Page 6 of Hothead

Bella straightened. This was it. Why she was here. She just had to get through the next few minutes without letting her own voice crack, or God forbid, letting the tears take over.

Her elbows hit the table as she leaned forward, the determination to do Marco’s story justice the only thing keeping her steady. “Your brother was an amazing man. Did you know he won an IDA award?”

“IDA?”

“International Documentary Association.” She nodded. “It’s one of the most prestigious awards you can receive as a documentary maker.”

She could see by Luke’s reaction he had no idea Marco was a filmmaker. Let alone a good one. She shouldn’t really be shocked. Luke had denied even having a brother only forty-eight hours ago.

“Okay, well, I guess I should start at the beginning then. He made documentaries. Good ones. I’m ... well, Iwashis cameraman.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, a look that shouldn't have been sexy, though on Luke, it was. But she definitely wasn’t thinking about how sexy the man was. No. Definitely not. Because that would mean she might possibly deviate from the plan. And there would be no deviating today. None, whatsoever.

“Anyway”—she cleared her throat before continuing—“we were filming out in Florida working on a documentary exploring the roots of the ‘Don’t Say Gay’ bills when it happened.”

Suddenly, she felt sick. And it wasn’t the good kind from a minute ago. It was the “holy shit, bile is coming up” kind. So much for the cool composure she’d worked so hard to maintain. Her knee was back to bouncing, and her palms had started to sweat.

“Uh, I think I need a drink before I go any further. Don’t suppose Molly’s got a stash of hard liquor behind the counter?”

Those curious eyes were on the move again. Searching out her expression, looking for what, she had no idea. Then, he surprised her.

“The hardest drink you’re gonna get here, angel, is an ice cream float.” She figured as much. “But I’ve got a bottle of whiskey back at mine, if you’re interested?”

Did he really just say that? He’d gone full frigging circle. Denial. Dismissal. Avoidance. To a goddamn invitation. To his home of all places. And he had to go and call her angel again while he did it, didn’t he?

But there was no time to overanalyze; she had whiskey to drink and a story to tell.

“Let’s go.”

***

Luke’s place was notthe hovel she’d originally imagined. It was actually pretty frigging nice. She’d go as far as to say it was a little bit fancy. It was a house too, not an apartment. Again, not what she was expecting.

Of course it had the bachelor essentials, like a ginormous flat screen and huge black leather sofas. But what surprised her most was the décor. Everything was minimal. Neat. And completely spotless. She was scared to touch anything in case she left a fingerprint.

He must have a cleaner. No man is this tidy.

Deciding the safest place to be was seated, she made her way over to one of the couches. Her eyes darted to the coffee table as she perched down, which resembled a huge traveling trunk. It even looked like it opened. She was tempted to find out, her fingers even shooting out to run along the metal seam.

“It doesn’t open,” Luke rumbled as he re-entered the room, this time with the whiskey bottle he’d promised and two tumblers. “That would be far too practical.”

He wasted no time bouncing down next to her and pouring out the honey-hued liquid. She found herself twisting to look at him, her eyes roaming from the bottle, all the way up his arm to the bulging bicep threatening to spill from his T-shirt. When she eventually came to his chiseled chin, his head was turned, a wry smile on his face as he offered her a glass.

“Why a trunk?” she asked, accepting the drink and almost too enthusiastically taking a big gulp.

“Why not a trunk?” That smile grew much wider than she thought possible. And it changed his whole face. Lit it up until there was an actual glow.

Jesus Christ, Bella. You’ve had one sip, stop acting like a drunk moron.

Her mental scolding didn’t work. She continued to act like a drunk moron. One with nothing to say, because she was too busy admiring that freaking glow.

“So,” he prompted, “hard liquor has been officially administered ... you ready to tell me what happened now?”

No.“Yeah.” She downed her drink, relishing the sting as it began warming her insides. She needed all the liquid courage goodness.

Once she was done, and clinking the glass back onto the trunk table, she caught another raised eyebrow. And ignored it.

“So, Florida.” She nodded to herself, not sure if it was the memories or the whiskey burning her chest. “He had this contact, one who didn’t want his identity revealed in the film, which isn’t really an issue ... we normally only film shadows of them talking and then dub the voice ...”You’re getting off track.“Anyway, the dude was skittish, didn’t even want another person in the room when he was interviewed, which meant Marco had to go. Alone.” Back was the bile. This time whiskey-flavored.

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