Page 48 of Second Act
Hugh was never optimistic about people. “Do you know something about this vet that I don’t?” she asked, turning to find him staring straight ahead. “Hugh?”
He shifted to give her a look of astonishment. “How would I know anything about her?”
“Good question,” Jessica muttered. Would Hugh be able to conjure up the perfect veterinarian to work for her? Something about his responses made her suspicious. However, Carla had said not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so she would keep the rest of her questions to herself.
“How did you spend your day off?” he asked.
“Sleeping late. Running errands.” She gave a little laugh. “I even picked up some paint samples for when Aidan finishes stripping the walls. I can’t believe my living room might get renovated in this decade.”
“You know, I’d really like to give him a hand when I have a break from shooting. I get genuine satisfaction out of doing that kind of work.” He gave her a wry look. “Every now and then.”
She remembered the time she’d visited him on a job site, where he’d been doing the kitchen cabinetry. He’d shown her how he’d dovetailed the drawers and made her run her fingers over the sanded edges of the cabinet doors to savor their smoothness. Then they’d made very illicit use of the expensive granite that topped the kitchen island. “Thanks, but it’s not a good idea.”
Instead of arguing with her, he leaned back in the corner of his seat while an odd smile played over his lips.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It was an interesting answer.”
“It was honest.” She tried to figure out why it had made him smile but couldn’t. “What did you do today?”
“Froze my balls off climbing around on a bridge. Of course, Meryl did the same thing in a ripped-up evening gown, so she was even colder.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be an actor.”
“I’ll like it better when we get to Palau.”
A pang of loss rattled her. “When do you leave New York?”
“In about ten days. We’re doing the bridge scene, another chase scene, and some interior shooting here before we depart for DC.”
She let her gaze skim over the length of him, taking in the legs stretched out across the limo’s carpet, the shoulders wedged against the door, the powerfully elegant hands, one resting on his thigh and the other on the leather between them. She lingered on the lines of his jaw and cheekbones and knew it was impossible for her to forget this man, no matter how many miles or years separated them.
The thought sent a slash of depression through her. She needed to remember the Hugh who had made her feel like a failure, not the man who had made her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and massaged her aching feet at the end of a long day. To remind herself of why she had given back his ring, even though she loved him. Because otherwise her heart would break all over again when he got on the plane to DC and never looked back.
“I’d like to stay in touch this time,” he said, as though he had read her thoughts. He reached across the space between them to take her hand from her lap and curl his fingers around it.
“Why?” The simmer of his skin radiated deep into the bones of her fingers.
“You’re part of who I am.” He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand.
The friction of his movement sent tendrils of sensation winding up her arm and through her body. She couldn’t pull free without making a fuss, so she tried to ignore his touch. “Just old friends, then.” Maybe she could manage that if he was halfway around the world.
His thumb went still, and he said in a flat tone, “Just old friends.”
At the theater-district restaurant, they were seated in a private corner, screened from the rest of the room by half-height walls. Hugh had explained that the owner was a former actor who understood the need for recognizable faces to be hidden so they could dine uninterrupted. Asa result, many celebrities patronized her establishment, which brought in the general public hoping to catch glimpses as the famous folk entered and exited.
Now Hugh sat across the linen-covered table from her, the angles and planes of his face thrown into relief by the shadows of the candlelight. “Has anyone ever done a bust of you?” she asked as she slathered butter on a warm apple-raisin roll.
His eyebrows arched in perplexity. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“They should. It would be a shame not to capture that incredible bone structure in three dimensions.”
He dropped his gaze to the spoon he was fidgeting with.
“You still don’t like it when people compliment your looks,” she said, remembering his reaction at her front door. “I thought you’d be used to it by now.”
He put down the spoon and met her eyes. “It’s not what I want people to think about...the ones I respect, anyway.”
