Departure from the Script E-Book

Jae

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Hollywood series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 262

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

It's aspiring actress meeting photographer, femme meeting butch in this light-hearted lesbian romance set in Hollywood. Aspiring actress Amanda Clark and photographer Michelle Osinski are two women burned by love and not looking to test the fire again. And even if they were, it certainly wouldn't be with each other. Amanda has never been attracted to a butch woman before, and Michelle personifies the term butch. Having just landed a role on a hot new TV show, she's determined to focus on her career and doesn't need any complications in her life. After a turbulent breakup with her starlet ex, Michelle swore she would never get involved with an actress again. Another high-maintenance woman is the last thing she wants, and her first encounter with Amanda certainly makes her appear the type. But after a date that is not a date and some meddling from Amanda's grandmother, they both begin to wonder if it's not time for a departure from their usual dating scripts.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Other Books by Jae

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

EPILOGUE

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

About Jae

Sign up for our newsletter to hear

about new and upcoming releases.

www.ylva-publishing.com

Other Books by Jae

Happily Ever After

Standalone Romances:

Just a Touch Away

The Roommate Arrangement

Paper Love

Just for Show

Falling Hard

Heart Trouble

Something in the Wine

Shaken to the Core

Fair Oaks Series:

Perfect Rhythm

Not the Marrying Kind

Portland Police Bureau Series:

Conflict of Interest

Next of Kin

The Hollywood Series:

Departure from the Script

Damage Control

Just Physical

The Hollywood Collection (box set)

The Oregon Series:

Backwards to Oregon

Beyond the Trail

Hidden Truths

The Complete Oregon series (box set)

The Shape-Shifter Series:

Second Nature

Natural Family Disasters

Manhattan Moon

True Nature

The Vampire Diet Series:

Good Enough to Eat

Unexpected Love Series:

Under a Falling Star

Wrong Number, Right Woman

Chemistry Lessons

Acknowledgments

As with any creative project, there were a lot of people who had a hand in bringing this novella into existence, mainly Erin and Astrid, who kicked my butt when I wanted to end the story after the first kiss, and my critique partners, Alison Grey and RJ Nolan, who helped me revise with their invaluable feedback.

I also want to thank my test readers Betty, Henriette, and Michele for their time and their constructive criticism.

A big thank-you goes to Nikki Busch, editor extraordinaire, for her thorough yet fast work.

I’m more grateful for their help than I could ever express. Thanks!

Author’s Note

Departure from the Script started out as a short story, which has been published under the title “The Morning After,” but Amanda and Michelle demanded more attention, so I extended it into a novella. At 52,000 words, some would even call it a novel.

Whatever you call it, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing about these two!

CHAPTER 1

Someone would die before dessert. Amanda was sure of that. She just didn’t know yet who it was going to be. Either she would die of boredom, or her date would collapse face-first into her smoked salmon mousse, with Amanda’s fork piercing her carotid.

Oblivious to Amanda’s murderous intentions, Val prattled on and on and on. “…and so my parents made a deal that my father would get to name their first child and my mother would get to name the second. Oh, and you know what’s really neat?” She clapped her hands.

“No,” Amanda said, drawing on her acting skills to appear at least halfway interested. “What?” She lifted a deep-fried coconut shrimp to her mouth to cover her yawn.

“Val is short for Valentine, so Valentine’s Day has always been my lucky day. I knew as soon as I met you that we were meant to be together forever.”

Amanda nearly inhaled the shrimp. She coughed until her face had surely turned crimson. With two big gulps, she emptied her wine glass and looked around for the waiter. If she wanted to make it through this date, she needed some liquid encouragement. “Meant to be? Um, Val, this is our first date. Don’t you think that’s a little rushed, even for two lesbians?”

“Oh, not at all.” Val reached across the table and ran one scarlet-painted nail down Amanda’s arm. “True love doesn’t know time.”

Goose bumps followed in the wake of Val’s touch. Too bad they weren’t the pleasant type. Under the pretense of emptying her glass, which the waiter had just refilled, Amanda pulled her arm away. All right. I’m out of here.

Before she could think of a polite way to escape this date from hell, the waiter interrupted. He set down the wild-mushroom pasta in front of her and then walked around the table to serve Val’s ricotta ravioli.

Still jabbering nonstop, Val reached for her fork and used it to cut her ravioli into little heart-shaped pieces.

Amanda stared at Val’s plate. Oh God, she’s a love psycho. She felt as if she were stuck in one of the badly written daily soaps she had auditioned for, but there was no one yelling, “cut” when things weren’t going well.

