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“I met Layla when we were twelve. I was in lust, but she was shy, so we didn’t start dating until we were sixteen, and became inseparable. Went to the same college, talked about getting married, having babies, the whole works. We were on the same page about everything except the location. I was thinking L.A., she was thinking Providence. The same neighborhood we’d grown up in, our kids going to the same schools we’d gone to…”
He falls silent for a moment, his hand tightening on mine. “She knew I wanted to be an actor, though. That’s the thing. It’s not like I blindsided her with ‘By the way, babe, I’m heading to Hollywood.’?”
“She didn’t want to go?” I ask.
“Nah. Wouldn’t even consider it,” he said quietly. “She had her dreams too, and they involved suburbia, not dressing for Oscar parties.”
I try to figure out what to say, and settle for simple and obvious: “That sucks.”
Gage laughs. “It does. Sucked even more when my brother moved in, offered her what I couldn’t. I found out they were dating the same day my agent told me I got the Killboy role. Bittersweet doesn’t even come close to describing it.”
I squeeze his hand. “Her loss. Really.”
“Uh-huh.” He changes into the right lane. “Says the girl who hates Hollywood every bit as much as Layla did.”
Damn. He’s right. I haven’t exactly been supportive of the whole actor-business thing. To be honest, it didn’t really occur to me that for Gage, being an actor is his dream. Just like running my own business, on my terms, is my dream.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t marry your brother,” I say lightly.
He lets out a real laugh. “Too true. Nor did you have his baby.”
I wince. He’s uncle to his brother and ex’s son or daughter? The poor guy. “That’s ice cold.”
He grins, and I’m relieved to see it’s genuine. “What do you say we don’t spend another second of this day thinking of the real world?”
“Deal,” I say. “Where are you taking me?”
“Right here,” he says, slowing down and pulling into a turn lane.
My eyes go wide as I realize where we are. “The Four Seasons?” It comes out as a squeak, and I lift my hands, trying to smooth my crazy damp hair.
Gage climbs out of the car, not the least bit concerned about the fact that he’s wearing only wet swim trunks. He tosses the valet the keys, then goes to the trunk, where he pulls a rumpled shirt out of a bag and yanks it over his head.
I’m still trying to tame my hair when the valet opens the car door for me. I want to stay put. I’m not fancy enough for this place. I’ll stand out like a sore thumb. I can’t…
Gage appears, having added a baseball cap to his ensemble, and takes the valet’s place, offering me a hand.
When I don’t take it, he sighs and steps forward, bending down until he’s leaning over me. He’s so close, and he smells like sunshine and salt water, his body big, his breath warm. For a moment I think—I hope—that he’s going to kiss me.
Instead he unbuckles my seatbelt and easily hauls me to my feet.
I tug at my shirt in panic, hyperaware that I’m wearing only the bikini bottoms and no pants. “Gage, I can’t wear this in there.”
“Of course you can, darling. That’s a High Tee shirt, is it not? You’ll be the finest-dressed woman in the establishment.”
I smile a little at that. “On top, yes.”
He glances down, lifting his sunglasses slightly as his gaze lingers on my legs, bare except for the black swimsuit bottoms, flip-flops, and dried sand.
“For the record, I’m in favor of this outfit. But if you’re going to be a prude about it, don’t you have shorts in your bag?”
“Paisley left the sunscreen bottle open. There’s white creamy crap all over them.”
He smiles and puts back his sunglasses. “So many jizz jokes. All right, fine, stay here.”
Gage turns and walks away without another word, and my mouth drops open. What am I supposed to do, just stand here by the car and—
A moment later, a woman dressed in a tidy skirt and white polo emerges from the lobby, holding a cocktail on a tray. She walks right toward me with a friendly smile. “Mai tai?”
