded restaurants. “Can we order take-out? I’m fried. If I have to talk to one more person today, I going to lose my shit. Except for you, of course.”
“Of course.” He whips out his phone and opens GrubHub. “Thai?”
“Perfect.”
I don’t even have to tell him what to order. He knows. Chicken satay and drunken noodles for me. Fried tofu and vegetarian pad Thai for him.
The delivery guy gets there just as our cab is pulling up to the curb. Connor pays the cabbie, I grab the food and tip the delivery guy, and we head upstairs, greeting Ernie at the doorman’s desk on our way through the lobby to the elevator.
Connor takes the food from me as soon as we’re inside the apartment. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you take a hot shower and relax while I set the table and pour us some Riesling?”
I drop my duffle bag by the door, wait for him to set the food down on the kitchen island, then make my move, backing him up against the marble counter top and undoing a button on his polo shirt so I can press a palm to his skin just below his breastbone. “Sure you don’t want to join me? Thai food is great reheated in the microwave.”
His eyes narrow, his lips hovering millimeters from mine. For a hot second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then his hands span my hips, and he lifts me up like a china doll and sets me aside.
“We’ll have plenty of time for that later.” He rains little love bites down my neck, his fingers massaging my waist through my shirt. “Let me pamper you first.”
Is this guy for real? A hot shower, Thai food, and Riesling, with a little—who am I kidding, a lot of—sex thrown in as an after-dinner treat? He’s seriously too good to be true. I take some of the skin on my forearm between my thumb and index finger and squeeze.
He raises his head. “What are you doing?”
“Pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
“No dream, babe. This is your new reality. Or it can be, if you let it.”
I want to press him further, ask for details. Is he talking about what I think—hope—he’s talking about? Does he want to make our living arrangement permanent? Or does he have something even more official in mind?
But my brain has apparently gone AWOL. It’s wandering down a path strewn with images of happily-ever-after. Before I can reel it in and formulate an intelligent, grammatically correct follow-up question, his hands move up to my shoulders and he turns me around so I’m facing the opposite direction, toward the bedrooms.
“Go.” He swats my ass, nudging me down the hall. “Do whatever it is women do when they spend hours in the bathroom. The food and I will be waiting.”
I shoot him a grateful glance over my shoulder. “Can I use your shower?”
The master bath has this amazing rain shower with a million different settings, including a rain curtain, head and body sprays, colored lights, and a fragrance mist. It’s like bathing in a tropical paradise, without the water bugs and poisonous snakes. Heaven in twenty square feet.
Connor grins, showing off that dimple that always turns my girly parts to goo. “Mi shower es su shower.”
“Gracias.”
I take his advice and spend an extra long time under the warm, relaxing spray, washing away the stress and strain of being “on” all day. Then I wrap myself in my favorite silky, kimono-style robe, give myself a hydrating face mask, and blow dry my hair until it’s only slightly damp and slightly more manageable.
When I finally feel human again, I pad barefoot into the kitchen, stopping on the way to pet Mirri and Ajani, who have apparently been fed and are making their way to Connor’s bed for yet another cat nap. He’s standing in front of the open refrigerator, pulling out a chilled bottle of Riesling.
Two place settings are laid out next to each other on the island, with cloth napkins, real plates, and silverware that’s not plastic. He’s got the forks and knives mixed up—forks go on the left, knives on the right—but the scented candles burning around the room give it a soft, romantic feel and more than make up for the lapse in etiquette.
The overall effect is imperfectly perfect. Just like the man responsible for it.
He closes the refrigerator door and turns, bottle in hand. When he sees me, his eyes darken and he lets out a low whistle. “I think I might like this outfit even better than the last one.”