“You’ll love my parents,” Val said. “I know they’ll fall in love with you at first sight too, just like I did. Maybe we could drive up and visit them next weekend. They live in Carmel. It’s a nice drive, very romantic.” She made googly eyes at Amanda.

In a second, she would probably start playing footsie under the table.

Amanda craned her neck, searching for the nearest exit.

“Damn.” Val dabbed frantically at a bit of tomato sauce that had splashed onto her blouse. She rubbed and scrubbed but only succeeded in making it worse. Her chair scraped across the floor as she jumped up. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I need to…” She waved at her chest and hurried away.

Yes! Amanda stood too. This was her chance to beat a hasty retreat. But was it really fair to put enough money on the table to pay for her half of dinner and leave? She threw a longing glance at the exit but then sighed and sat back down. Too bad her grandmother had raised her better than that. Val might be nuttier than a fruitcake, but Amanda didn’t want to spoil her lucky day forever by leaving her in the middle of their date without any explanation.

Cursing herself, she fumbled to retrieve her cell phone from her purse and pressed number two on the speed dial.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up. “Hi,” Kathryn said. “What can I do for my favorite client?”

“You can promise to never, ever set me up on a blind date again.”

“Oh.” Kathryn paused. “I take it your date isn’t going well? Rob swore on his brother’s grave that she’s exactly the type of woman you go for.”

Amanda snorted. “Rob’s an only child.”

Paper rustled on the other end of the line. “So Val isn’t your type?”

Hell no, Amanda wanted to shout, but she forced herself to be fair. “When I first saw her, I thought she was.” Truth be told, Val was exactly her type—at least in the looks department: Her wavy, red hair fell in stylish curls past her slender shoulders. She was dressed in an elegant blouse and a black miniskirt that was sexy yet tasteful. And she moved with more grace than many of Amanda’s fellow actresses.

“And then?” Kathryn asked. “What happened?”

“She opened her mouth.” Amanda took another sip of red wine.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a snob. She can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, no? How would you like a date that tells you her entire life story—and that of every member of her family—before you can even order dinner? And then she proceeds to plan your future together because she’s convinced you’re meant for each other.” Amanda emptied her glass and shook herself. “I bet by the time we order dessert, she’ll have our children’s lives all mapped out.”

Kathryn laughed. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“I wish I were.” Amanda raised her hand to summon the waiter. After he refilled her glass, she nodded her thanks.

“Where is your date from hell?” Kathryn asked. “Have you fled to the bathroom?”

“No, she did. She dropped a bit of her heart-shaped ravioli on her blouse.” Amanda kept one eye on the door to the ladies’ room. Val could be back any minute. “Kath, you have to help me. I need to get out of here before she drops to one knee and proposes in the middle of the restaurant.”

Kathryn’s muffled giggle reverberated through the phone. “Just tell her Steven Spielberg called and wants you for his next movie, so you need to leave right away to meet with him.”

“Spielberg.” Amanda snorted. “Sure, she’ll believe that. He saw me in the last commercial I did and was so blown away by the finesse I used when holding up that dishwashing liquid that he wants to hire me on the spot.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Kathryn said.

“Not to me.”

The door to the ladies’ room opened.

Amanda’s heartbeat tripled.

An elderly woman stepped back into the restaurant.

Amanda blew out a breath. “The strangest thing that happened to me is this date. This is like the dating Twilight Zone.”

“Can’t be worse than the first date with my second husband,” Kathryn said. “He—”

“Kath, I’d love to listen to your story, but I only have a few seconds before Val is back. Help!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll think of something and call you back.” Kathryn ended the call.

Moments after Amanda put the cell phone away, Val left the ladies’ room and returned to the table. She had clearly tried to remove the stain with water and soap from the bathroom sink, so now her wet blouse was nearly see-through and stuck to her well-endowed chest.

Down, girl, Amanda told her libido. This woman’s like cotton candy. She might look tasty, but she’s bad for you…and sticky as hell.

Val took a seat and picked up her fork again. Within less than a minute, she had made half a dozen more ravioli hearts. “Sorry about that. So tell me a bit about yourself,” she said. “What did you think when you first met me?”

A piece of mushroom nearly lodged in Amanda’s windpipe. I think I’ll be the one to die tonight. Asphyxiation, most likely. She took another sip of red wine. Or maybe cirrhosis of the liver.

Her cell phone rang to the tones of Madonna’s “Hollywood.”

