Kitabı oku: «Cutting Loose», sayfa 3

The door clicked as he closed it behind him. Trish didn’t turn, though she could feel his presence over her shoulder as he neared.

“Why the sudden rush to get outside?”

Trish shrugged. “It was stuffy in that room. I wanted some fresh air.” She only waited a second before asking, “Why did you follow me?”

“Maybe there really is something amazingly erotic about giving up control. Don’t you want to find out?”

In the humming silence, she turned to find him smiling at her, a wicked grin on his face. Somewhere deep inside, in some primitive part of her, a slow beat began to pound. “Take off your mask.”

He leaned sideways on the barrier next to her and lightly stroked her bare arm with his fingertips. “I think it’s better this way.”

“What are you hiding?” She stared at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like on hers.

“Perhaps I’m a wanted criminal, laying low for the night.”

“I’d almost believe that.” Under his fingertips, her skin began to heat.

“Of course, that makes you my accomplice. What’s your name, just so I know for the trial?”

“Trish.” She shifted her body a bit toward his. “And yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I kind of liked my lord.”

“My lord?”

“Or master. Don’t worry, I don’t really get pleasure out of causing pain. Although I do have to confess to a certain fascination with my flail tonight,” he added, running his fingers slowly through the strands as though absorbing the texture. “There’s something about the feel of leather against bare skin that’s incredibly hot.” He stroked the strands of leather over her fingers. “Don’t you think?”

Trish stared into his eyes, dark and unreadable, and shivered.

Then he moved his hand and ran the knotted leather straps over the soft, bare skin of her shoulder. “You’re very sensitive there,” he said softly. “You’re shaking.” He trailed the strands around the slender column of her neck.

She could feel herself tremble as she’d done earlier, in cold, in arousal, in excitement. He traced a finger where the leather had been.

Trish moistened her lips. “Take your mask off,” she said quietly.

“But isn’t it sexier for me to leave it on?” He set the flail aside. “Eyes without a face. The anonymous lover in the dark.” He stepped closer and slipped his fingers into her hair. “It’s so soft,” he whispered. “That was the first thing I wondered when I saw you, how your hair would feel. And how it would be to kiss you.”

Panic vaulted through her. She hadn’t done this in a long time. She didn’t remember how, wasn’t sure she’d ever done it right to begin with. Being alone with him had seemed like a lark, but now she thought, no she was sure, it was a bad idea. Better to leave it as an unexplored possibility. Better to keep him from finding out who she really was. Better to end it now.

And then his lips touched hers, and thought whirled away, leaving only feeling.

So sweet. So warm. She hadn’t remembered that a man’s mouth felt like that. He didn’t stick his tongue down her throat like the men—boys, really—she’d kissed before. He wasn’t hurried and clumsy. Instead, he took his time, learning the shape of her mouth, sliding his hand over her cheek. It was undemanding and it made her relax. It was delicious and it made her savor.

Then he went deeper, taking her beyond enjoyment and making her want. When he sucked at her lower lip, she matched him; when he teased with the tip of his tongue she followed, suddenly eager to learn his flavors. It was half remembering, half finding her way beyond places she’d been before.

His hands slid down over her hips, warm against her. Earlier that night, she’d craved the feel of his body against hers. Now it was happening and she couldn’t stop smiling. Look at me, she wanted to shout, I’m kissing someone. And what a someone.

The feel of his lips nibbling along her jaw and down her throat drew a small, incoherent sound from her. Then his mouth was on the tender skin of her upper breasts and all she could do was gasp. Something tugged in the center of her. This was what it felt like, she thought, this was what it was all about, this tempting, teasing touch that lured her, pulled her toward a door to some hot darkness where only sensation mattered. Half anxious, half impatient and wholly engaged, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

Only to feel a hard bolt of arousal shoot through her as he slid a fingertip under the edge of her bodice and brushed against her nipple. Blindly, she clutched at his hair and the wig slid to one side. With an impatient noise, he pulled it and his mask off, tossing them away even as he kissed her throat.

She wanted his mouth on hers, craved his taste, wanted him to drag her into that trembling haze of desire, that place she’d never felt before. When she heard his soft groan, she laughed against him exultantly.

