Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
This box set contains three lesbian romance novels and one erotic short story featuring amazingly down-to-earth actresses in the starring role. If you are in the mood for romantic stories with characters you'll fall in love with, get the award-winning novels of the Hollywood series all in one box set and save 30%. At a total of 800 pages (315,000 words), this series will keep you reading for days! In Departure from the Script, struggling actress Amanda attends an anti-Valentine's Day party and wakes up in a stranger's bed, with no idea how she got there. In Damage Control, famous actress Grace hires PR agent Lauren to convince the world she's straight—and then ends up falling in love with her. In Just Physical, stuntwoman Crash and actress Jill meet on the set of a disaster movie. There's an instant attraction, but Jill convinces herself that it's just physical. In "Dress-tease," Lauren watches her girlfriend Grace dress up for a movie premiere…and decides that they're going to be running late to that red carpet call.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 1560
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Table of Contents
OTHER BOOKS BY JAE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DEPARTURE FROM THE SCRIPT
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
DAMAGE CONTROL
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
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
EPILOGUE
DRESS-TEASE
JUST PHYSICAL
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
ABOUT JAE
OTHER BOOKS FROM YLVA PUBLISHING
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:
Paper Love
Just for Show
Perfect Rhythm
Falling Hard
Heart Trouble
Under a Falling Star
Something in the Wine
Shaken to the Core
The Hollywood Series:
Departure from the Script
Damage Control
Just Physical
Portland Police Bureau Series:
Conflict of Interest
Next of Kin
The Vampire Diet Series:
Good Enough to Eat
The Oregon Series:
Backwards to Oregon
Beyond the Trail
Hidden Truths
The Shape-Shifter Series:
Second Nature
Natural Family Disasters
Manhattan Moon
True Nature
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear reader,
Have you ever discovered the first novel in an already finished series and devoured one book after another, completely immersing yourself into the author’s world, forgetting your chores, and staying up too late?
As a reader, I love that experience! So I’m pleased that my Hollywood series is now available as a box set so you can binge-read the entire series.
This box set includes all three novels in the Hollywood series as well as a short story that is a mini sequel to Damage Control. Except for the short story, each book is a standalone romance with different main characters, so they can be read in any order you wish. But if you want a suggestion, start with Departure from the Script, then read Damage Control and the short story “Dress-tease,” and finish up with Just Physical.
Happy reading!
Jae
DEPARTURE FROM THE SCRIPT
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.
The butch pulled up a stool, took a seat next to her at the breakfast bar, and got started on her stack of pancakes. Her knee touched Amanda’s, but she either didn’t notice or was entirely comfortable sitting so close.
No wonder. She touched a lot more than just your knee last night and probably remembers every last graphic detail. Amanda didn’t, though. To her, the woman was a complete stranger. Under the pretense of reaching for her toast, she pulled her knee away.
In the silence between them, the crunching of the toast sounded overly loud. Should she say something? But what? As far as she could see, they had nothing in common. Finally, she thought of something. “You’ve got kids?”
The butch swallowed a bite of pancake and looked up. “Oh, you mean because of the toothbrush? Sorry about that. It was the only new one I had. I keep some for when my nieces and nephews stay overnight. I don’t have kids, but I’m a highly sought-after babysitter.”
“Oh.” Somehow, she hadn’t thought of the butch as the babysitter type. Amanda rolled her eyes at herself. Stereotyping much?
“You sound surprised. Butch women can be great with kids too. We also have a fully functional uterus, you know?” She didn’t sound offended, just amused.
Amanda’s cheeks heated. She hid behind the mug of tea. “I know. It’s just… This…you… It just caught me off-guard.” Oh, great. If her acting coach had heard her, he would have lost what little hair he had left. Years of voice training and now one night with this stranger made her stammer like a fool. “I don’t usually… You’re not… I mean, normally, I go for the more…”
“Feminine type,” the butch said with a nod. “I know. That’s what you said last night.”
“Oh. I did?” Was that before or after I examined her tonsils with my tongue?
The butch put down her fork and turned to face Amanda. “You don’t remember a thing about last night, do you?”
Amanda nearly spat ginger tea across the breakfast bar. Her coughing made the hyperactive preschooler start the drumming behind her temples again. Wheezing, she peeked at the butch out of the corner of her eye. What now? Lie through her teeth or come clean? She decided to go with the truth. Sort of. “Everything after the first drink is a bit fuzzy.”
The butch lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow.
Was she tweezing them, or did they naturally grow like that?
