Just the Sexiest Man Alive (15 page)

Nineteen

AND JUST LIKE that, everything had changed.

On an impulse after losing three straight games of pool at Reilly’s Tavern, Jason had declared to Jeremy that they were going out for the evening. But now, as he sat in one of the booths at Hyde, he found that his heart just wasn’t into the whole West Hollywood nightclub scene that night.

Because everything had changed.

The bar was packed. Underneath the candles that hung from the club’s copper ceiling, Jeremy and the other guys they had come with—friends from Around—argued over which Ben Affleck/Michael Bay collaboration ranked higher in the biggest cinematic disasters of all time,
Pearl Harbor
or
Armageddon
.

Jason heard Jeremy’s irate shout over the music, obviously voting for the latter.

“Come on—that scene with the animal crackers? Are you kidding me with that shit? I almost gagged up my Jujyfruits.”

Now normally, Jason would have been tempted to enter this fray, especially since he not only enjoyed any opportunity to contradict Jeremy, but also because he personally thought that
Pearl Harbor
should be placed on the American Medical Association’s list of potential causes of eye cancer.

But tonight, he found he couldn’t quite muster up the enthusiasm. Tonight, there was no fight left in him.

She was going out with someone else.

Scott Casey.

Jason couldn’t imagine how the situation could possibly get any worse.

As he took a long sip of his drink, finishing off his fifth Stolichnaya Elit on the rocks that evening, he wondered how, exactly, things had gone so far awry. For the first time in over ten years, he didn’t know what to do.

Yes, call
Us Weekly
. Call Page Six, the
Enquirer,
and everyone else.

Jason Andrews had woman problems.

“Should I order us another drink?”

The question came from Jason’s right, from the ravishing blonde with fantastically long legs that sat next to him.

Hey—he was in a bar and he was Jason Andrews.
Of course
there was a ravishing blonde with fantastically long legs sitting next to him.

Jason turned his attention to the girl. He was a wee bit buzzed from the vodka and more than a wee bit melancholy.

“Do you have goals, Shyla?” He sighed. “Tell me what a woman like you wants to do with her life.”

“Shay-na,” the blonde corrected him.

Jason leaned his head back against the booth and closed his eyes. Suddenly, this entire conversation made his head hurt.

He opened his eyes to find Shayna sitting in his lap, leaning over him. From what Jason could tell, the woman already had two pretty nice assets working for her in life, and the push-up bra she wore shoved them straight into his face.

She whispered seductively in his ear.

“My goal is to blow you in your car tonight when you drive me home to fuck me.”

Jason sighed tiredly. It was always the same thing.
Jason, I want to blow you. Jason, let’s go back to my trailer and fuck like wild dogs. Jason, I’ll bring my girlfriend next time, she’s
in Cirque du Soleil and can do things to her body you wouldn’t believe.
Blah, blah, blah.

With Shayna’s two ample assets presented right at eye level, Jason tried to muster some interest in her suggestion. But try as he might, it was a different pair of assets—a pair of lively green eyes to be exact—that he couldn’t get out of his mind.

So he shook his head.

“Sorry—it’s a guy’s night out tonight.” With that, he scooped the blonde off his lap, stood up, and turned to Jeremy. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jeremy glanced over at Jason and nodded. He disliked the L.A. club scene even more than the L.A. party scene, so it didn’t take a whole heck of a lot to convince him to leave. Besides, the guys they had came with were total friggin’ morons—one of them had just argued that
Armageddon
had strong “situational character development.”

Shayna, on the other hand, was not quite ready to call it an evening. She reached for Jason’s hand.

“Wait, what’s the problem?” She smiled invitingly. “You’re here with your boys; I’m here with my girls. Why don’t we leave with you and all party together?” She pointed to an attractive redhead seated at a table nearby. “That’s my friend, Eve. She and I
love
to party together.”

Jason sighed again. Ho-hum, another threesome. It was all so passé.

