Page 22 of Take 2
“You’ll show them you are at the top of your game.”
He sighs. “I think this training schedule is going to leave me a blob on the ground at Combine.”
Next weekend will be hell for him, but at least training for it will be over. They’re running him ragged. Combine sounds like the ultimate interview from hell. The four-day camp will give NFL scouts the opportunity to evaluate him, and I don’t know which one of us is more nervous about it. Not that I’ve said anything other than how sure I am that he’s going to be successful.
“You’ll do great,” I say. “And the Colts need to draft two tight ends.” This type of research might be a reason I’m not as prepared as I’d like to be for the Oscars.
“Fuck the Colts. Who wants to live in Indianapolis?”
I clasp both sides of his face, and stubble prickles the heels of my hands. “I want to live wherever you are.” I press my mouth to his but he doesn’t kiss me back. Against his lips, I mumble, “I will keep doing this until you kiss me.”
A laugh rumbles his chest, and he gives in, wrapping his arms around me as his lips move with mine. But when he pulls back, he shakes his head. “You’re wrong, though. You need to go live in California. You loved it there.”
My shoulders sink. I did love it there. CalArts felt like imagination had been mixed into the mortar that held the buildings together. Touring the school was as exciting as the Hollywood and Highland Center, which had been an out-of-body experience, even if the theatre where the Academy Awards takes place is kind of nameless at the moment. CalArts is a place where people are learning to wield that movie magic—innovating it. It was inspiring, if intimidating, and felt full of possibilities.
The only thing that could have made our trip in January better would have been a win at the Rose Bowl. That was a bit of a buzzkill. Ryan tried to enjoy our time afterward, but he took it hard.
“I’m not upset that you loved it,” he says. “It suited you.”
“Is it even possible for a Wisconsin girl to be suited for LA?”
“They have cheese there, too.” He winks and glances at the TV behind me. “Showtime. Here comes Billy Crystal.”
“It’s his ninth time hosting. I’m not really missing anything.”
“You don’t want to missThe Artist’s big win.” He shifts me off to his side and lays one arm over my shoulders.
“The Artistis not winning best picture.”
“Wanna bet?”
“We do not bet on the Oscars, Ryan.”
“Right, yes, of course. Never betting. Always champagne.”
“And always sex in the dress,” I add.
“The most important rule of them all.”
Billy Crystal is a delightful host, and I recall the tears that both the book and movie versions ofThe Descendantspulled from me when it wins adapted screenplay.My smile doesn’t leave my face, which is a nice change from the past month and a half.
Ryan pulls me closer and kisses my neck. “You are so sexy when you’re excited.”
“Ah, so it’s the excitement, not the actual dresses, that inspired the Oscars-dress-sex rule.”
“It’s all of it.” He drags his lips down to kiss my collarbone, and I shudder.
Slow kisses continue to pepper my neck, jaw, ear. The show blurs even though my eyes are still pointed at the screen. “Ryan.” His name is no more than a sigh.
“Enjoying the show?” His hand slides up my thigh, and my body clenches against my will.
“Mhmm. I’ve never been so happy to be distracted.”
“I’m glad I’m learning about movies from you, but it’s still your thing. I have other interests that take priority.” He brushes his fingers over that priority, and my own interest rushes there too.
“You know,”—I gasp as he lays me down—“it’s not that movies out-rank you.”
“I know, babe. I’m kidding.” He pulls my panties down, and I squirm.
