Page 38 of Out of the Gold

“I hate scotch. I’d rather have a good pinot noir any day, and twice on Sunday.”

I scrunch back into my seat. “But I’ve seen you drinking scotch, like, all the time? In so many photos.”

“Yup.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “Even my dad always drinks his beloved Bud.”

“He’s a rock star.”

The waiter sets our glasses down and offers Charles a taste. Once he approves it, both glasses are poured and we place our dinner orders.

Wanting more info about the intriguing man across from me, I return to our conversation. “What does being a rock star have to do with what you choose to drink?”

Charles sips his wine, an expression of pure joy crossing his face. “Rock stars are rebels.” He takes another sip. “Actors are supposed to always be on the cutting edge of everything. You know, living the best life and all that bullshit.”

I taste the wine and find it refreshing. When a breadbasket is placed on the table, I select a roll and dip it in some olive oil. “I promise not to let anyone know your true drink of choice.”

His shoulders bob, like he’s holding in a laugh. “You’re a real trooper. If I had confessed that to you when you were sewing me into those damn leggings, I’m not so sure you wouldn’t have outed me from the rooftops.”

“I’m not that bad. Besides, I’m the one on her knees for nearly two hours. Cut a girl some slack.”

“Now that you mention it, it’s certainly a provocative position.” He takes the smallest roll in the basket and rips it apart. His eyes skewer mine as his hand slips across to my plate and he dips the roll into my oil.

“Hey!” I swat at him, but he’s too fast and the bread disappears into his mouth. Which is surrounded by those lips—holding untold promises. Are they soft? Hard? Would they mold perfectly against mine and turn my brain to mush? Or crash hard against me and work me into a frenzy? Electricity zips through my nerve endings, and I cross my legs to tamp down the feeling.

He smiles at me, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Gotta be faster than that, Goldie.”

I manage a squeak. “Goldie?”

He dips his remaining scrap of bread in the oil on my plate. After swallowing, he wipes his hands on his napkin and reaches for my hair. Holding out a lock, he says, “I’ve never seen hair this color before. At first I thought it was just blond, but it really isn’t. It’s actually gold.”

Lowering my eyes, I swipe my hair away from his grasp. “I’m sure you’ve seen this color before. It’s the same as my dad’s.”

He chuckles. “Guess I never stared too hard at his hair.”

Heat races up my throat. Not wanting him to see my embarrassment, I stand. “I need to use the restroom.”

Charles nods at me, and I race down the stairs. Once inside the single room, I turn the faucet on and let the cool water run into my cupped hands. Taking a deep breath, I splash my face, letting the water droplets slide down my throat. Why am I reacting to him like this?

I stare into the mirror and realization hits like a bolt of lightning.No!No. Freaking. Way. I amnotfalling for the leading man. My lips tingle and my lie falls away. “Shit.” This can lead nowhere good. Even though I can’t figure out how my family connections could help him in any way, I’m sure he’s not interested in a costume designer like me. Not when he has beautiful starlets falling all over themselves to serve his every whim.

Not to mention Grant . . .

A knock brings me back to my altered reality. Reminding myself not to become the worst sort of cliché, I force my head up, straighten my shoulders, and brush past a gorgeous Italian woman standing on the other side of the door. Who would look great on Charles’s arm—and probably in his bed. Desperately trying to banish the image, I return to my seat, where our meals have been served.

Charles smiles around a mouthful of food. “Sorry. Couldn’t wait.”

He looks so young and carefree, nothing like the authoritative guy I sew into a superhero suit daily. Returning my napkin to my lap, I pick up my fork. “No problem. Is it good?”

He nods. “Fuck yeah. This fish is so fresh. With all these herbs, it tastes amazing.” His gaze strays to my oversized bowl. “Bet yours is fantastic.”

Needing the distraction, I lick my lips and dig into my seafood stew. The delicate flavors dance along my taste buds. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” I hold up a razor clam. “Want to taste?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he teases, leans forward, and opens his lips.

I put my fork into his mouth, only realizing what I’ve done when it’s too late. Now we’re sharing utensils? He pulls back, chewing. “You’re right. That is good.”

I look down at my fork, which was just in his mouth. Do I ask for another? Steal one off a neighboring table? Casually drop it onto the floor so the waiter brings me a new one? I inhale and dig into my dish again. As my mouth closes around the fork, I try to ignore the shiver of knowledge about where it was a second ago.

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