Saved by the bell. “Oh, excuse me. I have to take this call. It’s my agent.” Amanda broke a speed record when she reached for her cell phone.

“Oh, Amanda, I’m so glad you’re home,” Kathryn whimpered into the phone with the fake despair of a wannabe actress.

“Um, you called my cell. I’m not home.” Amanda peeked across the table.

Val was watching her expectantly as if she thought her agent had called with an offer from Hollywood.

Damn. Maybe we should have tried that Spielberg excuse. “What’s wrong?” Amanda asked, adding just a hint of concern to her tone.

Kathryn was less subtle. Crying sounds echoed through the phone, probably loud enough that Val could hear them. “My husband just filed for a divorce.”

Which one? Amanda nearly asked. Kath had been divorced three times and was currently as single as Amanda. “Oh my God! Sweetie, I’m so sorry. That’s just awful. What an asshole.” She smashed her fist onto the table. Her wine glass wobbled, and she made a quick grab to prevent it from toppling over. “Just wait until I get my hands on that cheating, lying bastard!”

The crying turned into heaving sobs.

“Don’t cry. I’ll come over and either kill him or make him change his mind.”

Kathryn blew her nose. It sounded like an elephant. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Amanda ended the call and slid her cell phone back into her purse.

When she glanced up, Val was staring at her. Her lipstick-red lips formed a pout. “You have to leave?”

“Yes. I’m really sorry. It was a wonderful evening, and I’m sorry to see it end.” Wow, I deserve an Oscar for managing to say that with a straight face. “But my agent really needs me tonight. Her husband just filed for divorce.”

“Oh my God! On Valentine’s Day?” Val pressed both hands to her damp chest. “Believe me, I would never do something like that to you.”

Yeah, that’s for sure. Because I won’t let it come to that. Amanda forced a smile, laid a few bills on the table, and got up.

Val jumped up. “Do you want me to come with you? I could—”

“Oh, no, no,” Amanda said so fast that she nearly tied her tongue in knots. “You stay and enjoy the rest of your dinner. I’m sure Kathryn would hate for anyone else to see her like that.”

Slowly, Val sank back onto her chair. “You could come over to my place once you’re finished with your agent.”

Sweat broke out along Amanda’s back. Christ. How do I get out of this one? “I can’t,” she said. “I’ll probably stay over at Kathryn’s. She shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“You’re so thoughtful.” If Val had been a comic character, her gaze would have sent little pink hearts in Amanda’s direction.

“Um, yeah. That’s me.” Before Val could ask for a second date, Amanda waved and hurried out of the restaurant.

* * *

Amanda leaned against the driver’s side of her car and exhaled slowly, feeling as if she had just narrowly escaped death. She reached for her cell phone and again pressed number two on her speed dial.

“Did you make it out of the Twilight Zone?” Kathryn asked without even saying hi.

“Yeah. Thank God.” Amanda dabbed her brow. “And by the way, your acting is abysmal.”

Kathryn snorted. “What do you expect? There’s a reason why I’m the agent and you’re the actress.”

“Yes, because being an agent pays better,” Amanda said.

“There’s that too.”

Amanda fished her car keys out of her purse. “If you see Rob, tell him he owes me—big.”

“Will do. Oh, and Amanda? Happy Valentine’s Day.” Kathryn hung up before Amanda could answer.

Shaking her head, Amanda put away her cell phone. When she reached out to unlock the door, her gaze fell on a flyer tucked under the windshield wiper. She reached around and pulled it free.

The little red hearts dotting the flyer made her tighten her fingers, about to crumple it up. She had enough of romance for today. But at the last moment, a picture of Cupid caught her attention. Instead of shooting arrows at potential lovers, he lay facedown on a bloodstained floor. An arrow pierced his back right between his little white wings. Below the picture, bilious green letters announced, “Anti-Valentine’s Day party.”

Amanda laughed and continued to read, “Are you sick of mushy cards, cheap chocolate, and the pressure of finding a date?” Her head bobbed up and down as she nodded vigorously. “God, yes!” That party didn’t sound so bad after all. She threw a glance at her wristwatch.

Just after nine.

According to the flyer, the Anti-Valentine’s Day party had started at eight. And it was right around the corner.

She hefted the keys in her hand and then put them back into her purse.

After her date, she could use the company of a few people not looking for love, especially if the crowd was mostly straight people. She’d had enough of women searching for their soul mate. One drink, then she’d call a taxi and go home. After having two or three glasses of wine with dinner, she shouldn’t drive anyway.

