Page 4 of In Frame
“If you’re sure…”
“Darling,” Leo called back, “I’m sure about everything I say yes to!” and made her laugh.
The limo pulled away. Shadows and lights shifted in its wake.
On the street, Leo and a pretty-eyed photographer looked at each other. The man also had firm shoulders—not Jason-sized, but who was?—and a trim waist, in nice shape, Leo noticed.
He didn’t know why he was noticing. So many reasons not to. All of them good.
The camera got slung away. A hand stretched out Leo’s direction, an offering. “Hi. I’m Sam. Sam Hernandez-Blake, if you need to tell anyone who you’re with.”
Leo accepted the handshake because, well, why not. Another story, another ridiculous escapade. He could tell fellow actors later that he’d agreed to a drink with a paparazzo, and watch them all be horrified. “Leo Whyte. Which you already know. Where’re we going?”
Sam’s hand was warm, and firm, and strong, and it held Leo’s for just a fraction of a second too long: a flirtation, an invitation, unmistakable male interest.
Leo’s hand did not mind the interest. It liked being held. He discovered all at once that he’d been wanting that rather intensely: someone touching him.
Sam grinned, letting go. Those treasure-chest eyes danced. “A pub.”
“That’s not helpful, thank you.”
“A pub I know about.”
Leo narrowed eyes at him. They were nearly the same height, though Leo was fractionally taller. Not much, though. “I should hope so. Andhowdo you know about it? Do you all get together and trade stories about stalking celebrities at the grocery store?”
“Nope. We save that for secret clandestine meet-ups behind the Starbucks. Can’t tell you which Starbucks, obviously, that’s against celebrity stalking regulations. Come on, it’s only like two blocks.”
Leo sighed, hoped the sigh registered as protest, and fell into step beside him. Vegas dazzle flung light and color in riotous splashes over Sam’s battered leather jacket and jeans; Leo, in casual-but-nice trousers and shirt and jacket, wondered briefly about being overdressed, not matching Sam’s comfortable unfussy style. And then he wondered why he cared.
They fell into step, feet finding a shared rhythm on night pavement. Leo’s legs were longer, but Sam had presence, with those nice broad shoulders and muscular thighs. The camera equipment took up space as well; it was portable, but unmissable. A reminder. A purpose.
Leo appreciated the reminder. It helped him not think about the sensation of Sam’s hand lingering on his. He was used to people finding him attractive—part of the acting profession, being desirable on the silver screen, and he wasn’t Jason but he had decent lean muscles and thick dark blond hair and big hazel eyes, which he did quite like—and he had certainly been flirted with by a variety of persons on previous occasions, so the interest shouldn’t’ve meant anything.
It shouldn’t’ve felt new. Like a first time. Like a breath of air, a surfacing from beneath ice. Like heat in his own veins.
Sam took him down the street, around a corner, and down another street; Leo blinked in surprise. “I didn’t expect—”
“Nah, people don’t. But Vegas isn’t all shiny lights andcasinos. I like this place, when I’m home.”
Leo gazed around the pub, drinking in soothing if somewhat shabby oak, lapidary bottles behind the high bar, low tables and cozy booths, cheerful eddies and pools of voices. The pub opened up wooden arms in the manner of a place that’d seen a lot of stories, journalists, people who liked good whiskey and conversation. A few heads turned as they came in, but went back to their own business, undisturbed by the appearance of a marginally famous English actor in their midst. Leo hadn’t known what to expect; he hadn’t formed any expectations at all, though if he’d had to guess he would’ve imagined Sam might’ve taken him someplace nearby and noisy and quintessentially Vegas, a perpetual party.
He did like this, though. Different, a surprise, and he enjoyed being surprised; but also calm and steady rather than clamorous and crowded. Intimate.
The sort of place, he thought, that you’d take someone on a date. If you wanted to talk to them, away from the world and the bustle of cameras and the actor’s life. If you looked at them and thought that perhaps they needed to feel seen.
Sam said, “I know it’s not as fancy as what you’re probably used to—”
“No, it’s lovely! It’s an oasis. What do you think is in that strangely curvaceous purple bottle? On the second shelf? I so very much want it to taste like berry pie.”
“I’ve never seen anyone drink it, so I’m gonna decide you’re right and it’s totally pie.” Sam’s smile reappeared; it’d grown briefly anxious when thinking about Leo Whyte and fancy destinations. “They have a pretty decent whiskey list. And the bartender’s a friend.”
Leo eyed the bartender in question, who had Celtic tattoos along one arm and a lot of muscle, and who waved at Sam with enthusiasm. “The sort of friend who tells people thatyou’ve brought Leo Whyte in for a drink, and they should all flock over here with cameras, or the sort who doesn’t?”
“The second one.” Sam steered them toward a booth; Leo went along because that seemed the natural thing to do. “Brian’s a good guy. And no one’ll bother you in here, I promise.”
“No one other than you, you mean.”
“Hey, I already got you to go out with me.”
