“Alan and Nia are old news, Chrissie. They’ve been over forever,” Linda informs, reading me without effort.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal. We are not exclusive or anything. He can do what he wants. I think I’m going to get another drink before I go out there.”
I decide not to follow Linda to one of the bars set up in the great room. There are people crowded several bodies deep around all of them, and I don’t have Linda’s nerve. She just pushes through, telling people to get the fuck out of her way, and they do.
I go instead into the kitchen and find it empty, when in California the kitchen is often the party room.
I rummage through the refrigerator until I find a Diet Coke.
“Hi. You hiding from that mess out there, too? An hour ago there were only about fifty of them. I ducked out at somewhere around one hundred. How many are in there now?”
I whirl around to realize that “hi” is intended for me. There’s a guy sitting alone on the counter, nursing a beer. Very attractive, blond hair, hazel eyes, light tan, good body. Why is he hiding in the kitchen?
“Nope, I’m not hiding. Just didn’t want to have to fight for a drink. It didn’t seem right to fight for a Coke. I’m shocked to find practically no one else in the kitchen. New Yorkers, very strange people. Who knew?”
He laughs. “You must be from California. I thought my brother and I were the only ones here. Sandy is a promoter. He’s the idiot who dragged me here. But I can tell you are from California.”
Now I’m intrigued and I smile. “OK, how can you tell?”
He smiles. He points at my shoes. “Beyond the nice tan and the shorts? The UGG boots. Definitely a California thing.”
“How very observant of you.”
“I’m a writer. That’s my thing. Crowds, not so much. But people watching definitely my thing.”
He says it in a silly, self-depreciating way that is kind of charming. I can tell he’s quiet and a little shy like me.
“Have you written anything I might know?”
“Maybe. I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.”
I tense and have a sudden urge to flee the kitchen. He notices. “I am off the record tonight, so relax. I’m just a guest here like you.”
He extends his hand. “Jesse Harris.”
“Chrissie.”
“Good, now I’ve officially met one person and I can go home. That was the deal I had with my brother.”
I laugh and pop open the top. I don’t bother to get a glass and take a sip from the can. I ease up on the butcher block table in the center of the room, to sit on the edge with my legs dangling.
“So, who are you here with?” he asks.
“Sort of a guy.”
God, that came out stupid.
Jesse laughs.
“Just my luck. The cute ones are always with sort of a guy. So, why are you in the kitchen instead of with your sort of a guy?”
I usually hate it when people make fun of me, but there is something just plain nice about Jesse Harris. He seems too nice to be a reporter.
I shrug. “He’s dancing with an ex-girlfriend. I’m not sure what I should do.”
He takes a sip of his beer. “I’m a writer. Give me your options. I’ll give you expert advice on the right option.”
“You’re a reporter not a novelist. You’re the wrong kind of writer.”
“I’m a reporter to pay for being a novelist. So give me a shot. Let’s see if I’m going to be a good novelist.”
I laugh, and I am suddenly aware of some of the nicer changes in me since Alan. I am more confident. More comfortable in my skin.
“Well, I was debating just going out there planting a big wet one on him and locking myself to his side like a Siamese twin.”
“I can tell you right now that that one is definitely wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’ll like that, and he was a jerk to leave you all alone ending up in the kitchen with me.”
“Why do you say that? Is there something wrong with you that I should be worried about?”
Those gorgeous hazel eyes lock on me. “I find you incredibly cute and I’d take you out of here in a heartbeat if I thought I had half a chance.”
Whoa, where did that come from? Shy and yet direct. Interesting.
I shake my head and push away that thought.
He smiles. “What’s the other option you were thinking to do?”
Boy, he is really good looking when he smiles. Why isn’t he out there enjoying the party?
I take another sip of my Coke and say, “Just going out there, forgetting all about him, and having a good time at the party.”
He holds up a hand, palm down and gives me the iffy wobble. “Better than option one, but not good.”
I cross my legs at my ankles and make them swing a little more. “OK, since you’re the writer, what would be better?”
Hazel eyes lock on me like a laser. “Leave with me.”
Oh my, not what I expected. I’ve gone as far in this as I should. It was fun, for some reason Jesse hitting on me was fun, even though he’s right. He doesn’t have a chance. Three weeks ago, he would have. But not today.
I pretend to give it serious thought. “Sorry, I don’t think I can do option three.”
“Why not? I sort of had the feeling I was doing this better than I usually do. Why shoot me down now?”
I start to laugh. “Because the guy I’m sort of with is Alan Manzone.”
He gives me the oh-shit-good-one face. I push off the counter and go to the freezer. “Are you hungry? They have all this fancy food out there, but you know what I’d really like is some ice cream.”
I rummage through the cartons and pull one out. “Häagen-Dazs, Swiss Vanilla Almond.”
I grab a spoon and ease up on the counter next to Jesse. I pull off the lid, take a bite, and offer him the spoon.
“Why are you really hiding in the kitchen?” I ask.
Jesse takes a spoonful and then laughs. “I’m not hiding. I’m exhausted. I flew in from Afghanistan wanting only a hot shower and sleep, but Sandy dragged me here. I’ve been covering the aftereffects of the Soviet withdrawal.”
I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. “Sounds interesting,” I say, filling my mouth with ice cream.
Jesse laughs. “No, it doesn’t. Most Americans don’t even know where Afghanistan is or what the hell the Russians did there.”
My cheeks warm, their color betrays me. “I’m not political. My father, extreme ’60s radical. It’s made me not political, but I’m sure lots of people find your work interesting.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” Jesse laughs. “So, what are you then? A model?”
I kick him with a leg. “No, a cellist.” I frown, shake my head, and take another bite. “Well, sort of, or maybe I should say, used to be. I’m kind of confused about that part of myself right now.”
Those divine eyes lock on me. “So, tell me one thing about yourself that you are not confused about.”
“That she already has a date for the evening.”
The voice I hear is not the one in my head.
I look up, startled, to find Alan in the kitchen doorway. He crosses the kitchen, planting his hands on either side of me, and gives me a kiss that would have embarrassed me if we’d been alone in the bedroom: wide open mouth, full tongue, hard, fast and sexual.
I force my body not to respond and when he finally pulls back, his black eyes are burning and probing. “You’ve been back for two hours. Where have you been?”
So, he does know when I got back. Why didn’t he look for me? And why is he angry with me?
I shrug. “I called Jack. Had daiquiris in the bedroom with Linda. And I’ve opted to eat ice cream with my new friend, who wants to take me home with him.”
Shit, what made me say that last part? Not smart, Chrissie. Not smart to say something that might set Alan off. Ian and Vince rise as vivid warnings in my head, and on top of that, it was a really shitty thing to do to Jesse.