“Define ‘a bit fuzzy.’”
“Um.” Amanda nibbled on her toast to buy herself some time. Finally, she wiped the crumbs off her chin and turned toward the woman next to her. “I don’t remember a thing.” There. It was out. She gulped down ginger tea as if it were liquor.
“Nothing? Not even…?”
“What?” Amanda asked. “What happened?”
The butch shook her head. “Nothing.”
Amanda wanted to believe that, but she remembered a pretty hot kiss. Maybe the butch thought nothing of kissing strangers on a regular basis, but in Amanda’s book, that wasn’t “nothing.”
“Honestly. We didn’t sleep together.” The butch looked at her with her brown teddy bear eyes. Either she was a damn good liar or a better actress than Amanda.
“But you kissed me.”
“No.”
The half-empty mug nearly toppled over as Amanda stabbed her finger at the butch. “Liar. That’s the one thing I remember. You kissed me, and it wasn’t a little peck.”
“No,” the butch said once more. “You kissed me.”
“Why would I do that?” Only after she had said it did Amanda realize how that sounded. Christ. She was acting as if the butch was the most repulsive creature on earth, and that certainly wasn’t true. “Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it. What I meant is, uh…”
“That red-haired guy just wouldn’t leave you alone, no matter how many times you told him to clear out. After you shot him down for the umpteenth time, he slurred, ‘What are you, a lesbian?’ By that time, half of the club was eavesdropping on your conversation.”
Amanda groaned. As much as she appreciated having an attentive audience at work, she hated making a spectacle of herself in her spare time.
“You looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Yes.’” The butch shrugged. “That idiot didn’t believe you, so you set out to convince him.”
Something tickled the edges of Amanda’s memory. Not quite a flashback, but the words rang true. “What did I do?” She had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer.
“You emptied your drink, turned, and laid the kiss of my life on me.” Grinning, the butch fanned herself with both hands.
“I didn’t.”
“You sure did. And it was very convincing too. After he stopped salivating, the guy finally got lost.”
Amanda covered her burning face with her hands. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
Gentle fingers tried to pull her hands down, but she resisted. “No need to apologize. Even three sheets to the wind, you’re a great kisser.”
Still feeling as if her face was glowing ketchup red, Amanda peeked through her fingers. For the first time, she really looked at the butch’s face. Despite the short hair, it wasn’t as androgynous as she had first thought. The square jaw and strong forehead were gentled by luscious lips and long eyelashes that every actress in Hollywood, including Amanda, would kill for. A small scar at the corner of her left eye made her look as if she were constantly winking. Somehow, it seemed to fit her easygoing personality.
The woman gave her an encouraging smile.
Amanda took her hands away from her face and inhaled deeply, determined to be an adult about this. “Okay. So I kissed you, and you didn’t suffer too much. That still doesn’t explain how I ended up in your bed.” She tried to keep her voice neutral, without an accusing undertone. The woman next to her didn’t seem like the type who took advantage of a drunken person.
“People were staring at you, so I dragged you out of that bar before you could order another one of those drinks.”
“I wish you’d had that idea before I drank enough to put down a rhino,” Amanda mumbled and rubbed her temples.
An impish grin flashed across the butch’s face. “Sorry.”
“What happened then?”
“I offered to drive you home or call you a taxi, but you refused to tell me where you live. Now I’m not so sure you even remembered your address. So it was either let you wander about the parking lot in the middle of the night or take you home with me.”
That sounded plausible. Amanda wasn’t proud of drinking so much that she lost her memory and all sense of orientation, but at least she hadn’t slept with a complete stranger. “And why didn’t I sleep in the guestroom?” From what she had seen of the house, it was big enough to have at least a second bedroom.
“I don’t have one. I turned the second bedroom into a studio when I first moved in.”
So her rescuer was an artist. Or was she talking about a recording studio? Amanda shook her still pounding head and curbed her curiosity. They’d never see each other again, so it didn’t matter what she did for a living. “Then why didn’t I sleep on the couch?”
“Because that’s where I slept,” the butch said. “My grandfather would turn in his grave if I let a lady sleep on the couch.”
Amanda sighed. “I didn’t behave like much of a lady last night.”
The butch chuckled. “Um, no, you didn’t. Your wandering hands almost landed us in the ditch twice before we finally made it to my house.”
“Excuse me?” Amanda squinted at the woman. She was kidding, right? With her constant wink, Amanda couldn’t tell.
“You really, really seemed to like my thighs and…um…well, a few other body parts.”