And then he raised his head and Trish caught her breath. Shock flowed through her like ice water. She knew, suddenly, why his voice had sounded familiar. She knew why she felt so at ease with him. She knew his face, oh yes, she knew his face. Of course she did—she’d seen it fifty feet high in the movie theatre, and in smaller versions on television, in the newspaper, in magazines.

Ty Ramsay, action star extraordinaire.

Ty Ramsay, Sabrina’s cousin, the fatally sincere heartbreaker.

“Jesus,” she murmured.

And turned to bolt.

“TRISH, WAIT.” Ty reached the door at the same time as she did, cursing himself.

She stopped to face him, at bay. “What do you want?”

To understand what had just happened to him. To know how with a single kiss she’d pulled him in deeper than any woman he’d ever touched. To figure out why she looked absolutely panicked when she’d recognized his face. “Where are you going? Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I’m a little surprised, maybe,” she said, her voice high and tense. “I get the whole mask thing, now. Sort of like the king dallying with the common folk.”

“Or the alien living among the earthlings.”

Even in the dark he could see her flushed cheeks. “Well, you can go back to your planet, now. It was fun and now it’s done.” She reached out for the door.

“Not as far as I’m concerned.”

Trish gave a short laugh. “Sorry, this is as much as I do on rooftops in public.”

But he’d caught a taste of something here that he wasn’t about to lose. “Look, this felt right. Don’t you want to see what happens next?”

“I think Sabrina’s documentary showed you what happens next. There are books, in case you’re confused.”

Ty cursed impatiently. “I’m not talking about sex. We can just sit and talk for all I care.” That wasn’t precisely true. He was pretty sure he wanted more—much more—but for now he’d take another dose of their easy laughter. “Don’t just run off. Please?”

Something flickered in her eyes—hope, maybe—and was quickly snuffed out by distrust. She reached behind her and opened the door. “Look, you’re probably a really nice guy, but I’m sure you’ve got starlets to hang out with. Let’s just call it good.” Before he could react, she’d whirled and was gone, leaving only a trace of her scent in the air.

3

THE MORNING SUN was still close to the horizon as Ty Ramsay ran along the canyon trail. He moved with ease, his lean, rangy body springy with power, sweat gradually shading his dark-blond hair to brown. Plenty of people liked living in the Hollywood Hills or amid the hustle and bustle of the Wilshire Corridor, a heartbeat away from a power lunch. Ty had gotten over that. Living in the canyon was what worked for him now. His neighbors were the coyotes who lived down the hillside and the doves who nested in the eucalyptus, not the Hollywood elite. So maybe it took him a little longer to drive into town to meetings and parties. Then again, there weren’t all that many parties worth being at anyway.

Except, maybe, for the one the night before.

Trish. He couldn’t figure out why she’d hit him so hard. Sure, she was gorgeous. Sure, she’d been dressed to attract attention. Then again, he was surrounded often as not by beauties dressed to impress. There’d been something more about this one, something that had pulled at him. She didn’t have the forgettable California blond look, but a delicate beauty that caught at his imagination, and an elusive wariness that made him wonder.

And brought her into his dreams.

It might have had something to do with their power-house kiss. It might have had more to do with laughing in the kitchen, watching the play of expressions over her face. Watching the stunned amazement writ large in the starlight as he’d trailed the leather of his whip over her shoulder.

His history with women had been checkered, at best. But he’d gotten tired of being a staple joke on the comedy circuit for having affairs with his costars. He’d made a vow nearly a year before to avoid relationships altogether until he figured out once and for all how to keep from making the same mistakes.

He had a feeling he was going to break his promise.

Ty followed the trail as it began winding back up the canyon. This early in the day, the October air held a crispness that gave him more energy as he went on, not less. The idea of body-sculpting in a glossy gym with some high-profile personal trainer did nothing for him. Better the peace and solitude of a morning run where the only noise was the thud of his footfalls and the whistle of an occasional bird. Ty glanced up at the walled house at the top of the hill, and sped up, knowing he was almost home.

Walls. Even in the canyon, you had to take personal security seriously, at least if you vied with Tom Cruise for top box-office draw around the globe. The little pulse of annoyance was so familiar he’d almost stopped feeling it. He’d known before he’d ever started acting what the price of fame could be, as he’d watched his uncle, Michael Pantolini, struggle with it. But when a college buddy had persuaded Ty to act in his senior project, everything had changed. Ty remembered the heady rush of those few short days, that sense of a previously unknown power surging through him.

