Love, Valentine Style Page 16

  “Do it.” Blue’s voice was firm.

  “Trust him,” Maddy whispered.

  Randy swallowed. “My apologies. To you and my mother. Because I don’t want to ask this question.”

  “You might as well ask me.” Gemma glared at Blue.

  “What’s your secret bedroom fantasy?” And did it include him? In his effort to be still, Randy’s lungs froze, his vision fuzzed, and his brain farted, setting his tongue free. “Or maybe you could tell me a less private fantasy.” Like fantasies weren’t private? Randy contained a groan.

  Gemma’s eyes were normally a deep brown, but now they were almost violet behind her glasses. “There are people in this room who are so dead.”

  “Don’t say another word.” Randy hurried to salvage the situation. “I’ve made my decision. I want to have dinner with you.”

  Chapter Two

  Well, hell.

  Gemma was torn between being flattered that Randy had chosen to have dinner with her, and being annoyed that he’d chosen this made-up version of her to have dinner with.

  What did it mean?

  That he liked Glitterfrost Gem better than Gemma Kent.

  It wasn’t fair. She liked Randy. He was a great guy, with none of the bluster of Hollywood. He was taller than a tree compared to her, with a measured sturdiness to his stride that implied reliability. And honesty. He wouldn’t lie to her as her father had done for years. Or present himself to a date as something he wasn’t.

  Her nose stung with the threat of tears. Just sitting here was a lie. She wasn’t sexy and fun-loving, with great hair and fashionable clothes. She wanted to be. For Randy. But who was she kidding? She needed to get out of here, before he discovered the truth.

  Gemma didn’t budge.

  In fact, she nodded when Blue asked her if she’d have dinner with Randy.

  “I’m starved,” Randy said. So like a man, ignorant of a woman’s distress.

  She couldn’t eat a thing.

  The camera crew removed their microphones, loaded up their equipment, and left. The waiter delivered chips and salsa. They ordered dinner and beer. The lights were dimmed. The candles lit.

  Randy hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d agreed to stay. “How did you meet Mimi Sorbet?”

  “I can’t say.” That would be admitting Mimi was a client, which was confidential.

  Randy stared at her the way a teenager stared at a McDonald’s cashier when told McDonald’s was sold out of French Fries.

  Great conversation killer, Gemma.

  She tapped her beer stein with one finger. He spun his with two hands.

  Say something. “Thank you for cutting off Blue’s question. The one about the fantasy…” Don’t say that!

  Sweat broke out at the base of her spine.

  Randy’s cheeks pinkened, then turned a ruddy color.

  And with each deepening shade, Gemma softened toward him. They had a lot in common. They’d both recently finished college and taken five years – he because he red-shirted as a practice player one year for the basketball team, her because she’d taken too long to declare a major. She was making this harder than it had to be. She and the lie she presented in Cora’s little black dress.

  “All women have fantasies,” he mumbled, adding, “Especially women like you.”

  Women like you.

  Gemma’s shoulders began a slow slide into her cleavage. He thought she was one of those fast and loose Hollywood women, like Cora used to be. A slut, her mother would have called Cora. Finding herself, their father would have argued. Regardless, Gemma wasn’t that kind of woman.

  She couldn’t tell Randy her sexual fantasy involved her husband slowly removing her white gown on their wedding night. They’d make love on puffs of white satin and tulle. There’d be candles and soft music. Her husband would be experienced and ease her fears. Not a virgin, like Gemma, but not a man-whore, like Blue.

  I’ve got to quit watching so many Disney movies.

  Randy cleared his throat. “I mean a woman like you…who’s grown up in Hollywood…”

  The slumping slide of Gemma’s shoulders halted. Her backbone re-asserted control. Victoria’s lacy secrets thrust toward him. “What kind of woman do you think I am?”

  “I…uh…”

  “The kind that’ll put out on first meet?” She stood, barely a wobble to those ankle-breaking heels. “That’s not me.”

  How could it be? She was a big chicken when it came to men – the goose-bumpy, run-from-trouble kind of chicken that always blew opportunities to have a relationship, much less have sex. Give her a deadbeat client who was behind on his retainer and she was a pitbull. Put her in a candlelit room with the man of her dreams and her knees knocked.

  “Don’t go.” Randy stood, stepped forward, and stumbled. His bad knee buckled. His hip bumped the table. Dishes clattered. Beer sloshed. “Damn it.” Why did everything have to be so hard? It was easier to get a date in grade school than in Hollywood.