With an apologetic smile, he leaned down to give Shayna a polite kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, darling, I appreciate the offer. But not tonight.”

Suddenly, there was a voice from behind.

“Well, well, well . . . what do we have here?”

Jason closed his eyes. He
knew
he shouldn’t have come to this fucking club. It was like one big frat party for celebrities, the place they all came together to be misunderstood and put-upon by the exhausting demands of the outside world.

With great annoyance, Jason turned around.

Scott Casey stood before him, looking smugly at Jason and the long-legged Shayna. Jason checked out Scott’s entourage and immediately dismissed them all. The only one he even vaguely recognized was that Rob Who-Gives-a-Shit Jeremy had pointed out at the Lakers game several weeks ago.

“Hello, Scott. Funny seeing you here,” Jason said, keeping his voice calm.

Scott smiled magnanimously. “I’d just thought I’d say hello—I didn’t get a chance at your party. You may have heard, I was a little busy that night.”

Jason knew he was being baited. But he was hardly about to let some pretty-boy wanker think he cared one bit about anything that had happened last Saturday or any other day. So his smile remained as smooth and cool as ice.

“Did I hear you’re chasing after Marty Shepherd these days?” he asked, faux-politely.

Scott’s smug expression faded just a bit. Then he recovered. “I don’t chase anyone, my friend.” He held his arms out wide.

“I just wait for them to come to me. Speaking of which . . .”

Jason looked up at the ceiling, knowing what Scott was about to say before the words even came out.

“. . . I’m going out with someone you know this weekend,” he continued. “A lawyer. Taylor Donovan. She tells me you two are business associates.”

Jeremy, who had been standing next to Jason during this exchange, whistled low under his breath.

“Business associates? Ouch. That’s worse than friends.”

Jason threw him a look. Perhaps they could do without the commentary for a few minutes.

Overhearing Jeremy, Scott leaned over to Rob and whispered something under his breath. Then he turned back to Jason, eying Shayna, who unfortunately had moved her hand to Jason’s arm.

Scott smiled. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell Taylor I ran into you and your little friend here. I’m sure she’ll be very interested to hear all about it.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed at the threat. “Don’t bother, I’ll tell her myself. We’re having dinner this Thursday; didn’t she mention it?”

As the two men faced off, Jeremy apparently felt it was time to step in. He stood in front of Jason, blocking his view of Scott.

“Okay, okay,” he said to Jason. “Now that we’ve established that you have the bigger penis, I think we should leave.”

Since Jeremy had inserted himself into the fray, Scott’s friend Rob now needed to chime in as well. It was part of the sacred celebrity entourage code.

“Hey—buddy,” he jeered at Jeremy. “Who the hell are you? The comic sidekick?”

Jeremy turned around to face Rob and coolly looked him up and down.

“Sidekick? Fuck you, porky.”

Scott’s entourage gasped. For a sometimes-working Los Angeles actor, there was no greater insult.

Rob’s face turned bright red. “How many times do I have to tell you people? I’m on
hiatus!
” he shouted, just before taking a swing at Jeremy.

And just like that, all hell broke loose.

“YOU GOT INTO a
fight
with
Scott Casey
?”

The next morning, Jason was in the car the studio provided, being driven to the set. The minute his cell phone had rung and he saw Marty’s name, he knew what was coming.

“How do you know about that already?” Jason asked. “That only happened like”—he checked his watch—“six hours ago.”

“How do I know?” Marty shouted across the line. “I know because I know
everyone
, Jason. For chrissakes, you were at Hyde. I’ve got half the staff there on my payroll. You do realize those little coke parties you celebs like to throw in the bathrooms don’t actually go unnoticed, don’t you?”

Jason leaned back against the seat of the limo and closed his eyes. He had a hangover and was not at all in the mood for a lecture.

“Then you should check your sources, Marty, because
I
didn’t get into a fight with anyone last night.
I
was the one pulling my friend away from that portly D-lister with the serious stick up his ass.”

