All Over You (15 page)

Grace nodded dumbly. Sadie smiled sympathetically and left. Grace stared blankly straight ahead.

She had trust issues where men were concerned. There, she’d admitted it. Being on her own wasn’t so much a choice as a defense. The problem was, she wasn’t sure she was willing or able to let her defenses down.

She thought of Sadie and Dylan, remembering the yearning sensation she’d felt when she saw the open, generous love they had for each other. She hadn’t been jealous of their sex lives — she’d envied their love. She could admit that now, too. She’d wanted someone to look at her the way Dylan looked at Sadie, as though she was the most desirable, precious, cherished person in the world. And didn’t that make trusting Mac and believing in Mac all the scarier?

But Sadie had had the courage to declare herself to Dylan even when she knew he was determined to remain single. Even though she had as many reasons as Grace to protect herself, Sadie hadn’t let the hurts of the past rule her future.

It was a thought that circled around and around Grace’s mind over the following two days. She worked on the script of the wedding episode all day Saturday and into the night. Perhaps because she was feeling so raw, so torn, she found it both easier and more painful than usual to tap into the characters’ emotions. As she wrote the wedding scenes, she shed tears as she gave Hannah and Gabe words of hope and love to say to one another. When they fought, she drew on her own experiences to give their words meaning and resonance.

And all the while Sadie’s challenge echoed inside her heart. For four years, Grace had thought only about the negatives of being in a relationship. Now, sitting cross-legged on her bed on Sunday afternoon, she forced herself to think for the first time about the good times, the things she’d given up to be safe in her ivory tower.

She remembered the pleasure of having a large body to warm her cold feet against on a winter’s night. She remembered the casual comfort of swapping sections of the Saturday paper. She remembered the joy of planning holidays, of buying presents for her love, of having someone to look after her when she was sick, and someone to come home to after a hard day at work. She thought about shared favorite movies, fighting over the blankets and the remote control, of tolerating snoring and toe-nail clippings and endless pairs of socks in the wash. She remembered the bittersweet ache of lying in a lover’s arms, her heart filled with love and dreams.

She thought about the look on Dylan’s face when he looked at Sadie and the softness in her friend’s eyes when she looked back.

And she got off her bed and started to get ready for dinner at Mac’s place.

M
AC HISSED WITH PAIN
as he forgot for the tenth time that the pan was hot and burned his fingers again. Swearing, he grabbed an oven mitt and returned the salt-baked fish to the oven. Eyes darting to the clock, he swore again as he pulled the vegetables from the refrigerator and consulted the recipe he was working from. He was supposed to trim the green beans and cook them with butter, salt and pepper, then sprinkle them with toasted flaked almonds. The carrots needed to be julienned and steamed, then lightly drizzled with honey just before serving. And the potatoes had to be boiled, mashed, whipped into fluffy creaminess and dolloped in perfect mounds on the plates.

Not for the first time, he regretted not organizing a caterer for the evening. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook. He cooked all the time — just not impressive things such as baked fish with gourmet vegetables, followed by decadent chocolate mousse. Thank God he’d made that earlier, having scoured the whole of West Hollywood searching for the richest, most expensive chocolate he could find. The woman in the shop had assured him that ninety-percent cacao-bean content was the most concentrated kind they offered — it hadn’t escaped his attention that Grace had a thing for chocolate and he wasn’t ashamed of hedging his bets with a little culinary persuasion.

Finding the exact right chocolate and the freshest fish possible had taken far more time than he’d imagined and as a result he was running well behind schedule. He still hadn’t tidied his bedroom and bathroom, and the living room of his Pacific Palisades house was a shambles. If all went according to plan, he’d do a quick whip around to clean up the worst of the mess after he had the vegetables sorted.

Right on cue, the phone rang. He stared at it for a beat. If it was Grace calling to chicken out…His shoulders stiff with tension, Mac scooped up the phone.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Mac, how are you doin’,” an instantly recognizable, honey-soft voice purred.

“Lisa,” he said, glancing at the clock.

“Long time no speak. Or anything else,” she said, laughing suggestively.