He could no more have turned away from it than he could have stopped breathing.

And so he lived behind a wall and considered it a trade off. Ty slowed to a walk and turned down his asphalt driveway to see a bright-red Prius parked at the gate and a stocky, dark-haired man standing next to it, a camera slung around his neck. Speaking of privacy…

“Give us a smile for the hometown fans.” The man gave a cocky grin, lifting the camera up to his eye.

“You know, the last paparazzi who tried to shoot me here were picking up their cameras in little pieces at the bottom of the hill,” Ty told him, walking closer.

“No kidding?” The camera clicked and whirred as the photographer shot frame after frame.

“Once they finished picking themselves up, of course,” Ty said pleasantly. “Want me to demonstrate?”

The intruder lowered his camera and smirked. “You ain’t so tough.”

“Try me,” Ty suggested and took a step forward.

For a long moment they gave each other flinty-eyed stares. Then the intruder shook his head and waved the hand without the camera. “Cut.”

Ty narrowed his eyes. “You directors, you’re all alike. Never satisfied.”

The “paparazzo” patted one of Ty’s cheeks gently. “Ty, sweetie, you were fabulous, but if this goes any further you’re gonna need a stunt double.”

“You’re just cranky because you’re up on a Saturday before ten, Charlie.”

Charlie snorted. “You forget I have kids. Eight o’clock is sleeping in.”

Ty laughed and shook hands with Charlie Tarkington, college buddy and the person responsible for getting him into film. “I thought you hated leaving Santa Monica for the wilderness.”

“I figured it was about time I brought your camera back.”

“I was just going to put a call into the stolen property division. You could have gone through the gate, at least.”

Charlie shrugged. “I forgot the code.”

“It’s the date of the premiere of our first movie, dork.” Ty pressed his thumb on the security pad scanner and the gate glided noiselessly open to reveal the house beyond.

The structure was perched at the edge of the hillside. Sleek and white, the building’s clean lines were banded with glass. The high wall might have been for the privacy a man in Ty’s line of work had to fight for; the broad swathes of windows were for the freedom and openness he craved. When they stepped through the front door, it was to a flood of light, a room that stretched out and flung the viewer directly out into the canyon.

Charlie, as usual, went straight to the glass and stared out at the view. “You ever get nosebleeds up here?”

“Hey, when you make the big bucks you can afford lots of cotton balls. Want something to drink?” Ty turned off into the kitchen to rummage in the refrigerator. He knew some actors who had cooks, maids, an entire staff to take care of them. So far, he’d resisted anything beyond a weekly housecleaning service and the occasional visit from a landscaping crew to keep the yard from getting too out of control. Outside, he was fair game for the public. Here, he jealously guarded his privacy. “What do you want, O.J.? Soda?”

Charlie wandered into the kitchen after Ty, idly surveying the brushed aluminum Sub-Zero appliances and granite counters. “I’m tempted to ask you for a cappuccino just for the entertainment value of seeing Mr. People’s Choice Award figuring out how to use the knobs on that machine.”

“For that, you get water,” Ty said, grabbing two bottles from the refrigerator and tossing one to his friend.

Out on the deck, they relaxed in redwood Adirondack chairs and watched the morning mist burn away, until they could glimpse the sea in the bright distance.

“So, you into preproduction for Dark Touch yet?” Charlie asked idly, leaning back with a sigh.

“We start rehearsals next week.”

Charlie turned his head to study Ty. “And you’re not looking too thrilled about it.”

“It’s got problems, especially with the dialog.” And unless Ty did something about it, he’d be the chump stuck mouthing the bad lines. “The concept’s solid, it’ll definitely play, but the script needs tightening.”

“And?” Charlie prompted.

He shrugged. “And it’s just another Ty Ramsay hero. You know, the strong, quiet outsider who comes in and saves the day against the terrorists or the mobsters or the counterfeiters or whoever. Same guy, different movie.”

“They’re not all the same.”

“You’re right.” Ty gave a humorless smile. “They’ve each got their signature flaw: one smokes, one has anger management issues, one’s a rule-breaker, one—”

“Dresses in women’s underwear?” Charlie offered.

“Only in your movies. Admit it, Charlie, I’ve been one-tracked.” Ty fell broodingly silent and stared out at the canyon.

“So ask your agent to get you some other kinds of scripts. Go for the dark, sensitive stuff.”

