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“Okay.” Reeve swallows hard.
“It’s been a long time for me.”
He’s barely breathing. “Anything.”
I press myself up onto the toes of my boots, bracing my hands on his shoulders for balance as I press my whole body against him and whisper in his ear.
“What I’m craving, more than anything, is … ice cream.”
3
REEVE
“Ice cream?”I repeat slowly, standing there on the dark, chilly sidewalk with the woman of my dreams.
“Ice cream,” the mysterious temptress also known as Lola confirms with a playful smile.
I blink. That is … not what I thought she was going to say. Not what I was hoping to hear, that’s for sure. But since she hasn’t requested I strip her naked and spend the night ravishing her senseless until we both forget our own names, I’m just going to have to roll with it.
“As you wish,” I quip, offering my arm. “Let’s go.”
I glance down at my phone for a second to find an open scoop shop not far from here, then set off with her through the busy downtown area, my head spinning.
Whoisthis woman?
I glance over, feeling drunk; or like I just got walloped over the head with a cartoon anvil. Hell, it’s all I can do to bite my tongue and try and keep from blurting a dozen idiotic questions at her.
Questions like,where did you come from? How can I make you smile like that again?
What are you doing for the rest of our lives?
I gulp a lungful of air, and try to pull my shit together before I fuck this up for good.
You’re not a dorky kid anymore, Reeve,I tell myself, aiming for a pep talk. You’re cool. A successful Hollywood director. Number six onVariety’s‘Filmmakers to Watch’ list. You have movie stars on speed-dial, red carpet premieres, and a guaranteed spot in every VIP section between here and LA.
But then Lola gives me a sultry smile from under those lashes and I forget everything except the way the streetlight glitters in her eyes, the cling of that catsuit on her short, curvy frame … and the lust pounding in my veins like a goddamn crescendo.
I’ve always been a sucker for afemme fatale.
Blame Turner Classic Movies. I was a gawky kid – pale, sweaty, and asthmatic, the killer combination, so while other boys my age spent their summers out riding bikes, or at the pool, I was sitting indoors, glued to the TV watching every old movie around and falling in love with the art of cinema.
The art of cinema, and the gorgeous, fast-talking, seductive woman onscreen.
Lauren Bacall inThe Big Sleep. Rosalind Russell wisecracking her way throughHis Girl Friday. Katherine Hepburn and Rita Hayworth. Women with poise and guts, and a way with whip-smart banter that could leave a man panting.
Sure, I grew up, and discovered the appeal of the Victoria’s Secret catalog, just like every other horny, straight, adolescent guy in America. I went to film school and channeled that early fascination with the silver screen into the career of my dreams, but there’s something about the rainy Sunday afternoons I spent watching those women thrill, and provoke, and talk rings around every hapless man in their orbit that stuck with me.
On some level, I think I’ve been searching for a woman like that ever since.
And suddenly, out of nowhere, here she is: strolling beside me in that ridiculous black wig and a pair of killer boots.
Lola.
I want to know her real name. I want to knoweverything.
“Oh no,” she says, suddenly coming to a stop with a disappointed look on her face. “We’re too late. It’s closed.”
I drag my lustful thoughts back to reality. The ice cream shop is empty, chairs overturned on the tabletops, and a lanky teenage boy in a candy-striped uniform is just flipping the sign in the doors to “CLOSED".