Using his shoulder to hold the phone in place, Mac wiped his hands dry on a dish towel.

“Yeah,” he said, frowning.

“So…want to get together?” she asked. There was no need for either of them to be shy about things — the whole point of his relationship with Lisa was for both of them to have access to satisfying sex when and if they wanted it, no bull, no strings, no hassles.

“When were you thinking?” he hedged.

“As soon as possible, baby,” Lisa said.

“The thing is…I’m kind of on the verge of something with someone,” Mac heard himself say.

“Yeah?” Lisa sounded surprised. Astounded, even.

“Yeah. In fact, she’s about to arrive any minute now,” Mac said.

“Oh.”

There was a long silence.

“She must be pretty special. Anyone I know?” Lisa finally asked.

“She’s a writer,” Mac said. He realized he wanted to say Grace’s name, to openly stake his claim. But that would be premature, given that he had no goddamn idea whether he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting through Grace’s defenses tonight.

“Well, I won’t say I’m not disappointed. If things don’t work out, give me a call, okay?” Lisa said. “It’s been a lot of fun, Mac.”

“Yeah, it has. Look after yourself, Lisa.”

He didn’t add that he wouldn’t be calling her, even if things didn’t work out with Grace. There was no reason for him not to, if he was a free agent again. He just didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go back to sex-to-satisfy-an-itch. He wanted Grace and the feeling he got when he was with her. He didn’t want to settle anymore.

Which was why tonight was so damned important.

Glancing at the clock again, Mac swore like a trooper. He’d just lost a precious ten minutes to Lisa and brooding introspection, and the vegetables were still lying, crisp and raw, on his cutting board.

Sending up a silent prayer of forgiveness to the cooking gods, he threw all the vegetables into one saucepan and crossed his fingers. The chime of the doorbell only reinforced his decision.

Grace was here.

The house was a disaster area, the meal was still some way off and he hadn’t had a chance to shower again before she arrived. Realizing that he was pointlessly shuttling piles of preparation dishes from one side of the kitchen to the other in a vain attempt to make it look tidier, he stopped to take a deep breath.

He was running around like his mother on Christmas day. He was pathetically nervous. This dinner with Grace felt a hell of a lot more important than any audition he’d ever gone for. He wanted to be a part of her life, but she was still stuck under that damned Dumpster….

The doorbell rang again and he headed for the front door. At the last minute he realized that he had a dish towel tucked into the front of his black trousers and he whipped it out and tossed it behind the umbrella stand in the hallway.

Seeing her after two days away was like getting sucker punched. He didn’t know where to look first — her green eyes, that lush mouth, those stupendous breasts. He settled for a sweeping, all-encompassing head-to-toe, promising himself a more detailed inspection when she wasn’t fidgeting nervously on his doorstep.

“Hi, come in,” he said, stepping back.

After a small hesitation, she moved past him. He inhaled her perfume and fought his body’s instinctive response to being close to her. He needed all his concentration, all his focus upstairs tonight, not downstairs.

Keeping a firm grip on his libido, he followed her up the hall.

H
IS HOUSE WAS NOTHING LIKE
what she’d expected. For starters, it was a lot smaller. She knew he was earning fantastic money as one of the most valued cast members and she’d imagined a lavish Hollywood home with too many rooms and too many cars and too many swimming pools. Instead, she’d had to navigate her way up a small, poky road in the Palisades to find his driveway, nearly hidden among untamed vegetation, and she’d been more than a little surprised to find an attractive but modest two-story residence at the end of her trek. No expert on architecture, she guessed it might be classed as modern, with its strong geometric lines and angles. Inside, however, it was all space and light and warmth. Golden timber floorboards, warm-hued paintings and interesting artifacts from around the world lined the hallway, combining to create a relaxed, welcoming ambience.

The butterflies in her stomach went into overdrive as she registered that his house was as complex, warm and interesting as he was.

“I’m running a little behind schedule,” he explained as he led her to the kitchen. She stopped on the threshold, taking in the litter of pots and pans and bowls spread over every surface.

He grimaced. “In a perfect parallel universe, this would have all been cleared away by the time you got here,” he said.