Amanda wanted to sink under the breakfast bar and never come out again. Out of the corner of her eye, she peeked at the butch’s thighs. Even though she liked her women not quite so athletic, she had to admit that this was a fine pair of legs. Cut it out! She jerked her gaze upward. What the hell was going on with her? Never, ever in her life would she drink those mind erasers again. That drink was really messing with her head, even now, on the morning after. “But when we got here, I behaved myself, right?”
“Ah, well, you tried to undress me, but… Don’t get me wrong, if we had met under different circumstances, I certainly wouldn’t push you out of bed,” the butch flashed a grin that showed off even, white teeth, “but sleeping with a drunken woman is not my style. I just led you to my bedroom, where you struggled out of your clothes, fell face-first on my bed, and started snoring like a lumberjack.”
Okay, it’s official now. I’ll be the one to die—of embarrassment. Amanda sent her a pleading gaze. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“Again, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Well, the snoring wasn’t half as pleasant as the kissing, but it was kind of cute.” The butch chuckled.
Amanda made a face. “No, really. You went to a lot of trouble to get me out of a bad situation, and all I do when I wake up is treat you as if you did something wrong.”
“It’s okay. I’d freak out too if I woke up in a stranger’s house, not knowing what happened.”
For a few minutes, they sat next to each other without talking, Amanda busy digesting what she’d just found out and the butch eating her pancakes, which had probably gone cold by now.
“So,” the butch said when she carried the dishes to the sink, “anything else you want to know about last night?”
“I’ve got one more question,” Amanda said. “But it’s not about last night.”
“Oh? What is it, then? Come on, out with it.” The butch turned and winked with her right eye, the one that didn’t have the scar. “After doing the tonsil tango with me, there’s no reason to be shy.”
Ignoring her blush, Amanda finally asked, “What’s your name?” She still didn’t know this stranger, but thinking of her just as “the butch” didn’t feel right anymore.
The woman chuckled. She piled the dishes in the sink, wiped her fingers on her jeans, and held out her right hand. “Michelle Osinski. Nice to meet you.”
“Amanda Clark.” She shook Michelle’s hand. “And what do you go by?”
Michelle’s brows pinched together. “Go by?” Then her expression cleared. “Oh, you thought… No, it’s just Michelle.”
“Oh. Okay.” For some reason, Amanda had expected a more tough-sounding nickname. One more stereotype bites the dust.
Michelle laughed. “You thought all butches have names like Chris, Mel, or Sam? Sorry to disappoint.”
“Um, no, of course I didn’t think that.” Amanda rubbed her cheeks. They were burning, as were her earlobes.
Michelle patted her arm. “Relax, will you? I’m just teasing.” She put her hands in her jeans pockets.
Amanda couldn’t help watching the muscles play in her arms. Normally, she didn’t like buff women, but on Michelle, it looked natural. She wrenched her gaze away and rubbed her eyes. I’ll never drink vodka again. Ever.
“Now that you’ve got something in your stomach, I’ll get you a Tylenol,” Michelle said. “Let’s go get comfortable while we wait for the painkillers to kick in.” She put her hand on the small of Amanda’s back as if she wanted to lead her to the living room.
Her touch made Amanda’s skin heat up. Uncomfortable with her body’s strange reaction, she pulled away. “No, thanks. My headache is a lot better already.” She was ready to escape this embarrassing situation and go home.
After studying Amanda more intently than most casting directors, Michelle shook her head and said, “You really don’t like me, do you?”
“W-what?” Amanda stood and white-knuckled the edge of the breakfast bar. “What makes you think that?” Had she really given Michelle that impression? If anything, she was grateful for her help. Grateful and mortally embarrassed.
“You keep looking at me like you’re afraid I’m going to try and lure you back into bed and have my way with you.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Listen, I got the message. You don’t go for butch women. And that’s fine with me because I,” Michelle tapped her chest, “promised myself to never, ever get involved with an actress again. Two of my exes are actresses, and no offense, but I could do without the drama that comes with being in a relationship with a Hollywood diva.”
Wow. Amanda sank against the breakfast bar. “Are you always so direct?” In her world full of flatterers, opportunists, and professional pretenders, no one ever came right out and told her what he or she thought of her. Well, no one but the camel that let her know in no uncertain terms that it didn’t like her—by biting her.
“Usually,” Michelle said, shrugging. “It saves time.” With a rueful smile she added, “It also got me slapped a time or two.”
Her expression made Amanda laugh. “Your actress exes?”