Decision made, she crossed the street, whistling “No More I Love You’s.”

* * *

Amanda slid onto the last empty stool at the bar and turned to let her gaze wander through the club.

Broken hearts, black roses, and posters of the movie The War of the Roses decorated the walls. A mixed crowd of men and women, mostly in their twenties and thirties, danced to “This Is Not a Love Song.” Amanda realized that no one was wearing red or pink. Instead, some of the guests wore T-shirts that said “Love stinks,” “Happy to be single,” or “Cupid is stupid.”

Someone cleared his throat behind her.

Amanda turned.

The bartender, a guy with tattoos on nearly every visible inch of skin, gave her a nod. “What’ll it be?”

Eyeing the cocktail menu behind the bar, she rubbed her chin. The menu listed drinks with names such as “one-night stand,” “breakup,” and “free love,” along with some more traditional choices. She wasn’t much of a liquor drinker. Usually, she stuck to red wine. But after a day like this, she could use something stronger. “Any suggestions?”

“How about a ‘witchy woman’?” the bartender asked. “That’s a mix of Campari, rum, orange juice, and lime juice.”

“Witchy woman? No, thanks,” Amanda mumbled. “I’ve had enough of that for one evening.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said it’s too sour for me. How about something sweet?”

A barrel-chested guy in an “It’s not me; it’s you” T-shirt sauntered over to the bar and squeezed in between Amanda and the woman on the bar stool to her right. “I think the lady needs a ‘southern screw,’” he drawled in a fake southern accent.

The bartender looked at Amanda, his hands hovering over the shaker.

Amanda turned to face the barrel-chested guy. With his red hair and pearly-white smile, he could have been Val’s brother. “That’s a very lame pick-up line, even for an Anti-Valentine’s Day party.”

He shrugged. “You could teach me a better one.”

His grin wouldn’t have worked on her even if she were straight. “No, thanks.” She was an actress, not a stage prompter for romantically challenged guys. Turning back to the bartender, she said, “Now I need something strong.”

“Whatever she wants, it’s on me,” the redhead said.

Ignoring him, Amanda laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

The bartender took the money and shoveled ice cubes into a glass. “How about a mix of vodka, coffee liqueur, and tonic water? It’s called ‘mind eraser.’”

She hadn’t drunk vodka for years, but for some reason, it seemed like the right thing to end a day like this, so she shrugged. “Why not?”

As the alcohol burned down her throat, making her cough, the thought Famous last words ran through her mind, but then the red-haired man told the bartender to keep the drinks coming and she forgot everything else.

CHAPTER 2

Whoever had said vodka didn’t induce a hangover was a goddamn liar. Amanda’s head pounded like a bass drum being beaten by a hyperactive preschooler. Groaning, she pressed her hands to her temples, but the movement only made it worse. Her stomach roiled like a washing machine with a turbo spin cycle, and she lay perfectly still until the wave of nausea ebbed away.

Oh God, she wanted to say, but her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. She smacked her lips and grimaced. Her mouth tasted as if she’d been licking the inside of a rubber boot.

Blindly, she reached out one hand for the water bottle she kept on her nightstand.

It wasn’t there.

Neither was the nightstand.

What the…? Was she caught in some alcohol-induced nightmare, like the one in which she had won an Oscar, but when she wanted to walk onto the stage to accept it, she couldn’t find her clothes? She opened her eyes.

Sunlight made her wince. The crazed preschooler was now stomping on her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the sunlight. The smell of men’s cologne clung to the cotton pillow cover.

Nonsense. How much of that hellish stuff had she drunk last night? Now not even her sense of smell was working. There was no way men’s cologne could cling to her pillow. Her bed was a man-free zone.

Wait a minute… Cotton? Just a few days ago, she had put the satin sheets that Kathryn had given her for Christmas on her bed.

She jerked upright and then clutched her head. Through half-open eyes, she peered at the unfamiliar bedroom. To her left was a floor-to-ceiling window. Her head spun as she stared at a stone patio surrounded by lemon and orange trees, so different from the view that greeted her when she opened her eyes in her modest one-bedroom apartment.

Large black-and-white prints covered the rest of the walls—a Harley with a half-naked woman straddling the bike, a close-up of a growling tiger, and the weathered face of an old man squinting into the sun.

A man’s wristwatch sat on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Next to it, clothes were piled on a white leather-and-chrome chair: socks, a pair of boxer shorts, and a Los Angeles Lakers sweatshirt. A pair of sneakers that looked to be at least a size ten lay beneath the chair.

