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The older man laughs. “All good, although he complained your schedule is bloody hard to work around. Almost as bad as mine. I hear you’re off to San Francisco tomorrow for a photo shoot.”
“Gotta go where the work takes me.”
“I appreciate that ethic.” Nigel’s attention shifts to me. “’Course a smart lad makes sure he’s not all work and no play.”
“I’m sorry,” Vaughn says. “This is Kendall. Kendall, this is Nigel Cowie, the executive producer of America Rocks.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m a huge fan of the show.”
“Lovely to meet you, and thanks for watching.” He gives me a kind smile, earning my regard right away, then returns his focus to Vaughn. “Great job onstage.”
“Thank you.” Vaughn threads his fingers through mine once again. I squeeze his hand to convey, Woohoo! Nigel Cowie said you did a great job!
Nigel’s gaze dips to our linked hands like he can hear my inner thoughts. Am I thinking too loud?
“I won’t keep you,” he says, his tone amiable.
“I’m glad we ran into you,” Vaughn says. “Enjoy the rest of the night.”
“Likewise,” Nigel replies.
The second Vaughn and I are outside in the warm summer air, I say, “He really likes you.”
“You think?”
“Yep.”
“I tried to play it cool.”
“You were the coolest of cool.”
“There’s a cool bar around the corner.” Vaughn’s smile is anything but cool. It’s hot, and it’s getting me hot, too. “Are you up for something to eat?”
“Sounds good,” I say.
He opens the door to Lost Property Bar, allowing me entry first. With his hand on the small of my back, he leads us to a round open table in the back. He pulls out my chair before sitting across from me in the low-lit, sophisticated bar. I hang my purse over the chair back and relax into my seat. I’ve got the best view in the place right in front of me. Dressed in a fitted mesh-trim T-shirt the same shade as his eyes, his light brown hair effortlessly sexy, and a playful bend to his lips, Vaughn is ridiculously appealing.
“Whatever you do,” he says, putting our shoe bags down before leaning his elbows on the table, “don’t tell Dylan we came here instead of The Cabana.”
I laugh. “I can hear him now. ‘You went to that fucking dive instead of my place? What the hell is wrong with you?’”
Vaughn cracks up. “You sounded just like him.”
“I’m good with voices. Want to hear my James Corden?”
“He’s only my favorite late night talk show host, so yes.”
“He’s my favorite, too!” Okay, so now I really want to impress him. I clear my throat. “Hey, man, you left your guitar at my house last night, so I’ve got it here, but I’m going to be late for work now.”
“I don’t know why listening to you imitate a male late night host is sexy”—Vaughn takes my face in his hands—“but I need to make out with this exceptionally talented mouth now.” The split second his lips meet mine I open for him. Every kiss is better than the last. Every taste makes me forget everything but us. Our tongues slide against each other, our lips meld. I’m helpless to stop the tiny noise of approval that sounds from the back of my throat. Vaughn kisses me harder in answer.
After a minute—or maybe ten, I’ve lost track of time—someone’s chair scrapes against the floor, reminding us we’re necking in a bar. We pull back at the same time. Vaughn’s eyes stay glued to mine as he gets comfortable in his seat again. The intensity that arches between us feels magnetic, and I’m ready to dive into another kiss. Screw privacy.
“Let’s order before I drag you out of here.” He picks up the small menu left on the table just as the waitress arrives. Vaughn orders me a lemon drop martini when I tell him I want something fruity and not too strong, and an iced tea for himself.
“You’re not having a drink?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m good without it.”