“No. Throwing dishes was more their style.”
Oh, yeah. Amanda had once shared a trailer with a soap opera diva like that. “Is that how you got your scar?” She pointed at the corner of her eye and then jerked her hand away. She normally wasn’t one to ask such personal questions the first time she met someone. Guess being direct is contagious.
Automatically, Michelle’s finger came up to touch the scar. “No. I got quite good at ducking the occasional flying plate. I had that scar long before I met my exes. But the story of how I got it is not quite as spectacular as what happened with your scar.”
Amanda groaned. “Did the whole bar see my shoulder?”
“No, not the whole bar. I was sitting right next to you when you showed off that scar.”
Even now, Amanda’s memory remained blank. She hazily remembered sliding onto a barstool. Yes, a woman had been sitting next to her, but she hadn’t paid her any attention. “Are you trying to change the topic? We were talking about your scar, not mine.”
“Guilty as charged, ma’am.” Michelle lifted both hands. “Okay, here’s the story. When I was four or five, my brother and I were fighting over some toy. I tackled him, and when he tried to crawl away with the toy, I held on to his leg. That’s when he kicked out.”
“Ouch.” For once, Amanda was glad to be an only child. “Who got the toy in the end?”
Michelle chuckled. “Who do you think?”
“I have a feeling you always get what you want.”
A grin tugged up the small scar. “Does that mean you’ll come to the living room with me?” Michelle sobered. “Listen, I’m really not trying to get fresh with you or anything, but you look like hell. You should really take a Tylenol and wait for it to kick in before you get behind the wheel.”
Her honesty was disarming. And she was right. Driving with a hangover was almost as bad as drunk driving. Waiting a few more minutes before they left wouldn’t hurt, especially now that they both knew where they stood. “All right. You win.”
Michelle’s living room made Amanda’s small apartment seem like an emergency shelter. Two recliners were angled toward a cozy fireplace that made the stylish room look more inviting. A red fleece blanket had slipped off the leather couch, where Michelle had slept.
As in the bedroom, framed prints dominated this room too. Next to the TV hung a large photograph of two gnarled, age-spotted hands cradling a tiny baby. In another print, half a dozen kids between the ages of two and twelve piled onto Michelle, hugging her. All of them shared the same hair and eye color, like rich Swiss chocolate. Michelle, who was crouched to be at eye level with the smaller kids, looked as if she was about to be toppled under the onslaught, but instead of catching herself, she steadied the youngest child with both hands, preventing him from falling.
“That’s a great picture,” Amanda said, pointing.
Michelle turned and regarded the photo with a fond expression. “Yeah. That’s my brother’s brood.”
Amanda stared at her. “Your brother has six children?”
“What can I say? Marty never knew when to stop.” Michelle set the bottle of painkillers and a glass of water on the coffee table. She bent, picked up the blanket, and folded it. Sweeping her arm, she invited Amanda to sit.
Amanda took two steps toward her and then stopped when the largest DVD collection she had ever seen caught her attention; even her own paled in comparison. There had to be at least one thousand DVDs, filling shelf after shelf in a ceiling-high bookcase. “Wow. Apparently, you don’t know when to stop either.”
Michelle laughed. Not the polite little laugh or dainty giggle that was so common in Hollywood circles, but a full-out laugh that seemed to fill the air with joy.
At the loud sound, Amanda’s headache flared up, making her wince.
“Sorry.” Michelle stopped laughing and pressed her fingers to her full lips, but her eyes still twinkled. “Yeah, I go a bit overboard when it comes to movies. Would I have anything that you’re in?”
Amanda had long since learned to expect that question whenever people found out she was an actress. “Do you tape commercials or bad soap operas?”
“Um, no.”
“Then no, you don’t have anything I’m in.”
An understanding smile spread across Michelle’s face. “Ah, so your career hasn’t yet taken off. Don’t worry; it will. You’ve got the face for it.”
Amanda eyed her. Was Michelle one of these smooth-talking butches who complimented women left and right? After almost five years in Hollywood, Amanda was immune to that kind of flattery. “Thanks, I think,” she said and crossed the room. “At least your lines are much better than those of my red-haired drinking buddy.” She winced as soon as she had said it. Being hungover sure didn’t improve her tactfulness.
“Lines?” Michelle shook her head. “Nope. I leave delivering lines to you actresses. I really meant it. You know, you remind me of my favorite actress of all time. I thought so as soon as I saw you last night.”