Amanda glanced back and forth between the Harley print, the watch, and the boxer shorts. Her nose caught another whiff of men’s cologne. Oh, shit. What did I do? No way in hell did I go home with that guy from the bar…did I? Not even half a dozen of those mind erasers could turn a gay woman straight. Stupid maybe, but not straight.

Her gaze darted down her body. Air whooshed out of her lungs. Thank God. At least she was still wearing her panties and bra. She massaged her hammering temples, hoping it would jog her memory of what had happened last night.

No such luck. The last thing she remembered was drinking at the bar and pulling her blouse down from her shoulder to show off the scar from that commercial with the camel.

Her red-haired drinking companion had clapped and hooted.

Everything after that was a blank.

God, I hate Valentine’s Day. And mind erasers. And if I slept with a man, I really, really hate myself. Even as a teenager, she had known that her interests lay elsewhere, and she had never succumbed to Hollywood’s pressure to date men. She had always been proud of that, but now…

When the pounding in her head lessened for a moment, she became aware of the sound of a running shower. Someone whistled a much-too-happy tune in the bathroom.

Amanda’s stomach lurched. She didn’t want to even imagine what had put the guy in this postcoital mood.

The water stopped. He would be out in a minute.

Time to make a quick escape. Ignoring the drumroll in her head, Amanda jumped up. Her feet got caught in something soft, and she nearly fell. Suppressing a curse, she looked down.

Her slacks, blouse, and socks were strewn around the bed as if ripped off in the heat of passion. When she bent down and picked up her clothes, the world started spinning. She waited until the merry-go-round stopped before she shoved first one foot, then the other through a pant leg and struggled to pull up her slacks.

A sound made her look up, half in, half out of her pants.

Clouds of steam drifted through the now-open bathroom door.

Amanda froze and took in the figure in the doorway. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but forced her gaze to trail up muscular legs clad in worn jeans and over a black muscle shirt clinging to still-damp skin. Next, she encountered—

Breasts! They weren’t overly large, but that definitely wasn’t the chest of the red-haired guy or any other man. Only her pounding head and the slacks trapping her feet prevented her from doing a dance of joy. I knew it! I would never sleep with… Her gaze wandered farther and took in short hair and a strong face. A butch?

She had never dated, much less slept with, a butch.

With her feet still tangled in her slacks, she fell backward.

The bed broke her fall, and she lay still, staring at the ceiling.

Concerned brown eyes appeared in her line of sight. “You okay, Mandy?”

“Mandy?” Amanda croaked. Only her grandmother was allowed to call her that.

One knee next to Amanda on the bed, much too close for her liking, the butch looked down at her. “Yeah. Last night, you told me to call you Mandy.”

Dear God. What else had she done last night? She didn’t dare ask.

“Something wrong with that?” the butch asked when Amanda stayed silent. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But…ah, you know, it doesn’t matter. I have to go.” She rolled to the side and got up, careful to avoid stumbling over her slacks again.

“Like this?” The butch moved away from the bed and gestured at Amanda’s state of dress…or rather state of undress. “You’re welcome to take a shower first, then I’ll drive you back to your car.”

So at least she hadn’t gotten behind the wheel drunk last night. Not that getting into a car with a complete stranger was much better. Amanda hesitated, but the thought of a hot shower was tempting. “All right.” She pulled up her slacks, picked up the blouse, and clutched it to her chest as she passed the woman on her way to the bathroom. Like she hasn’t seen it all already.

“I put clean towels and a toothbrush out for you,” the butch said. “Do you need something to wear?”

“Uh, no, thank you.” Boxer shorts and muscle shirts really weren’t her style. Yesterday’s clothes would have to do until she made it home. Amanda quickly closed and locked the bathroom door behind her and sank onto the edge of the tub. She rubbed her face with both hands and moaned into her palms. When she pulled her hands away, her gaze fell on the mirror above the sink.

Her reflection looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she didn’t have an acting job lined up today. Not even the world’s best makeup artist could have covered the shadows beneath her eyes or the greenish tint of her skin. Her hair looked as if a bird—or an entire flock—had made a nest in it.

She gave herself a mental shove. Hurry up before she thinks you’re in here rooting through the bathroom cabinets or she breaks down the door to save you from drowning in the tub. She slipped out of the still-unbuttoned slacks, kicked off her panties, and unhooked her bra before stepping into the shower. The hot water felt heavenly.