If only it were that easy. “The studios want dark or sensitive they go to Nic Cage or Johnny Depp. They don’t come to me. They come to me when they want a guy who’s good at blowing stuff up.” He took a long drink of his water and reminded himself he should be happy for his success, not feeling as though his life wasn’t meshing the way he’d expected it to.

“Well, you could have the opposite problem. The studios look at me, they see Mr. Indie. Winning that jury prize at the film festival helped me in terms of getting small money, but it hasn’t done dick for me in the big leagues.”

“You want to blow stuff up?” Ty raised an eyebrow.

“Not exactly.” Charlie took a pull on his bottle of water. “Just once, I’d like to do something that’s not on a shoestring budget, though. If I could just have a crack at it, I could make it work.”

“Don’t I know that feeling. When you’re talking about millions, though, they want to know you can do it before they put the money behind it.”

“It bites,” Charlie said moodily.

“Yeah.”

They watched a swallow flit among the trees.

“You know—”

“Of course—”

They both stopped. “You first,” Charlie said.

“What if we teamed up? To start a production company, I mean.”

Charlie’s eyes gleamed. “You took the words right out of my mouth. You act, I direct. With your name, we can find the financing. Hunt up a few scripts we like, start them into development…”

“Everybody’s happy.” Ty sat forward, suddenly alive with energy. “Equal votes. When we find one we both like, we go with it. Then later, once the company’s running, we can pursue separate projects if we want.”

“There’s a script I’ve got optioned,” Charlie said slowly, “but I haven’t done anything with it because I know it would take more than I could come up with to do it right. I’ll send it over to you Monday. If you’re serious about this.”

“I’m serious.”

“Serious now or serious ‘some day’?”

“Serious yesterday. I am so ready for this, you wouldn’t believe.” Ty lapsed into silence, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. “We’ll need a name.”

Charlie considered. “Two Guys Productions?”

“And you’re supposed to be the creative part of the team? This is going to show up on a screen fifty feet high. How about Zephyr Productions?”

“Oh, sure, you want to name it after a bunch of hot air?”

“You’ve got a point,” Ty allowed and thought some more. “Okay, how about GDI Films?”

“GDI Films? As in ‘God-damn Independent’?”

“You know, that scrappy outsider thing.”

Charlie mulled it over and nodded slowly. “It works. I like it. So what’s our next step? We do the legal stuff, but how do we get things rolling?”

“I was at a party for the premiere of my cousin’s doc the other night,” Ty said thoughtfully. “Met a guy who might be good for coordinating things.”

“As long as that’s all he wants to do,” Charlie warned. “We don’t want to bring in some outsider who’s going to try to run things.”

“No, but we do need someone good to chase details. This guy sounds solid. I’ll follow up, see if I can get more info on him.”

“But keep it low-key.” Charlie nodded his head to some beat that only he could hear. “So yeah, Sabrina’s doc premiered last night, huh? How was it?”

“Really good. No surprise there. Sabrina knows what she’s doing. And she gives a hell of a party.” Trish, sliding her hand down her hip. Trish, dangling those delicious legs as she sat on the kitchen counter. Trish, silky and warm against him.

“So who is she?”

Ty blinked, then looked out at the canyon. “Sabrina’s my cousin, you idiot.”

“I’m not talking about your cousin. I know that look. Who is she? Tell Uncle Charlie.”

Ty considered denying it, but Charlie always had been able to read him. “No one you know.”

“I knew you wouldn’t stay on the wagon,” Charlie said comfortably.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, even you, action boy, are human. You can say you’re giving up women all you want, but you can only have so many gorgeous babes falling at your feet before you cave, right? Carpe diem and all that.”

Ty gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, you’re free, single and over eighteen. What’s the problem?”

“I wasn’t on the cover of the Enquirer once last year,” Ty said, almost to himself. “It was kind of nice, you know?”

“You decided to give up women because of the tabloids?”

“No, I decided to take a break because I got tired of thinking I’d found the one and having it end in knockdown drag-outs with people I’d cared about.”

The humor faded from Charlie’s eyes. “Look, your parents, that love-at-first-sight thing? That doesn’t happen to real people.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“And what you feel on a movie set when you’re paid to pretend you’re a guy in love with a knockout who’s pretending to be in love with you, that’s not real, either.”

