Page 21 of Sexy as Sin
She wiped the silly grin off her face and typed,No, mate. Favorite smoothie. Your turn to choose film too.She hesitated, then typed fast,Better than Julia Roberts? You need another MRI. On brain.
A few seconds, and the green bubble appeared.I know what I like. I keep thinking about sweet things.Vanilla. Almond. The way you smell. Can I get something like that? That’s what I want.
Her hand was on her heart, and she got a flush of heat that wasn’t from the stove. The man had a broken leg. He was on major drugs. He was inhospital.Also, he was leaving. For the States. There was long-distance, and then there was this mad idea.
Peach vanilla?she wrote back.Sneak a bit of ice cream in with the yoghurt? Can your stomach handle it?
Yeah. It can. Can’t wait. I’ll come up with something for you too on second thought. Non-cafeteria. My turn to provide. Time to try harder.
Working your powerful-man magic remotely?
That’s it. You can judge how I do. See you tonight.
“That’s all?” she asked aloud. “Not fair, mate.” She set her phone down firmly in a corner, out of temptation’s way, and washed her hands. He must be a killer negotiator, flirting like that, then cutting it off. She’d wanted to keep going, even though she had heaps of work to do, and not enough time to do it. At the moment, she desperately wanted to forward the whole conversation to Azra, or possibly read it aloud. “And then I said, and thenhesaid, and thenIsaid...” What was she, fifteen? No. She hadn’t even been that bad when shewasfifteen.
Also, she might not be better than Julia Roberts—correction, shedefinitelywasn’t better than Julia Roberts—but Brett was oh-hell-yeah-better than Richard Gere. The slow smile, like you’d made him do it. The humor and intelligence in his gray eyes. The brain. The strength. The height. Theshoulders.
She splashed some cold water on her face and thought,No. Just no. Stop. So far out of your league. He isn’t even an actor. He practicallyisthat bloke. He’sleaving.
And, yes, she may have chosenPretty Womanout of pure mischievous intent. But when multimillionaire Richard Gere had set Julia Roberts, surely much too vulnerable to be walking the streets, onto the lid of that grand piano? When he’d smoothed back her ringlets with a gentle hand, and Julia’s eyes had darkened? Willow had shifted in her chair. She hadn’t wanted to look at Brett, and she hadn’t been able to help it.
He was watching, his face intent, his smoothie undrunk in his hand. On the screen, Julia lay back on the piano. Slowly. Black lingerie, red hair, long legs. And Brett turned his head and looked at her.
“You’re missing the good stuff,” she told him. A piano key struck, then three more. Discordant. Urgent.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” she said, when she had to say something.
His smile was a faint thing, more eyes than mouth. “Maybe I never had the right person to watch it with.”
“It’s cute.”
“Is it? I’m not so sure.” His gaze went back to the screen. The camera had pulled back from the piano, but Richard had been kissing Julia’s stomach, his hands moving down her body, before that. You might not be able to see him anymore, but there was no doubt in your mind what he was doing. Or that he’d be good at it.
In the film.
Tiny baked potatoes next,she told herself.Focus.
It was forecast to be even warmer today than the day before, and she was grateful for the air conditioning, especially because once again, she was heating up. At the memory of a virtual stranger. And a movie.
Entertainment, that was all. Thoughts to keep you company while working. Better than music. Once she’d thought it, shedidgrab her Bluetooth headphones and switch on her music. No new, edgy stuff, not today. She was edgy enough already. No Fleetwood Mac, either, and definitely no crooners from generations old or new. No. She put on the music of her childhood. So that wasThe Little Mermaid.So what? Ariel had been a redhead with a dream and a plan, too. When Willow surfed, when the waves were coming just right, that was how she still felt. Like a mermaid.
An hour later, she was removing Thai meatballs from three enormous cast-iron frying pans with a slotted spoon and singing along to “Kiss the Girl,” back in her happy place.
The bride had said, at their menu-choosing meeting, “Charles says I can have anything I like, as long as we have meatballs.” She’d made a face, and the wedding coordinator had said, her tone both soothing and chirpy, as wedding coordinators tended to be, “Maybe some gorgeous lasagna mini-cupcakes instead?”
Willow had said, “Of course we can do meatballs, and fit them into the menu, too. Maybe not lasagna. You probably don’t want Italian, not with all these fresh Asian fusion flavors, scallops and prawns and all.”Or you could confuse your guests’ tastebuds,she’d thought,and make everything start tasting weird. Please don’t. It won’t make your caterer look good.
“Are you sure?” The bride had still looked doubtful. “Meatballs aren’t on your list.”
“Not everybody wants them in summer,” Willow had improvised. “But we can do themexactlyright for summer. They’ll be gorgeous, and we’ll nail that Asian fusion. It’s what we do. Trust me.”
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known how to do that then. It mattered that she could do itnow.It had taken her ages to get the dipping sauce recipe right. The lime juice, coriander, and minced fresh ginger had been easy. The secret was the spoonful of honey, a touch of sweetness that brought all the delicious flavors together. With the chopped lemongrass in the meatballs themselves, the round little tidbits were as light and summer-refreshing as ground pork was ever going to be.
She was putting the trays into the cooler when her partner walked in.
“Morning,” Amanda said. “Everything all right now? Thank goodness that’s over.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just pulled her carefully tended blond hair back in an elastic and went to the sink to wash her hands.