Jason could hear Marty barking orders to his secretary on the other end of the line. He could just picture his publicist, storming into the office while on his cell phone, all frantic and “Get me
Us Weekly
,
stat
!”-like.

“I’ve got four eyewitnesses who say that you and Scott Casey exchanged words, Jason.”

“Yes, well, ‘words’ are still the way human beings communicate, Marty,” Jason threw back at him.

“Just tell me this—did this alleged fight with Scott Casey have anything to do with Taylor Donovan?”

Jason bristled at the question. “No, you tell me—does the reason you’re so pissed about this alleged fight have anything to do with the fact that you’re allegedly trying to land Scott Casey as a client?” He paused for a moment to let this sit. “I know everyone, too, Marty.”

Marty fell quiet for a moment. Jason wasn’t sure if he had lost the connection or if his publicist was simply taking a moment to decide what spin to put on his answer.

Marty finally answered.

It had been the latter.

“Jason, Jason . . .” he oozed soothingly. “You know you are my number one priority. You always have been my number one priority, and you always will be—until the day you either run off to some private island in the Pacific, build a compound, and have fifteen babies with your native housekeeper, or kill me with a heart attack from all the shit you’ll still be getting into when you’re eighty fucking years old.”

Hearing Jason’s silence, Marty took a breath before continuing.

“And since you are my number one priority, I would be remiss in my obligations as your publicist if I didn’t speak to you when I sense something at odds with your image. Tremors in the force that is Jason Andrews, if you will.”

Jason repeated this to himself. Tremors in the force that is Jason Andrews. Classic.

“Dumping supermodels in London is
you
,” Marty went on. “Getting into petty fights at some Hollywood nightclub? That is
not
you. Dating international actresses, like Naomi Cross for example—that is
you
. Dating some lawyer from Chicago?
Not
you. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“We’re not dating, Marty,” Jason said. “For the record, Taylor and I aren’t sleeping together, having an affair, or anything. We’re . . . I don’t know. Something else.”

Marty snorted at this.

“No offense, Jason, but having been your publicist for the last thirteen years, I think I know. You don’t
do
‘something else.’ ”

THAT EVENING, JASON knocked decisively on Taylor’s front door. Marty’s words had plagued him all day and he needed to do something about it. Now.

Taylor opened the door, surprised to see him.

“Hey—I thought we were meeting later this week,” she said.

Standing on her doorstep, Jason knew the way he handled this next moment would determine everything.

“Come with me to the Pacific Design Center.” Shit—he hadn’t meant for that to come out sounding like a command.

Taylor looked at him strangely. “Why?”

Jason stared awkwardly at the ground. He definitely should’ve done a run-through of this in the Aston Martin on the way over.

“Because I need help picking out a new couch,” he said, peering up at her uncertainly. “Isn’t that what
friends
do?”

He watched, trying to gauge Taylor’s reaction. Seemingly unsure at first, she studied him as if debating, looking him over with those bold green eyes of hers.

Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”

Jason’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Okay.” He exhaled, glad that was over. “Should we go?”

Taylor went back inside her apartment and grabbed her keys. As she followed Jason out to his car, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey—can I drive the Aston Martin?”

“No.”

“But isn’t that what
friends
do?”

“No.”

Jason opened the passenger door for her and walked around to the driver’s side. As he got in the car, Taylor glanced over.

“My, my, you’re awfully grumpy today . . . Is something wrong?”

Jason looked at her, sitting by his side. Actually, it was the best he had felt in the last two days.

True, it was not exactly the way he had envisioned things going with Taylor. But at least it was something.

So he grinned as he fired up the Aston Martin.

“Buckle up, sweetheart,” he told her. “This ain’t no PT Cruiser.”

And with that, he gunned the car to life and they drove off into the sunset.

Twenty

TAYLOR WATCHED AS Scott expertly chopped up some asparagus and tossed it into the sauté pan simmering on the stove. He added a dash of olive oil.

