And she wasn’t making shit up by assuming he’d been thinking naughty thoughts about her. From the second she stood next to him on the beach, there had been this unsettling sexual energy swirling around and through them. It was as though some paradigm shifted in the makeup of their personal relationship, like a ten point five on the Richter scale was shaking everything up.
When he came back from wherever his mind had wandered, he’d made that face. The one she knew was a mixture of self-deprecation and embarrassment—and earnestly confessed, “I should apologize now for what I was just thinking.”
“That bad, was it?” she’d asked with a sly smirk.
He’d made the funniest face and had replied, “Depends on whose point of view we’re talking.”
She sure as hell hoped she was on the receiving end of whatever debauchery had him in thrall. The librarian fell off her book stool laughing when Paige shivered slightly.
With the tension between them eased, she chose to compartmentalize the sexual attraction and get down to business. She was in full damage control mode by the time she’d gotten organized and reached Mickey on the phone.
Just as she had feared from the scattered details Edward had provided, they were passengers on a lumbering caboose that was far behind the engine of a speeding train. She couldn’t believe how much fuckery had gone down in just one afternoon.
It ended up that the shit was already hitting the fan before Edward had exited the interview earlier in the day. Dave had been right with the brow-raising insinuation that the cowgirl getting her yeehaw on in the video being called Shaw Me the Way was supposedly none other than Gideon’s leading lady, Joann Jones.
Mickey was on fire and taking names. Swearing in Russian, he pretty much left Paige speechless with his display of outraged anger. Despite his reputation as a shark, Mikhail Demetri Klein was an old-school gentleman at heart who viewed the trend of public vulgarity with disdain.
He was furious that his mishpocheh was being dragged through the mud. It had taken almost a year for Paige to figure out what the expression meant, and she still wasn’t sure of the origin or correct spelling, but the intent was clear enough.
Family. It fit in some bizarro-world way. They were a family, an unusual trio for sure, but Edward, Mickey, and she had been a tight unit from the start. And over the years, they had developed an extraordinary friendship.
Mishpocheh, indeed.
Paige shoved back into the cushiony loveseat and put her feet up on the coffee table. Her brain was frying from the overload. Popping a mint into her mouth, she absently sucked, moving the small circle around her mouth as she concentrated.
Edward sharked into the room and made a circuit, pretending to dump an armload of dog-eared scripts in a basket near his favorite recliner. Didn’t he realize how obvious he was being?
He looked around for a second without ever making eye contact then swam away. Wouldn’t take long for him to reappear.
Maybe I should make him sit the heck down, she thought. All this back and forth was making her mental and really did feel like he was circling in the water—either waiting to strike or better yet, eat her up.
Ooooh. That didn’t sound so bad. The eat me part.
Before the lewd thought burst into full bloom in her mind, Mickey said something that cut through her distracted reverie like a hot knife through butter. Wiggling frantically, she sat up and slammed her feet on the floor.
“… and-seriously-who-the-hell-is-that-old-tart-trying-to-fool? I-can’t-believe-Harvey’s-team-or-that-busted-weave-blogger-didn’t-balls-to-the-wall-that-bitch-and-point-out-that-in-no-world-that-didn’t-involve-a-megafuckton-of-Photoshopping-could-the-derrière-riding-the-carousel-pony-be-mistaken-for-a-sixty-year-old-ass. I-mean-come-the-fuck-on-you’ve-seen-that-ass-and-it-all-but-was-branded-Grade-A-Prime-aged-for-twenty-something-years-not-a-half-a-goddamn-century …”
Paige snickered at the thought of the blustering agent quite literally sucking all the oxygen out of a room when his mouth got going. He was exhausting.
But he’d also just made a brilliant point—one she hadn’t considered. It was one thing to question the identity of the partially obscured man. But it was impossible not to see an up close and personal view of some woman’s ass and not have a sense of how old she might be. Ballparking it, of course, but on this point Mickey was right. There was no way that a surgically enhanced butt-ass naked body, a menopausal one at that, could pass for a woman barely in her twenties.
“Listen-dollface-our-takeout-Thai-just-got-delivered-and-you-know-how-the-wife-is. Sheesh-all-this-mishegas-about-my-health-and-slowing-down. You-know-me-though-I-only-have-one-gear-turbo-and-if-that-makes-this-old-ass-of-mine-a-Type-A-that-just-means-I’m-the-bomb …”
His good-natured chuckle brought a smile to Paige’s lips. The little man might operate at Mach 1 on a bad day, but he was in tiptop shape due in no small part to the firm hand of his wife. Shirley Klein was a foul-mouthed, hilariously funny, sarcastically challenged Hollywood housewife who worshiped the quirky agent’s self-styled moldy ass and had stood as a bulwark at his side for more than forty years. She was one of those ballsy veterans of the L.A. social scene who held a dim view of what she’d termed the ‘manner-less hordes’ turning the already unconventional town into a three-ring circus.
She cut him off because, really, there was no other way to squeeze a word in with him … especially on the phone.
“Love her face and you should be thanking your lucky stars that she puts up with you! Go and eat your dinner and relax, Mr. Klein. I need you to help me navigate this storm of perfect bullshit so count me on Team Shirley.”
The gleefully loud, “Bah!” that echoed through the phone broke their serious mood. “Did-you-just-tell-me-to-fuck-off-young-lady? Imma-have-to-wash-your-mouth-out-with …”
“Bye, Mickey.”
Disconnecting the call, she dropped the phone at her side just as Edward circled around again. Only this time, he’d changed. The destroyed by sand and surf slacks he’d taken off had been replaced by a familiar sight. An old pair of jeans that made the most of his, uh … assets.
Swallowing the thickness forming in her throat, Paige didn’t try to hide her appreciation for the sight he made.
Gideon Shaw was one hot piece of ass. Edward Banning, however, was a thousand times hotter.
A thrill slithered through her. Nobody but she and, occasionally, Mickey ever saw him like this. It was hard to explain what the difference was because, after all, Gideon and Edward were the same man. But there was a distinction—no matter how subtle. In some ways, it was about being in his natural habitat rather than the manufactured and artificial magnifying glass of his professional persona.
The jeans molded to his perfect physique didn’t hold her attention, though. What held her attention was the perfectly fitted white t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and impressively muscled chest that he’d halfway tucked into his waistband. Dammit, if the simple cotton tee didn’t accentuate the masculine V of his shape… but the impossible wingspan fingertip to fingertip, the tapered torso, lean hips, and sturdy legs also tickled her hormones.
Oh, and his feet were bare.
She swallowed hard, again.
Pushing the refrigerator door shut with a shove of his hip, Edward juggled an armload of items he’d pulled from the cooler and prayed he didn’t drop half before making it to the island counter.
Next, he grabbed the impressive walnut cutting board that he’d picked up from an artisan in Canada a few years back. A small perk of location shoots was the opportunity to explore many different environments, cultures, and out-of-the-way gems he wouldn’t normally visit.