Read Online Hot in Hellcat Canyon by Julie Anne Long - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie Anne Long
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he muttered, impressed.
After a moment to establish they both still possessed corneas, he braved a step closer and assessed the view.
She’d seen that view before, so she stood where she was.
And surreptitiously watched him.
The gamma ray brilliance of the light delineated faint lines at the corners of his eyes and faint circles beneath them, a little morning stubble, a semicircle of a dimple next to his mouth, visible even when he wasn’t smiling, like a sign saying “here is where you should kiss me.”
That surge of untenable want roared through her like that first shot of whisky she’d tried when she was eighteen and trying to impress a guy.
Funny, though.
She could have sworn there was something almost melancholy in his stillness right now.
If she had to guess, she would have said he was lonely.
“Don’t anthropomorphize the movie star,” a little warning voice in her head said. “They aren’t like the rest of us.”
And yet. She didn’t think she’d ever have assembled the collage of information she’d gleaned about the man last night, from the cavalcade of women to the video of him being hunted at the airport, into the wryly funny, down-to-earth, gracious—you’d have to be gracious to endure a tour like the one she was giving him—man standing here.
“And are those little glints across the ridge windows of other houses?” he asked finally.
Suddenly she knew where he was going with this.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“If they had binoculars, I could do a performance of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window once a night.” He quirked a corner of his mouth.
She knew that movie was about neighbors spying on neighbors, and she recalled the little black bar photoshopped over J. T.’s penis. Some determinedly, greedily hateful photographer had worked hard for that shot. In a house comprised of glass windows, John Tennessee McCord would be pretty exposed.
Right now the only scene she could distinctly remember from that movie was the famous one: Grace Kelly swooping in to plant a long, slow kiss on Jimmy Stewart.
He pivoted abruptly then.
She couldn’t be sure what expression he’d caught her in the middle of, but it was probably the basic lustful sort. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, doubtless.
It didn’t save her from feeling mortified.
“Or you could push the couch over and enact puppet shows from behind it,” she said hurriedly. “My nephew would like that.”
Wow, Britt , she thought sadly. You are a dork.
His eyebrows dove in surprise.
But then he grinned. “I was a guest on Sesame Street once,” he said. “I sang a song with Kermit. “Ev-ery-ONE needs a friend, it’s just so FUN to BE a friend . . .”
He sang with complete and barely tuneful unselfconsciousness. She laughed, utterly disarmed.
“I put it on my acting resume,” he said. “The singing. Even though I did it exactly once.”
“Yeah, once was probably enough,” she teased.
This just made him grin.
And now he was watching her in the same way he’d perused the view of the canyon a minute ago, only with significantly more pleasure and a degree of purposefulness that shortened her breath.
The backs of her arms heated to match the temperature of her face.
He took a little step forward.
“So, Britt . . .” he mused. “You ever watch any cop shows?”
She took a step backward.
“Nope.”
“Watch any other TV shows?”
“Not really.”
“Got any . . . favorite actors?” he said softly, teasingly.
“Are you still tight with Kermit? I would do just about anything to meet him.”
It was an attempt to shut down this line of questioning and get the house tour on track.
She realized belatedly how very much like an innuendo it had sounded, when he went stock-still.
He tipped his head and considered her.
“Oh, sure. I’d introduce you. But Miss Piggy is the jealous type. One look at you . . .” The look he settled upon her here was somehow both soft and molten enough to dissolve
After a moment to establish they both still possessed corneas, he braved a step closer and assessed the view.
She’d seen that view before, so she stood where she was.
And surreptitiously watched him.
The gamma ray brilliance of the light delineated faint lines at the corners of his eyes and faint circles beneath them, a little morning stubble, a semicircle of a dimple next to his mouth, visible even when he wasn’t smiling, like a sign saying “here is where you should kiss me.”
That surge of untenable want roared through her like that first shot of whisky she’d tried when she was eighteen and trying to impress a guy.
Funny, though.
She could have sworn there was something almost melancholy in his stillness right now.
If she had to guess, she would have said he was lonely.
“Don’t anthropomorphize the movie star,” a little warning voice in her head said. “They aren’t like the rest of us.”
And yet. She didn’t think she’d ever have assembled the collage of information she’d gleaned about the man last night, from the cavalcade of women to the video of him being hunted at the airport, into the wryly funny, down-to-earth, gracious—you’d have to be gracious to endure a tour like the one she was giving him—man standing here.
“And are those little glints across the ridge windows of other houses?” he asked finally.
Suddenly she knew where he was going with this.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“If they had binoculars, I could do a performance of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window once a night.” He quirked a corner of his mouth.
She knew that movie was about neighbors spying on neighbors, and she recalled the little black bar photoshopped over J. T.’s penis. Some determinedly, greedily hateful photographer had worked hard for that shot. In a house comprised of glass windows, John Tennessee McCord would be pretty exposed.
Right now the only scene she could distinctly remember from that movie was the famous one: Grace Kelly swooping in to plant a long, slow kiss on Jimmy Stewart.
He pivoted abruptly then.
She couldn’t be sure what expression he’d caught her in the middle of, but it was probably the basic lustful sort. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, doubtless.
It didn’t save her from feeling mortified.
“Or you could push the couch over and enact puppet shows from behind it,” she said hurriedly. “My nephew would like that.”
Wow, Britt , she thought sadly. You are a dork.
His eyebrows dove in surprise.
But then he grinned. “I was a guest on Sesame Street once,” he said. “I sang a song with Kermit. “Ev-ery-ONE needs a friend, it’s just so FUN to BE a friend . . .”
He sang with complete and barely tuneful unselfconsciousness. She laughed, utterly disarmed.
“I put it on my acting resume,” he said. “The singing. Even though I did it exactly once.”
“Yeah, once was probably enough,” she teased.
This just made him grin.
And now he was watching her in the same way he’d perused the view of the canyon a minute ago, only with significantly more pleasure and a degree of purposefulness that shortened her breath.
The backs of her arms heated to match the temperature of her face.
He took a little step forward.
“So, Britt . . .” he mused. “You ever watch any cop shows?”
She took a step backward.
“Nope.”
“Watch any other TV shows?”
“Not really.”
“Got any . . . favorite actors?” he said softly, teasingly.
“Are you still tight with Kermit? I would do just about anything to meet him.”
It was an attempt to shut down this line of questioning and get the house tour on track.
She realized belatedly how very much like an innuendo it had sounded, when he went stock-still.
He tipped his head and considered her.
“Oh, sure. I’d introduce you. But Miss Piggy is the jealous type. One look at you . . .” The look he settled upon her here was somehow both soft and molten enough to dissolve
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