“Okay, okay.” If Ty was sick of playing the same parts in films, he was doubly sick of doing the same stupid things over and over again in his personal life. “Give me some credit, I’ve figured out the whole fooling-myself part. It’s not all looks.” There had to be more—a real connection, fun, complexity that made him want to get beneath the surface.

“So I take it this one’s—er, what do we call her?”

“Trish.”

“So this Trish looks like your grandmother, then?”

Ty’s mouth tightened briefly, then relaxed as he saw the humor in it. “Not exactly.”

“Didn’t think so. Look, you have whatever fun you want, bud. Just don’t let it interfere with GDI, because we’ve got a mission. GDI Films,” he repeated. “I like it already.”

SERVICING THE STARS read the blue-and-gold sign on the lobby wall of Amber’s Assistants. Accurate, Trish supposed, if you counted a recurring bit character on the latest hospital drama as a star. Amber always had thought big.

The receptionist yawned and leafed through a magazine as Trish strode through the lobby and back to her sister’s office. Amber sat there behind the polished oak desk, staring at her mouth in the mirror of her open compact while she outlined her lips with glossy red.

Tossing down a handful of labeled keys, Trish flopped into the client chair, wondering why Mondays always felt so hectic. “Tell me again why you pay Laurel to answer non-existent phone calls instead of getting her out to do some actual work like errands or appointments?”

Her sister shook back her mane of expensively maintained blond hair. “It gives us a professional look.”

“I’m sure you could be just as professional and you’d save the cost of her salary.”

Amber looked as though she’d been asked to clean the sewer. “I’m trying to run a business, here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she said frostily. “Having Laurel frees me up to recruit new clients. For instance, Russell Nelson says one of his costars is looking for a personal assistant, and Russell’s recommended us.”

“Even so, how can you afford her?”

“I don’t really think it’s any of your affair, Trish. I’m the owner, and I say we can.”

Trish didn’t have the energy to get into it. “Look, the day’s nearly over and I’ve still got four more things on my task list. You need another set of hands working, Amber. I can’t do it all.”

“The revenue won’t support it.”

Trish stared at her sister for a moment. Amber was, as always, serenely capable of maintaining a glaring contradiction. Six months before, when Trish had been newly laid off and unable to find another job, going to work for her sister had seemed like a good alternative to starvation. She’d help out with getting the business on its feet, pay the bills with a low-stress job and maybe finally finish that screenplay she’d always dreamed about.

It had only been once she’d started working that she’d remembered just how effectively she and Amber could drive one another crazy. Sisters, she thought with a sigh. The relationships defied reason.

Amber stared at her, eyes an impossible sapphire blue courtesy of colored contacts. “Look, you knew it wasn’t going to be easy when you came on board. New businesses never are.” She snapped shut her compact. “What do you have left to do?”

“If you could do the two dog feedings I’ve got left, I just need to drop off some groceries and deliver a pair of concert tickets.”

“I suppose.” Amber wrinkled her nose. “I hate that smell on my hands.”

“You hate the smell? Did I tell you the Rizzettis’ rottweiler yakked in my car?”

Surprise flickered for only a moment. “Well, you were taking it to the vet. You should have left it in the crate.” Amber rose.

“You know my car won’t take a crate that big. Next time, I’m taking your Xterra.”

“Great. Then my car will reek, too.”

Trish’s smile wasn’t entirely pleasant. “Welcome to my world.”

“Don’t start getting crabby. You’re not qualified for the nutritionist or personal trainer jobs and you don’t exactly dress like a personal assistant.” Amber smoothed her fake Prada down over her size-four hips. “One of these days, Trish, you’ll realize that appearance counts.”

Oh, and didn’t that just take her back to the bad old days of junior high, when she’d been a painfully shy fringe dweller still padded with baby fat. Big sister Amber was the kind of girl the Beach Boys had sung about, blond and tanned and bikinied, whereas Trish’s redhead’s complexion had earned her only neon sunburns and a chronically peeling nose. Amber had been the cheerleader, the homecoming princess, always at the center of attention. In elementary school, Trish had naively assumed that as she got older, she’d suddenly, magically transform into Amber, surrounded by bunches of popular friends, and sought after by the cute boys.

Except that it hadn’t happened that way. Instead, she’d been an out-of-place loner most of the time. Getting a growth spurt and losing the baby fat the summer after graduation hadn’t changed things, either.

