the urge to turn around, throw her over his shoulder like a caveman, and carry her back to his bed. Then heâd spend the rest of the day over her, under her, beside her . . . any which way he could have her.
Still . . . he continued to hesitate, that niggling sensation that he was doing the right thing deep in his gut.
Waiting wasnât something he had a lot of personal experience with, at least not in his sex life. If he wanted a woman, he asked her out, took her to dinner, took her to bed, and either called her the next day to set up another dinner or had his secretary send her flowers with a note that said, âThanks for a great night. Best wishes.â Which meant the sex had been great but he wouldnât be calling.
Damn, he really was a prick, wasnât he?
What the hell did Sabrina see in him? She had to have guys her own age hitting on her all the time. What did she see in him? Money? Power? Connections?
And why would any of that matter to her? She wasnât an aspiring actress and didnât even appear to want anything to do with the film industry. Of course, he was friends with Tyler andâ
No, that didnât track. She was already good friends with Kate and, if Sabrina wanted someone to back her with Tyler thenâ
No, that wasnât Sabrina. It just wasnât. Heâd made his fortune in Hollywood being able to read people and he could spot a user at five hundred yards.
Sabrina did not fall in that category.
âFuck.â
Frustration ate at his guts, but the part of his brain that was constantly churning out ideas screamed at him to get to his laptop and put this angst to good use. Channel it into the screenplay.
He started back up the stairs, this time with no hesitation.
That look on Sabrinaâs face had given him a damn good idea about the final scene.
He was sitting on a chair in front of the French doors to the balcony and had only just gotten into the scene when he heard the clink of pottery.
His head shot up and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Sabrinaâs backside as she left the room. Then the scent of fresh, hot pastry hit his nose. He spied the tray sheâd set on the dresser just inside the door.
That smells great
. Sheâd even put a carafe of coffee and a mug on the tray.
If this were a rom-com, she wouldâve put the tray on his desk, knocked coffee on his lap, and tried to mop it while getting her hands all over his crotch. Then she wouldâve tripped on her way out and landed in his lap.
Heâd never been a fan of rom-coms. The conventions were bullshit and outdated. He didnât have one thing against a good love story if you told it right, and that meant having something new and interesting to say about love or you had characters so special you rooted for them to find their happily-ever-after.
But happily-ever-after wasnât something he expected in real life. There was always going to be too much bullshit in life to be happy all the time.
Since the tray was out of reach, he had to get up and get it but seconds later he was back in his chair, laptop humming, keys clicking.
The next time he looked up, he had a crick in his neck that made him swear like a sailor, and when he checked the time, he realized heâd spent more than three hours in the same position.
Heâd also gotten through that final scene and finished the entire plate of scones and carafe of coffee.
Break time. He wanted to see Sabrina. Wanted to talk to her, tell her about the progress heâd made. Trying not to feel like a teenager with a crush, he stretched until he felt his spine and neck crackle and pop, then he picked up the tray to take it back down to the kitchen.
Good cover story.
Downstairs, he didnât hear her, and when he checked the kitchen and set the tray near the sink, she wasnât there. So he proceeded to check every other room on the first floor.
No, he wasnât obsessing much, was
Still . . . he continued to hesitate, that niggling sensation that he was doing the right thing deep in his gut.
Waiting wasnât something he had a lot of personal experience with, at least not in his sex life. If he wanted a woman, he asked her out, took her to dinner, took her to bed, and either called her the next day to set up another dinner or had his secretary send her flowers with a note that said, âThanks for a great night. Best wishes.â Which meant the sex had been great but he wouldnât be calling.
Damn, he really was a prick, wasnât he?
What the hell did Sabrina see in him? She had to have guys her own age hitting on her all the time. What did she see in him? Money? Power? Connections?
And why would any of that matter to her? She wasnât an aspiring actress and didnât even appear to want anything to do with the film industry. Of course, he was friends with Tyler andâ
No, that didnât track. She was already good friends with Kate and, if Sabrina wanted someone to back her with Tyler thenâ
No, that wasnât Sabrina. It just wasnât. Heâd made his fortune in Hollywood being able to read people and he could spot a user at five hundred yards.
Sabrina did not fall in that category.
âFuck.â
Frustration ate at his guts, but the part of his brain that was constantly churning out ideas screamed at him to get to his laptop and put this angst to good use. Channel it into the screenplay.
He started back up the stairs, this time with no hesitation.
That look on Sabrinaâs face had given him a damn good idea about the final scene.
He was sitting on a chair in front of the French doors to the balcony and had only just gotten into the scene when he heard the clink of pottery.
His head shot up and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Sabrinaâs backside as she left the room. Then the scent of fresh, hot pastry hit his nose. He spied the tray sheâd set on the dresser just inside the door.
That smells great
. Sheâd even put a carafe of coffee and a mug on the tray.
If this were a rom-com, she wouldâve put the tray on his desk, knocked coffee on his lap, and tried to mop it while getting her hands all over his crotch. Then she wouldâve tripped on her way out and landed in his lap.
Heâd never been a fan of rom-coms. The conventions were bullshit and outdated. He didnât have one thing against a good love story if you told it right, and that meant having something new and interesting to say about love or you had characters so special you rooted for them to find their happily-ever-after.
But happily-ever-after wasnât something he expected in real life. There was always going to be too much bullshit in life to be happy all the time.
Since the tray was out of reach, he had to get up and get it but seconds later he was back in his chair, laptop humming, keys clicking.
The next time he looked up, he had a crick in his neck that made him swear like a sailor, and when he checked the time, he realized heâd spent more than three hours in the same position.
Heâd also gotten through that final scene and finished the entire plate of scones and carafe of coffee.
Break time. He wanted to see Sabrina. Wanted to talk to her, tell her about the progress heâd made. Trying not to feel like a teenager with a crush, he stretched until he felt his spine and neck crackle and pop, then he picked up the tray to take it back down to the kitchen.
Good cover story.
Downstairs, he didnât hear her, and when he checked the kitchen and set the tray near the sink, she wasnât there. So he proceeded to check every other room on the first floor.
No, he wasnât obsessing much, was
Similar Books
