Close Enough to Touch. Victoria Dahl
“Have you had breakfast?” He looked past her toward the kitchen. No coffeepot. Nothing but a jar of peanut butter with a plastic knife sticking out of it.
“Yes.”
Wow. These L.A. girls really didn’t eat much. No wonder she looked so small. He could never understand how women starved themselves. He couldn’t go more than a few hours without grabbing at least a snack.
“What about coffee?” He seemed to remember plenty of coffee drinking in Hollywood. And smoking. And there were always calories available for martinis.
“Um. Not yet.”
“I’ve got a pot on now. Want some?”
Oh, he had her number. She didn’t want to say yes. Her mouth, so wide and full and pink, had pressed itself into a flat line. But her eyes were sharp with interest. He had something she wanted, and the price for that was time.
Her nose twitched, and Cole realized the scent was drifting into the hallway. He smiled. She scowled. Her blue-painted toes curled.
“I’ll pour you a cup,” he said, then turned his back and walked into his apartment, feeling a little like he was trying to lure a feral cat. She snuck in silently a few seconds later. He vowed not to make any sudden moves.
“Want some bacon? I’m making it for myself, may as well make some for you.”
“Sure,” she said warily.
He got breakfast started, throwing in some eggs for her, too, then handed her a cup of coffee. “I hear you were a makeup artist in L.A.”
“Yeah?” She hunched over the cup, and Cole reached for the thermostat again. “Who’d you hear that from?”
“Jenny.” He figured it wouldn’t hurt to be extra sure, so he asked again. “So, what are you doing out here?”
“Seeing the world.”
“Yeah? And you decided to start with the middle of Wyoming?”
She glared at him through the steam that rose from her cup. Today, her makeup was perfect. Apparently, she’d already been up and put it on. A secret vanity. Interesting.
“What kind of work did you do in L.A.?”
“The makeup kind.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Cole just looked at her until she slumped a little and conceded. As if telling him about herself was a defeat. “I worked in fashion a little, but mostly in the movies.”
Ah, shit. It didn’t matter, he told himself. It wasn’t like the movie industry had screwed him over and broken his heart. It had been a woman and his own poor judgment. And if Grace’s toughness and edginess reminded him a little of his ex-lover—not to mention a few other women he’d met in L.A.—then he just needed to be aware. Aware that he shouldn’t trust people who hadn’t earned it. Aware that he shouldn’t let himself be used. Aware that sometimes strength meant hardness, and coolness was cruelty.
But right at this moment, Grace didn’t look hard or cool. Her brown eyes seemed lighter against the black liner this morning, but still fascinatingly deep. Unknowable. Which only made him more determined to know her. “Why’d you leave L.A.?” he pressed.
She shrugged one shoulder as if it didn’t matter to her in the least. “I got fired. I decided to move on.”
“Fired? What’d you do? Punch someone?”
“Not this time, no.”
Cole was glad he didn’t have any coffee in his mouth. He choked on nothing instead. “When did you last punch somebody?”
“At work? Probably five years ago.”
He looked down at her small, pale hands. They didn’t look like much, but she was wearing a couple of clunky rings that might do damage. “I had no idea Hollywood was a more glamorous version of a cage fight. Or a bunkhouse, come to think of it.”
“I don’t like it when men stick their hands up my skirt.”
“They do that often, do they?”
“Not after that,” she said with a grin.
He winked and turned away to finish off the eggs. What idiot would be stupid enough to try something like that? Grace Barrett looked like she’d shove a makeup brush up your ass if you touched her without invitation. Then again, he knew firsthand that some people in Hollywood were so arrogant and narcissistic that signals ceased to exist for them. A fist across the jaw was the most subtle thing they could understand.
“So this time?” he asked as he piled two plates high. “What happened this time?”
“I said I’d already eaten.”
Her words didn’t match up with the light in her eyes as he slid the plate toward her. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t in L.A. anymore and she could eat real food now. But he knew enough about women to lie. “I was already cooking. It’s the light plate today. Only three eggs and no toast.”
“You really do eat like a lumberjack,” she said, though she dug into her eggs right away.
“Lumberjacks are pussies.”
She slapped a hand to her mouth to cover her laugh, and that made Cole smile so hard he felt like a fool. It felt like triumph, making this girl laugh. Like a prize. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to make her moan. Damn.
“So what got you fired this time?” he pressed. He didn’t have to be told that she was an expert at dropping subjects. But she gave in more or less gracefully this time.
“I was working on a movie set. I’d been doing pretty well this year, trying to keep my head down.”
“No punching?”
“No punching. And I got an amazing gig, working on a big film. Working with the stars of a big film, not just the secondaries, you know? I won’t say who it is, but the starring actress is one of America’s sweethearts. And she seemed perfectly nice. Quiet. Polite. And with a couple of fading bruises on her neck. Whatever, though. People are kinky. If she liked a little choking during sex, it’s none of my business.”
Cole coughed and reached for his coffee as his eyes watered. “Sure,” he finally managed to say.
“But one day the producer came to the trailer while I was working on her. He was her boyfriend. It was an open secret. And she flinched when he gestured. That was it. Just a tiny flinch I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been working on her eyes. The next week, her lip was a little swollen. And when he came to the trailer and started berating her about something, I couldn’t keep myself from calling him on it.”
“The producer.”
She glared at him. “An abusive ass is an abusive ass.”
Cole raised a conciliatory hand. “I agree. I’m just impressed you were brave enough to say something.”
Grace snorted. “It’s not bravery. I don’t think about it. I just blow up. Anyway, I cursed him out and told him what I thought of him. He fired me immediately.”
“And?” he asked, aware of the weight in her words.
“And I told him I’d file a complaint with the union. He said he’d ruin my career, and I said I’d tell the press. Unfortunately, I was the one who was bluffing.”
“You didn’t tell anyone?”
“Nobody would’ve cared. I could’ve told the tabloids about what I’d seen, and who would it have hurt? Her, maybe. Definitely me. And definitely not him, because he would’ve found some way to prove it wasn’t true. So here I am.”
“You couldn’t get another job?”
“It was complicated. And the word is out that I drink on the job.”