  “That’s all I need is for you to fall.” Gemma did her own bit of stumbling back to him, sliding her arm around his waist to steady him. She smelled of strawberries and beer and the sweet softness of home. Her arm was sturdy, even if her balance was not. She weebled. He wobbled. The arm around his waist tightened. Her free hand landed flat on his chest. No doubt, she could feel his heart thudding.

  If Gemma hadn’t just freaked out over some illogical assumption that he thought they were going to get naked and nasty before the night was through, he might have kissed her. As it was, he gazed down at the top of her head and pressed a kiss on her part. “Thanks.”

  It nearly killed him to shake out his knee – real men didn’t have weaknesses. Not where he came from.

  “Sit down, before you fall on your ass.” The sharp-edged, confident Gemma was back.

  Randy smiled. “I’d rather sit on the floor than on one of those stiff-backed chairs.”

  She looked from his chair, up to him. Albeit, her gaze skimmed off him quicker than a flat rock on Spinner’s Lake. “The floor it is.” She guided him toward the rear of the room.

  He sat, back to the wall. His leg was fine. He could have run a mile easily, but letting Gemma think he was an invalid had its charm. “Bring the beer and the chips down here, too.” He patted the burgundy carpet next to him.

  Her gaze was speculative and worrisome. Chances were he couldn’t stop her from leaving a second time.

  Randy rubbed his knee, trying to work up sympathy.

  Hot damn, if that didn’t work. Gemma handed him his beer and then returned with hers and the basket of chips, which she also handed to him.

  Behind her, the waiter opened the door on silent hinges. Randy waved him off, grateful that Gemma was busy arranging herself on the floor and tugging down the hem of her dress. Her legs were short, but shapely. Her feet, mesmerizing in those take-me-fast-or-I’ll-die red shoes.

  His legs were at least a foot longer than hers, but there was something intimate about sitting next to her, their knees inches from each other, as if they were watching television in bed after really great sex.

  His pants suddenly felt a size too small. He reached for the basket of chips and rested them in his lap, hoping he wouldn’t rock the chips with a woody.

  He tugged his tie loose, slipping the red silk through his fingers. He needed to ask his third question: Can I have your phone number?

  “Did Blue put you up to this?” Her fingers twisted into knots in her lap. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “To choosing me?”

  “No.” He resisted the urge to squirm. She was close to guessing the truth. And she valued honesty.

  “Cora, then.” Words spoken softly, with such certainty.

  “No.” Gemma deserved the whole truth, but he didn’t believe she’d stay if he gave her that. Instead, he gave her a partial confession. “I told them I wouldn’t do the show unless you were one of my dates.”

  Her jaw dropped open. That’s what he loved about Gemma. She was tou
gh as nails one minute, and innocent as an Indiana farm girl the next.

  Gemma started to say something, seemed to think better of it, and then took a swig of her beer. If he hadn’t desperately wanted her to like him, her head-shaking, leg-twitching, finger-lacing display of disbelief would have made him laugh.

  She bent her knees, set her beer behind her, and angled to face him. “Why?”

  Now was not the time to shrug. This close, he could see the grape color of her eyes. Dark hair hung in a glossy curtain across her forehead. He wanted to slide his hands through the silky softness. He wanted to lean in and press a gentle kiss on her lips, tasting, testing, tempting her to turn the heat up until they were burning for each other.

  She regularly went toe-to-toe with Cora Rule, who was one high maintenance woman. Gemma knew how to move through Hollywood’s circles – with combat boots on! And who was he? Just some guy from Indiana who struggled to fit in off the court. The more he learned about Gemma, the more intrigued he was. “From the moment I saw you, I was done.”

  She drew back.

  He placed his beer out of the way, near the wall, followed by the basket of chips, so he could claim her hand. “It sounds weird, but it’s true.” And then, ever so gently, he tugged her forward until their lips met. Hers were warm and giving. A glide of his tongue across them and she was opening her mouth on a sigh.

  Gently.

  She was easily spooked. He took his time, and let the heat and the breath-stealing passion build. It built in the pound of his heart and the roaring in his ears. It built in the increasing urgency of his touch as he learned each soft slope of her curves.

  On the other side of the door was everything he didn’t like about L.A. – shallow, pretentious, what-can-you-do-for me fake handshakes and smiles. On this side of the door was everything he hoped for in the future – warmth, depth, the feeling that someone enjoyed his company more than what his fledgling reputation might bring them. If Gemma did more than kiss him, he’d know she felt the same way.

  Her hand made a soft landing on his hip.

  Randy thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  He deepened the kiss, drawing her closer. His hand drifted up the side of her waist, up the thin material of her black dress, brushing the edge of her breast.

  Gently.

  Her hand gripped his waistband.