“So who’s your favorite actress? Sandra Bullock in Twenty-Eight Days?” Amanda couldn’t remember most of last night, but her behavior must have been just as embarrassing as that of the movie’s alcoholic main character. She took a step toward the coffee table to pick up the Tylenol.
Michelle laughed, though not as loudly as before. “No. It wasn’t the fact that you were drinking like a fish that reminded me of my favorite actress. It’s the way you move and those earnest, big blue eyes of yours. You really look like a modern-day version of Josephine Mabry.”
Amanda crashed into the coffee table. She flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to regain her balance.
Only Michelle’s quick reflexes kept her from falling. “Careful.” She still held on to Amanda’s arm but gentled her grip. “You all right?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Amanda knew she was gaping, but she couldn’t help it. Was Josephine Mabry really her favorite actress, or had Michelle just said that to flatter her? No. She couldn’t know. And Amanda believed her when she said she wasn’t one to use pretty lines just to flatter people. She sank onto the couch and swallowed two Tylenol. “You mentioning Josephine Mabry just caught me by surprise.”
Michelle sat next to her and finally relinquished her hold on Amanda’s arm. She leaned back and chuckled. “What, you thought I just watch movies like Terminator and Rocky, maybe with a bit of sports and porn thrown in?”
Heat shot into Amanda’s face. Michelle wasn’t the stereotypical butch—if such a thing even existed—so she really had to stop making stupid assumptions. Ignoring her blush, she held Michelle’s gaze. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that you’re not exactly in the typical age group for a fan.”
Michelle fluffed her short hair. “I’ll have you know I’ve got two gray hairs already. And I’ve been a fan for twenty-five years.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“God, you Hollywood people are a mistrustful bunch. Twenty-five years, I swear.” Michelle held up three fingers in a Scout’s honor gesture. “I watched all her movies with my grandfather when I was a kid. I think he had a crush on Ms. Mabry. Well, and maybe, just maybe I had a tiny crush on her too. Who could blame us? She was quite the looker in her day.”
“Yes,” Amanda said, “she was.”
“Are you a fan too?” Michelle asked.
Amanda smiled. “Well, I guess you could say that. She’s my grandmother.”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
Amanda nodded.
The leather creaked as Michelle turned toward her on the couch. Her knee almost touched Amanda’s thigh, but by now, her proximity wasn’t as uncomfortable as before. “Wow, that’s amazing. I feel a bit starstruck all of a sudden.” The slightest bit of color dusted her cheeks.
Cute, Amanda thought and then shook her head. “I’m not the star. My grandmother is.”
“Yeah, but you’re an actress too, and I bet given the chance, you’d be just as good. What did she think about you becoming an actress?”
“I guess she’s got conflicted feelings about it,” Amanda said.
“Really? I’d have thought she would be as proud as a peacock of its tail feathers.”
Amanda chuckled. “She is. If there were an Oscar for commercials, she would try to get me nominated.”
The laugh lines around Michelle’s eyes deepened. “So where do the conflicted feelings come in?”
“She knows the business,” Amanda said, surprising herself with how willingly she answered this stranger’s questions. “Most actresses never make it in Hollywood, and if they do, it’s at a price. If you want to make a living as an actress, you’ll have to take parts you don’t want, work with people you don’t like, and smile through it all. Some people even say you have to sell a piece of your soul to make it in Hollywood.”
“I never got the impression that your grandmother did that.” Michelle turned a bit more so that she was fully facing Amanda and laid her left arm along the back of the couch. “I mean, she made some movies that were highly controversial in their time, and she refused to let herself be typecast as a demure damsel or a seductress.”
Amanda nodded. “And that’s why few people other than you and your grandfather have ever heard of her. She won a National Society of Film Critics Award for Best Actress, but she never starred in blockbusters. She didn’t care for fame or money; she just wanted to act. But then, she had a husband who made good money, and she knows I’ll never have that. That’s why she worries about me.”
“So she knows you’re gay?” A blush crept up Michelle’s neck. “I mean…if you are gay. Just because you told that guy in the bar you’re a lesbian and couldn’t keep your hands off me when you were smashed, I shouldn’t assume that…”
For once, Amanda wasn’t the flustered one. She smiled. “Relax. I’m gay. And yes, my grandmother knows. She was the first person I came out to.”
“And she’s fine with it?”
“She says if that’s what makes me happy, then she’s all for it.”
Michelle casually touched Amanda’s shoulder. “That’s what my grandfather said to me too. It’s a shame those two never met. They would have made a great couple.”