While she washed up, she took stock of her body. Other than the second-worst hangover of her life, everything seemed normal. No hickeys. No scratches on her back. No sensitive body parts. Nothing that indicated a night of passionate, intense sex—and with the athletic butch, it probably would have been intense. Maybe you weren’t up for more than a quickie, as smashed as you were.

She squeezed shampoo into her hand and sniffed at it. Instead of the honey and cream she was used to, her hostess’s shampoo had a minty herbal scent. When she scrubbed her scalp, she flinched. Even the roots of her hair hurt.

As the soapy water ran down her back, an image flashed through her mind: the butch’s muscular arms wrapped around her, pulling her against her warm, tight body. She buried her fingers in short, silky hair. When two insistent hands slid down her ass, she lifted her head and captured the butch’s lips in a deep kiss.

Despite her killer headache, her body reacted to the memory. Stop it. You’ve never been attracted to butch women. Vodka just makes you horny. She shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and struggled back into her clothes.

As promised, a toothbrush, still in its package, waited next to the sink.

Unlike Amanda, who avoided one-night stands, her hostess was obviously used to having overnight guests. But when she managed to get the toothbrush out of its package, she realized that it was smaller than usual. Tiny panda bears dotted the handle. She gave me a toothbrush for children?

She shrugged and squeezed toothpaste onto the pink-and-white-striped bristles, eager to get rid of that rubber-boot taste in her mouth. Finally feeling halfway human again, she stepped out of the bathroom and went in search of her hostess.

She padded over the hardwood floor and took in the house. The hall opened into a large living area, and Amanda couldn’t help staring as she took in the view of the Hollywood Hills beyond the French doors.

Well, at least she had taste—apparently, she had slept with someone rich and/or famous.

Two steps led from the living room up to the kitchen, which seemed to have every cooking gadget known to mankind.

“How many pancakes do you want?” the butch called from the stove.

What is it about lesbians and their instant domesticity? Had she stumbled across a butch version of Val? Her stomach roiled at the mere thought of food. “No pancakes for me.”

The butch turned and leaned against the counter. She was barefoot, and her dark brown hair was tousled and still damp from her shower. Amanda usually preferred women in skirts to women in jeans, but even she had to admit that her hostess had a sexy ass.

“Are you sure? I haven’t poisoned anyone yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The butch turned back to the stove. With a quick flick of her wrist, she flipped the pancake. It landed back in the pan without a splash.

Amanda lifted a brow. Most butches she knew were helpless in the kitchen. Not that she knew many.

“You’ll feel better once you have something in your stomach. Let me make you some toast. Or do you want oatmeal?”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. I can eat when I get home.”

The butch turned off the stove and swiveled to face Amanda. Her biceps flexed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s Saturday. You’ve got somewhere urgent to be?”

Amanda glanced at her watch. It was barely eight, so she had more than seven hours before her shift at the juice bar started. “Um, no, but…”

“But…?”

What could she say? No, thanks, I’m not in the habit of letting people make me breakfast when I don’t even know their name? She sighed. After spending the night with this stranger, the least she could do was accept her hospitality and have breakfast with her. “All right. Then I’ll have toast if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” The butch moved smoothly through the modern chef’s kitchen and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “Come over here and sit down. I don’t bite.”

Amanda flushed. What was she? A fifteen-year-old? Women usually didn’t fluster her like this. She climbed the two steps to the kitchen and sat at the far side of the breakfast bar, careful not to get in the butch’s way. When the toaster ejected the toast, Amanda jumped and then scolded herself.

The butch placed two perfect, golden-brown pieces of toast in front of her. “Butter?”

“Um, no, thanks.” Amanda wasn’t even sure her stomach could handle the toast.

After one long glance at Amanda, the woman put a kettle of water on the stove.

While they waited for the water to boil, the silence seemed deafening. Amanda fidgeted, but even if she had been in the mood for a chat, she didn’t know what to say.

A few minutes later, the butch set a steaming mug down in front of her.

“Thank you.” Amanda took a careful sniff. The fresh, spicy scent reminded her of her favorite Chinese takeout. “What’s this?”

A smile deepened the laugh lines around the butch’s eyes. She couldn’t be much older than Amanda’s thirty-one, but the lines in her face already showed that she liked to laugh. “Don’t worry. I told you I’m not gonna poison you. It’s fresh ginger tea. My grandfather always made it for me when I felt a bit…under the weather.”

Under the weather. Amanda couldn’t help returning the smile. That’s what her grandmother also called it when someone had a hangover. She clutched the mug in both hands and let the warmth soothe her rattled nerves.