And college had taught her that thin women got their hearts broken, too.

Well, she’d given up wanting to be the golden girl, and image wasn’t everything, no matter how much Amber wanted to think so. Trish pushed back her unruly curls. “Believe me, I didn’t walk out of my house today with this mop. It was an end-of-the-day treat, courtesy of your plumber.”

“Billy?”

“Yes, Billy. He didn’t manage to get the faucet set right.”

“A leak?”

“More like a private version of dancing waters.”

“Minus the music.”

“Oh, no. He had Bon Jovi playing on KMET.”

Amber fell into her infectious belly laugh that always came as a shock, and despite herself, Trish found herself laughing along. And somehow, as so often happened, her irritation evaporated. With Amber, it was never in the middle—Trish either wanted to strangle her or hug her.

Sisters, she thought with a sigh. Relationships with them definitely defied all reason.

TRISH PULLED HER MAIL out of the box and headed back across the courtyard toward her apartment, sorting through the envelopes as she walked. On the walkway ahead of her, a diminutive white-haired woman in a bright blue velour sweat suit tottered grimly along, pulling a wheeled carrier basket behind her.

Trish hurried up to her neighbor. “Let me get that. Ellie, why don’t you let me shop for you?” she scolded. “You shouldn’t be out running around when it’s getting dark. I’m at the grocery store almost every day for work. It wouldn’t take me any time at all.”

“It’s good for me to walk. I need the exercise.” Ellie waved Trish off, but she surrendered the wheeled carrier basket to Trish quickly enough. “Besides, the Farmer’s Market has some good end-of-the-day deals.”

Trish lived in the oldest part of Park La Brea, within walking distance of the L.A. Farmer’s Market and the L.A. County Museum of Art, not to mention the La Brea tar pits. She’d taken one look at the black-and-white tiled floors and the forties’ ambiance of the apartment complex and fallen in love.

Back in her days of making a cushy salary at Focus PR, it had been easy to swing the rent. Now, she barely held on, spending her days running errands for Amber and her nights doggedly working on her screenplay meant that she was picking away at her savings all the while. She’d have to do something soon—like sell the screenplay or move somewhere cheap. For now, she pushed the thought out of her head.

Trish lifted the carrier basket over the threshold of Ellie’s apartment. “Into the kitchen?” she asked, pushing her hair back over her shoulder.

“I’ll get it from here, dear,” Ellie instructed, pressing her hand. “You go work on your movie.”

The problem, Trish thought later as she sat at her desk, was that work required concentration, and hers was currently shot. She was trying to tell the story of Callie, a woman who’d raised her younger siblings since she was eighteen. Now, ten years later, Callie watches them move into their own lives, finding herself simultaneously giddy and petrified at doing the same. She begins to spread her own wings; as she does she realizes that friendly, polite Michael McAdam down the street, the Michael McAdam she’s known from a distance for years, harbors a romantic interest in her.

Trish’s challenge was to add to the story, to take it from a small-time cable movie to a cinematic release. The key was Michael, who has loved Callie from afar and finally sees his chance with her. Michael has challenges of his own, though: a fugitive brother with mob ties, who puts Michael in the position of weighing family against morality and public censure—and the possibility of happiness with the woman he loves.

It all played itself out clearly in her mind. In her wildly optimistic moments, she imagined the story on the screen. The rest of the time she figured that just finishing it was enough, just doing what she’d always said she was going to.

And the finishing part was the challenge. She was trying to polish the lead-in to Callie and Michael’s first kiss. The problem was that every time Trish tried to put herself in Michael’s head and listen to his words, she kept hearing Ty Ramsay’s voice. Every time she tried to imagine Michael’s expression, she saw Ty Ramsay’s face.

A clutch of butterflies chased one another in her stomach. For years, she’d imagined kissing someone again. The real thing hadn’t even come close. It was just as well that Brett Spencer, the boy from college that she’d, well, dated certainly wasn’t the right word. The boy who’d scalded her heart and humiliated her was, perhaps, more accurate, but that dignified it with more pathos than it deserved. He’d been a jerk, and a lousy kisser to boot.

The latter she could thank him for, not to mention the couple of guys who’d come later, because they’d kept her from knowing what she’d been missing. It would have been much harder to watch all the years go by if she’d had Ty’s kiss to remember, she thought, touching her fingers to her lips.