Amanda considered it for a moment. If Michelle’s grandfather had married her grandmother, that would make them siblings or cousins. She shook her head. The longer she talked to Michelle, the more she liked her—but it wasn’t in a sisterly way. The thought took her by surprise. You’re not attracted to her, are you? No, of course she wasn’t. Besides, she was too hungover to feel anything but nauseated. “I bet they would have liked each other,” she said, “but I really can’t imagine my grandmother with anyone but my grandfather.”
“I know what you mean,” Michelle said. “I can’t imagine my grandfather with anyone but my grandmother either.”
Silence spread between them, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
After a while, Michelle pointed at the wall of DVDs. “Do you want to watch one of your grandmother’s movies? I have them all.”
Amanda glanced at her watch. She had more than enough time, but was it really a good idea to hang out here for much longer? After everything that Michelle had done for her, she didn’t want to overstay her welcome.
“It’s just an offer,” Michelle said when Amanda kept hesitating. “I can drive you to your car now if you want, but it might not be a bad idea to let the residual alcohol wear off and give the Tylenol some time to kick in.”
Finally, Amanda shrugged. “Sure, why not?” She hadn’t seen her grandmother’s movies in a while, and if she were at home now, she wouldn’t do much beyond hanging out on the couch either.
“Which one?”
“How about Spur of the Moment?”
“Good choice. It’s my favorite. Nothing beats a feisty woman taking on a bunch of unscrupulous land speculators.” Michelle got up, picked a DVD out of the shelf without having to search for it, and headed over to the large flat-screen TV in the corner. On the way back from the DVD player, she hesitated in front of the recliner but then returned to the couch and sat next to Amanda again. “Want to do the honors?” Bowing as if she were handing over a scepter, she held out the remote control.
“Thank you, kind…um…lady.” Their fingers brushed as Amanda reached for the remote control. She bit her lip and started the movie.
When the closing credits rolled across the TV screen, Amanda realized that her headache was now just a dull pressure instead of a constant throbbing. She had kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her, surprising herself with how comfortable she felt in Michelle’s living room. Their shoulders were touching—and probably had been during half of the movie.
Michelle moved a few inches to the right, away from Amanda, as if she only now realized it too. She turned her head and trailed her gaze over every inch of Amanda’s face. “I wasn’t imagining things. You look a lot like your grandmother.”
Amanda blinked. “Yeah?” She liked to think so, but most people thought she was a carbon copy of her mother, who looked nothing like Grandma. “You really think so?”
“Of course. You have this…” Michelle reached out as if to touch Amanda’s cheek with one fingertip. At the last moment, she withdrew her hand. “Um, the curve of your cheekbones is exactly like hers. And your smile.”
They stared at each other.
Amanda’s skin seemed to heat beneath Michelle’s intense gaze.
Then Michelle looked away and cleared her throat. “How’s your head?”
A little confused. But, of course, that wasn’t what Michelle was asking. “I’m fine,” Amanda said. She gulped down the remainder of her water.
“All right. Then let’s go.” Michelle turned off the TV, and they headed for the door.
Amanda smirked. At least one stereotype was true—Michelle’s means of transportation was an SUV.
“So why doesn’t the promising grandchild of the grande dame of romantic movies believe in love?” Michelle asked as she unlocked the car and held the passenger-side door open for Amanda.
Amanda waited until Michelle got in on her side and started the SUV before she answered, “Who said I don’t believe in love?”
Michelle waited for another car to pass and pulled out of the driveway. While she expertly navigated the winding roads of the Hollywood Hills, she spared a quick glance over at Amanda. “You do?”
Was there a hopeful tone in her voice?
Amanda mentally shook her head. No, they had established once and for all that they weren’t interested in each other. “Well, there was this week when my girlfriend left me for a double-D bimbo from a Brazilian telenovela, but other than that, sure, I believe in love.”
“Then why did you attend the Anti-Valentine’s Day party?”
Michelle’s hands resting on the steering wheel looked sure and strong. For some reason, Amanda kept studying them, taking in the long fingers and the tendons playing in the back of her hands. Resolutely, she directed her gaze at the taillights of the car in front of them. “I don’t believe in the commercialized version of love. Two friends of mine set me up with the only other lesbian they know, just because they thought I’d find eternal love on Valentine’s Day. Needless to say it was a disaster.”
“Ah.” Michelle nodded as if she had been through dates like that too. “I’ll never get why people think two lesbians will inevitably fall in love just because they’re both gay.”