“You know, when you invited me to dinner, I didn’t know you were planning to cook it,” she said. She sat across from Scott on the other side of the chef’s counter, sipping the martini he had poured when she first arrived.

“Your rules about not being seen in public don’t leave room for much else,” he grinned teasingly. Taylor noticed that a stray lock of blond hair had fallen across his forehead, nearly into his eyes, as he worked. There was something inherently sexy about a man who knew his way around a kitchen.

“Thanks for being understanding about that,” she told him. “I’m trying to keep a low profile for my trial.”

Scott shrugged this off. “No problem. This isn’t yet the best moment for me to be spotted with the famous Mystery Woman anyway.”

Taylor straightened a little in her chair. That was kind of an odd thing to say. “What do you mean?”

Scott glanced up from his cooking and saw the expression on her face. He smiled reassuringly. “Oh, I just meant you’d probably be hounded even more if the press saw us together.”

Taylor’s nodded, softening. “Oh. Of course.”

Stop being so suspicious, she told herself. Trying to relax, she glanced around what she could see of his house. The kitchen, foyer, and living room suggested that Scott (or his decorator) had ultramodern taste. With stark white walls, metal staircases, slate countertops, and stainless steel cabinets, Taylor found the decor a little . . . cold. In her opinion, the best feature of the house was the deck outside that opened to a spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles.

Deciding to take a closer look, she grabbed her martini and headed over to the sliding glass doors.

“Do you mind?” She gestured outside.

Scott shook his head. “Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

Taylor stepped out onto the deck and felt the cool breeze cutting across the Hollywood Hills. She leaned against the railing and gazed out at the twinkling lights of the city.

For what had to be the hundredth time that week, she wondered what the hell she was doing.

She had debated over and over whether she should cancel her date with Scott. She had a whole list of reasons ready: she was too busy with her trial, she barely knew him, she didn’t want to get involved in a relationship in Los Angeles, et cetera. But none of those reasons had sounded particularly convincing, even to her.

Scott Casey had asked her out on a date.

Scott Casey
.

Taylor knew that millions of women would die to be in her position that night. And that had been the clincher: she had realized that if she couldn’t say yes to a date with Scott Casey, then she seriously needed to examine what was stopping her. Or rather,
who
was stopping her.

And that was something she did not want to think about.

Scott popped his head out onto the deck. “Dinner should be ready in about five minutes. Do you want another drink?”

Taylor glanced down at her empty martini glass. “Sure, that’d be great.”

Determined to have the best night of her life—because that’s what a date with Scott Casey should be—Taylor followed him inside.

“SO WHERE DID you learn how to cook?”

Scott (or his assistant) had elaborately set the dining-room table with dozens of flickering candles. Music—what sounded suspiciously like the
Garden State
sound track—played throughout the house through unseen speakers.

Scott smiled in response to Taylor’s question about him. “You don’t know this?” He appeared surprised when she shook her head, no.

“Chef’s school,” he told her.

“Really? When did you do that?”

“Back in Sydney. That’s how I got started in acting.” Scott peered at her curiously. “You really don’t know this?”

Taylor shook her head again. Okay, she got it. She lived in a hole.

So he gave her the rundown. “Well, one day this casting director walked into one of my classes, looking for culinary students for a daytime cooking show. I got the job, and I did the show for about a year. But I really got into the acting side of things, so I got an agent who sent me on a few auditions. My first real acting gig was on a prime-time show for that same network, and from there I moved into film, smaller roles at first, then bigger, until finally I got the call about
A Viking’s Quest.
And then the rest, as they say, is history.”

“That’s a pretty interesting story,” Taylor said, impressed.

Scott grinned. “Thanks.” He reached across the table and laced his fingers through hers. “But enough about me. I want to know all about you, gorgeous.”

Normally, Taylor hated questions like that. They were so interview-y. Good conversation should just flow organically, from the moment.

