So far, The Plan is going pretty good. I found a tenant for my Studio City condo a few months ago, then went home to live with my parents in Dallas. It’s hard being a twenty-five-year-old actress in Los Angeles, especially one who has yet to land a decent gig. There are too many guys who are prettier than me—and who know it. And way too many opportunities for a fast fuck.
Texas is slower. Easier. And even though it’s hardly the acting capital of the universe, I’ve already had a few auditions, and I think I may even have a decent shot for a job as an on-air reporter at a local affiliate. I’d auditioned right before flying out here for the wedding, and I’m hoping to hear back from the programming director any day now.
And, yes, true, I’d also auditioned for a commercial here in SoCal, but I didn’t get the job. I tell myself that’s a good thing because I would have taken it and stayed in Los Angeles, because I love Los Angeles and my friends are here. But that would have put me right back on that hamster wheel of auditioning and fucking, and then starting the whole destructive process right over again.
The Plan is good, I tell myself as I watch the crew finish the job. The Plan is wise.
As a dozen workmen haul the last of the tent poles to a nearby truck, the supervisor approaches me with a clipboard and a pen. He takes me through the list, and I duly check off all the various items, confirming that the final details have been attended to.
Then I sign the form, thank him, and watch as he climbs into the truck and drives away.
“So that’s it,” Ryan says as he approaches me. He’s still in tuxedo pants and the starched white shirt, but the cummerbund is gone, as is the jacket. He really does look sexy as hell, but it’s his bare feet that have done me in. There’s something so damn devil-may-care about a guy in a tux barefoot on the beach, and I can’t help but wonder if there really is a bit of the devil in Ryan Hunter.
And if there is, will I ever get to peek at the wickedness?
“No more cars in the driveway,” he continues, as I try to yank my thoughts back to reality. “And I just signed the invoice for the car park company. I think we can safely call this thing a wrap. And a success.” His smile is slow and easy and undeniably sexy. “It really was one hell of a party.”
I laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing.” My stomach does a little twisting number, and I tell myself it’s hunger. After all, champagne isn’t that filling, and I’m sure all the dancing I did during the night burned off the three slices of wedding cake I’d devoured.
I’m lying again, of course. It’s not hunger that’s making my stomach flutter. It’s Ryan. And as I stand there silently wishing he’d just touch me already, I’m also getting more and more irritated. Because why the hell hasn’t he touched me already? We’ve spent time together. We’ve even danced together during various club outings with friends. Not touching, maybe, but close enough that the air between us was thick with promise.
And once, when Damien had a security scare, he sent Ryan to check on me. I’d been wearing a tiny bikini with a sheer cover-up, and I looked damn hot. But he hadn’t made a move. We’d ended up talking for hours, which was great, and I even made him eggs, which is about as domesticated as I get.
I’m certain I haven’t been imagining that sizzle between us—and yet never once has he made a move. I can’t fathom why, and the whole situation grates on me.
Except I’m not supposed to care—Ryan is not part of The Plan.
He starts to walk toward the surf, and I fall in step beside him. I’d kicked off my own shoes once the workmen hauled away the dance floor because beaches and two-inch heels really don’t go well together, and the sand beneath my feet feels amazing.