She stared at him. He looked adorable standing there, uncertain and even a bit nervous. Her heart squeezed in her chest, and she forced herself to smile. He wasn’t making her decision any easier, that was for sure.

“When I cook, half the food always ends up on the floor,” she admitted.

He looked relieved. “I always cater for exactly that reason,” he said.

She handed over the bottle of wine and imported chocolates she’d brought along and he busied himself with clearing a spot for her on one of the stools near his breakfast bar.

“Your house is very nice,” she said, glancing through the doorway to the next room.

“This is where I’m supposed to offer you the grand tour, I know, but what I’m going to do is this instead.” He poured her a glass of wine and handed it over. “I hereby give you permission to inspect every nook and cranny, open any cupboard, whatever takes your fancy — as long as it buys me an extra ten minutes alone in the kitchen to avert disaster.”

She couldn’t help herself — she laughed. Taking a sip of her wine, she stood.

“It’s a deal. I promise not to try on any of your underwear,” she said.

His gaze was suddenly smoldering. “I promise not to think about you trying on my underwear,” he said.

Just like that, the sexual tension in the room rocketed from a simmer to a rolling boil.

“I’m going to go snoop,” she gulped, backing away.

He let her go, but she knew he was biding his time. He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted and at the moment he wanted her.

Pushing her convoluted hopes and doubts to one side, Grace moved into the adjacent room, finding herself in a large, high-ceilinged living room furnished with squishy-looking reproduction club lounges in a dark-mocha leather. Bright cushions were jammed into the corners, evidence that Mac liked a bit of couch time. The coffee table was strewn with newspapers, travel books and half-a-dozen
Ocean Boulevard
scripts. She noted that he’d marked up the one on top, writing questions to himself in the margins, underlining certain words.

Taking a sip of wine, she wandered over to the mantelpiece where a framed family photo held pride of place. It had been taken when Mac was just a boy and seeing his bright-blue eyes smiling out of a much-younger face made her tighten her grip on her wineglass. She guessed he was maybe ten or eleven and, although there were hints of the handsome man he would become, in the picture he was all teeth and freckles and sticky-up hair, no more or less attractive than the other two boys standing on either side of him. He had his father’s eyes, she noted, and his mother’s mouth.

“Stop looking at the family photo,” he called out from the kitchen.

She started, then smiled.

“Don’t leave it lying around if you don’t want people to see it,” she hollered back.

She stepped into the hallway. A door was opposite, the stairs to her right. She chose the door and found herself in what was obviously Mac’s study. A big slab of polished, knotted wood served as his desk and a worn-leather office chair sat behind it. The walls were lined with white-painted bookshelves, every one full to the brim. She ran her eye over historical volumes, biographies, a collection of English detective mysteries and, the biggest surprise of all, a small stash of fantasy novels.

Mac Harrison, closet
Lord of the Rings
fan. She grinned to herself.

Back in the hall once more, she eyed the stairs. She really wanted to see the rest of his home, but she wondered if she was taking him too literally at his word.

“Go upstairs. You know you want to,” Mac called from the kitchen.

She snorted her amusement. The man was either psychic or she was woefully predictable. Her heels clicking on the wooden floorboards, she mounted the stairs. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms running off a central hall. She poked her head into the two guest rooms, each nicely made up with quality linen, the decor casual but welcoming.

She saved her real attention for the master bedroom. Wide and high, it boasted a silk Persian rug in ruby-red tones, nubby golden-silk tab curtains and a big Mahogany sleigh bed. An overstuffed armchair stood in one corner with what looked like half of Mac’s wardrobe strewn over or around it. Smothering a laugh with her fingers, she stepped over scrunched-up socks, boxers and T-shirts to take a look out the window. He had a view of his garden, a private oasis sheltered by tall trees.

Her gaze gravitated back to his big bed. More than anything in the world, she wanted to know what it felt like to wake up in his bed, with his arms wrapped around her.

“Okay, I think I’ve managed to avoid disgracing myself,” Mac said, and she spun around to find him standing in the doorway.