She quickly tried to think of a topic she and Scott had in common. “Well, I mentioned before that I’m from Chicago. Let me ask you something—was it hard when you first moved to Los Angeles? Did you miss home?”

But Scott waved this off, uninterested. “We can talk about that some other time. What I want to know is how I ever got lucky enough to get a beautiful girl like you to go out with me.”

Taylor burst out laughing. Surely he had to be joking with a line like that. She stopped when she saw the confused look on his face.

“Wait—you’re serious?”

Scott pulled back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, sorry.” Taylor bit her lip and tried to disguise her misunderstanding by gesturing to the windows that ran along the dining-room wall. “So, that’s really some view you have there.”

Scott smiled. “Yes, it is.” He turned back to Taylor with what was presumably a “seductive” look. “But not as good as the one I have right here.”

Taylor laughed again. “All right, now I
know
you’re joking.”

Scott abruptly sat back in his chair. “I’m just trying to pay you a compliment, Taylor,” he said defensively. “I didn’t realize it was that funny.”

Taylor shut up. Again.

Okay . . . so . . . awkward moment here . . .

It appeared pretty safe to say that Scott didn’t go for the whole dry/sarcastic humor thing. She would just have to come up with some other material. Too bad she really didn’t have any other material.

An uncomfortable silence followed, and Taylor was just thinking that perhaps she might compliment the salt and pepper shakers sitting on the table—they were the
loveliest
shade of pewter, when—

—thank god, her cell phone rang.

Taylor dove immediately for her purse, which sat on the chair next to her. “Sorry, I have to keep it on for work,” she apologized to Scott. How terrible—she found herself almost hoping it was some kind of work emergency.

She checked the caller ID and instantly recognized the particular 310 area code number that showed up on the phone’s display. A number that just happened to belong to one Mr. Jason Andrews.

Taylor defiantly flung her hair back. Oh, sure—like she was going to take
his
call right then. She was a little busy.

Seeing Scott’s curious look, Taylor smiled. Suddenly, her date seemed ten times more interesting.

“It’s no one,” she told him. “I’ll just turn it on vibrate.”

She adjusted the phone and set it off to the side of the glass dining table. Then she leaned in toward Scott flirtatiously, peering deep into his light hazel eyes. “So . . . where were we?”

Liking her sudden interest, Scott smiled coyly and leaned in the rest of the way across the table. “I was just about to tell you—”

Right then, Taylor’s phone began vibrating. Loudly.

Glancing over, she saw the same 310 number on the phone’s display. The
nerve
of that man. Seriously.

When she didn’t immediately pick up, the phone began rattling louder, sliding across the glass table toward her. Apparently, a certain someone refused to be ignored.

Taylor grabbed the phone, stuffed it into her purse, and resolutely zipped it shut. That should take care of that. She smiled apologetically at Scott. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“Are you sure you don’t have to get that?” he asked skeptically.

Taylor waved this off. “Oh no, it’s fine. Anyway, tell me about this movie you’re filming,
Outback Nights
.”

Scott seemed happy to oblige her. “Well, I play this sort of loner, rebel type . . .”

As Taylor listened while he went on about the film, her cell phone suddenly began to vibrate again, this time from inside her purse. Irate at the prospect of being ignored, the phone rattled around demandingly.

Buzz-
buzz
!

Buzz-
buzz
!

Despite herself, Taylor fought back a smile, trying very, very hard to pay attention to Scott’s story.

Buzz-
buzz
!

Buzz-
buzz
!

“. . . Of course, the director said he could think of no one other than me for the part from the first moment he read the script ...”

Buzz-
buzz
!

Buzz-
buzz
!

Suddenly, it stopped. The phone in her purse lay quiet for a moment, then—

Buzz-
buzz
!

Buzz-
buzz
!

Taylor had to stifle her laugh. Ahh . . . if nothing else, the man was persistent. She had to give him that.

Right then, Scott’s cell phone rang, too. She was saved by the proverbial bell.

