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He was watching me closely with that gaze that missed nothing. “Still, you’ve thought about it,” he said like a psychic. “It’s one of the reasons you left L.A.”
No. There was no way that Tessa Hartigan, daughter of hippies and semi-failed model, was going to be a nurse. So I did what I always did when I wanted to distract a man: I changed the topic to sex.
“I left L.A. because, as you say, none of my body parts were quite good enough. Except for these.” I straightened my spine and gestured at my boobs, now demurely covered by the navy blue dress. “These, I’ll have you know, are flawless. Every casting director says so. In fact, you might be looking at the world’s most perfect breasts, right here.”
He narrowed his eyes as if he saw through my ruse, and then he corrected me. “I’m not looking at them.”
It was true. His eyes were carefully aimed at my face. I suddenly wished he would look lower, which was the opposite of how I felt with every other man. I wanted Andrew to see. “Do you know what makes the world’s most perfect breasts?” I asked him, pushing him harder.
“Tessa, really.”
That shiver again when he said my name. I loved this—getting a reaction from him, seeing if I could make it the reaction I wanted. “It isn’t just size,” I explained. “The shape matters. Like a teardrop. They can’t sit too high or hang too low. Fake boobs don’t work for the really good casting agents—the boobs don’t look quite right, and sometimes they’re uneven or the scars show. Mine are real, of course.”
It was working. He was definitely distracted now. “Of course,” he said.
“They also have to be proportioned correctly with my torso.” I gestured to the sides of my ribcage. “It has to be pleasing to the eye. It’s mathematical. My body isxwide, so my breasts are—”
“Okay.” Andrew’s voice sounded a little choked. “I get the idea.”
“Oh, please. I thought you watched porn all day. You don’t want to talk about breasts?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It isn’t my usual topic of conversation, no. But please continue.”
I watched his expression. Was he turned on? Why did I hope the answer was yes? I spent most of my time fighting men off. Why did I want Andrew to get closer?
And still, I hadn’t pushed far enough. I could never leave well enough alone. “Do you want to see them?” I asked him. I put a hand to the strap of my dress, as if to pull it down.
Andrew put his sandwich plate down next to him. “No, Tessa, I do not.”
I tugged the strap half an inch. “They’re really impressive. I have a bra on.”
“I’m sure they are, but no. Keep your dress on, please.”
I dropped my hand and sighed in disappointment. “You’re the first man who’s ever said that to me.”
Andrew was silent. For a second his gaze was dark and intense, looking at my face, my throat, and yes, my breasts through the navy blue dress.
I was playing with fire. And I liked it. My blood was hot in my veins, my ears buzzing. I had the urge to touch him. A hand on his arm, anything. I bet he would be warm, his skin firm. I had always liked the way men felt, the way they smelled. I’d just always ended up touching the wrong men.
“Is that what you do at these casting calls?” Andrew asked, his voice low and serious. “Just show up and take off your shirt?”
“That’s the idea.”
“You don’t even know these guys.”
He was concerned, I realized. It only made me want to touch him more. “It’s professional,” I told him. “I realize it doesn’t sound like it, but this is business. There are other models there, plus photographers, marketing people, assistants. It isn’t a creepy audition in a back room.”
“Still, text me when you get there,” he said. “And while you’re there. And when you’re leaving.”
I swallowed, touched. Everyone in L.A. was so hungry, so busy striving for the same selfish version of success, that they never looked out for each other. I wasn’t used to it. I could handle myself; I’d handled myself at dozens of auditions. And still, I said, “Okay, I will.”
“And you know what? Text me from the bartending interview, too. Guys who run bars can be fucking creeps, even if you keep your dress on.”
“Okay,” I said again. “I’ll be careful, Andrew. I always am.”
He was quiet for another moment. Then he looked away as if something had hurt him, his face hard.
“Good,” he said. “Now finish your sandwich and get going. You don’t want to be late.”