Scott made a face. “Wow—crazy night, huh?” He pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket, then glanced up at Taylor. “Sorry—it’s my agent. I really should take this.” He stepped out of the room to take the call.

As he left the room, Taylor’s phone vibrated once again. Buzz-
buzz
! Oh, for heaven’s sake—she reached in, yanked the phone out of her purse, and flipped it open.

“What the hell are you doing??” she whispered furiously.

Jason’s smooth voice came over the other end of the line.

“Well, hello, Ms. Donovan. Goodness, I was starting to get worried. Is everything all right?”

“Why are you calling, Jason?” Taylor hissed. She checked to make sure Scott was still in the other room.

“Hmm? Oh yes—see, I couldn’t remember what time we’re meeting tomorrow to go over the third act of the script. Is it seven or eight o’clock?”

“Jason—” Taylor began warningly.

“—And I also wanted to know whether I should bring dinner to your apartment. Or will you be providing the edibles?”

Part of her wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. The other part of her couldn’t help but smile.

“Stop being cute. You know this is a bad time for me.”

“Why? Wait—is tonight the night of the big date? Oh . . . I had completely forgotten all about that. Oops.”

“You’re a better actor than that, Jason.”

She heard him chuckled.

“So true. Fine—I just thought I’d see how everything’s going.”

Taylor deflected the question. “Where are you?” She could hear loud voices and music in the background.

“Reilly’s Tavern. Playing darts.” Jason paused for a moment. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Now it was Taylor’s turn to pause. “The date’s going great,” she said convincingly.

“How nice. And where has Junior taken you to eat?”

“Actually, I’m at his place. He’s cooking for me.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Really,” he finally said, through what sounded like clenched teeth.

Taylor smiled into the phone. “Why, Jason—that sounds a bit like jealousy, doesn’t it?”

He snorted disdainfully. “Jealous of Scott Casey? Please.” He got a good laugh out of this. “Hey—if you find him interesting, Taylor, more power to you. I also know a nice box of rocks you could cuddle up with, if that’s your thing.”

She glared into the phone. “Yeah, well, maybe I
do
happen to find him interesting.”

“Really? Then why are you spending your date talking to me?”

“You know, that can easily be fixed.”

She hung up the phone.

Taylor tossed the phone back into her purse, thoroughly annoyed.
First
he talked about going to Napa Valley with her when he obviously had been planning on going with Naomi Cross just a few days before. As if women were as interchangeable as the parts of a Mr. Potato Head. And now
this
? Deliberately interrupting her date? The boundaries of the man’s self-centeredness were truly limitless.

Underscoring this point, Taylor’s phone rang again. This time, she didn’t even bother to look before answering.

“You know, if you’re trying to mark your territory, you could’ve just peed on me before I came over here and saved us both a lot of time!”

On the other end, Jason burst out laughing. “I always suspected you were into kinky shit.”

Despite herself, Taylor laughed, too. He somehow always managed to do that—completely infuriate her one moment, then make her smile the next. It was actually quite sneaky.

“Good-bye, Jason. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, amused. Then she hung up the phone and stared at it for a long moment, until she heard someone clear his throat behind her. Taylor glanced up and saw Scott watching her from the doorway.

Looking very displeased.

OVER AT REILLY’S Tavern, Jeremy watched as Jason tucked his cell phone into his pocket.

“Not jealous of Scott Casey, huh?” He glanced pointedly at the dartboard, where Jason had taped Scott Casey’s “Other Contenders” photograph to the bull’s eye. Three darts jutted out prominently from the young actor’s forehead.

Jason ignored the question. He walked over and yanked his darts out of the board.

“He’s
cooking
for her,” he said disgustedly, as if this were a felony. “Like she’s going to fall for
that
. It’s so . . . amateur.”

“
I
cook for my dates,” Jeremy volunteered.

“You have to. You can’t afford to take them anywhere.”

“This is true,” Jeremy conceded good-naturedly. “Although I have also discovered that women really seem to like the taste of macaroni and cheese.”