  He needed to go slow. Be satisfied with a kiss and her phone number. In another ten seconds, he’d pull back, slow down.

  She sighed, leaning into him, pressing her breasts against his chest.

  His heart pounded so fast he suffered a mind wipe. Forgot his goals. Forgot the slow pace. All he could think of was strawberries and heat.

  It was easy to pull her into his lap. She weighed practically nothing. And she didn’t stop kissing him. He hoped she’d never stop kissing him.

  His hand slid beneath her skirt, across the warm, bare skin of her thigh.

  Sweet heaven, so close. His fingers brushed against her heat.

  She stopped kissing him. Drew back. Peeked at his hand. Or at least where his hand was beneath her dress.

  He could feel her uncertainty. It was there in the tight bundle of muscle in her thigh, the growing rigidity of her spine, the press of her lips into a thin line. All at odds with the slightly dazed look in her eyes, as if she hadn’t expected the raging fire between them. He doubted she realized she was sitting in his lap.

  “I’m sorry.” Randy withdrew his hand to the safety of her knee. “I wasn’t expecting…That.” Meaning their combustible heat. One kiss and he’d been stealing third, instinctively taking a lead toward home.

  Her eyes went from darkly dazed to darkly hurt. “I’m not that kind of girl. I’m not…Glitterfrost Gem.” She untangled herself from his lap, and stood, flashing him a view of red panties that made him hard and slow. Too slow to stop her.

  She wobbled on her heels for a step or two, and made a growling noise he took for frustration. She grabbed one red heel and threw the shoe at the wall. She removed the other heel and ran out.

  It was like the championship game of the Final Four all over again. He’d over-reached. Risked it all. Crashed. It remained to be seen if he’d ruined any chance at a relationship with Gemma.

  Randy picked up the red shoe with one hand and his beer with the other. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Chapter Three

  The Valentine Fiasco gutted Gemma.

  Her stomach had twisted into knots so tight she’d been unable to sleep. She hadn’t checked Twitter this morning to see that Randy hadn’t tweeted her as his woman crush. Because, of course, he wouldn’t have. Randy wanted a polished Hollywood woman. She was more of a Keds girl. No matter how hot his kisses, she wouldn’t sell herself as Glitterfrost Gem anymore. No more hype. No more lies.

  She dressed in jeans, a blouse as black as her mood, and the saved combat boots. Her make-up was minimal and her hair was back to its familiar, tight riot of curls.

  Gemma had thought she’d skate in early, get some work done, and scowl at her siblings when they showed up. No such luck.

  She’d had to stop for gas. She’d had to stop for coffee. Construction on the 405 slowed traffic to the speed of her laptop when it had a virus. She was delayed enough that she’d made a mental list of companies to apply to. Boring, mundane companies, where you didn’t work for siblings who meddled with your life. Because she was convinced that was what had happened last night. Meddling. A Rule tradition.

  When she finally reached the Dooley Foundation (late), the office dogs (Mr. Jiggles and Brutus) raced up to her, all eight combined pounds of joyful greeting. She had to give them a little love. They were dogs, for crying out loud. They wouldn’t understand she blamed the rest of the office for her humiliation and herself for having found her moral compass too late – both in Randy’s arms and in her Glitterfrost Gem alter-ego.

  She gave Brutus Cora’s red shoe. The little darling ran off happily to the corner with Italian leather.

  “I liked those shoes.” Cora stood in her doorway in a teal wraparound dress and heels higher than the Eiffel Tower. “But if they helped you and Randy finally hit it off – ”

  “They didn’t. We didn’t. You can stop designing secret life coaching programs for me.” Because her date with Randy had to have been a setup by her siblings. They knew she had a crush on him. Coincidences didn’t happen at the Dooley Foundation. Gemma slung her purse on the floor beneath her desk. “There’ll be no more Women Crush Wednesdays. No more makeovers. I’m done living a lie. This is who I – ” There was a present on her desk. A long box wrapped in white shiny paper with a red satin bow. “What the hell is this?”

  Was it from Randy? Her heart stuttered in her chest.

  Blue tsked from the doorway to his office, looking L.A. polished in khakis and an untucked gray button-down. “You must have been hell on Santa. Most people like gifts.”

  “I don’t want it.” She tossed it on top of the reception counter.

  But what if it’s from Randy? Her heartbeat chugged back into action with dizzying speed.

  “It’s not from Randy.” Amber stood in the doorway to what used to be Dooley’s office. She looked pregnant chic in a pink tracksuit that set off the softer highlights in her red hair. “It’s from us.”

  “A pity gift.” Gemma’s heart slowed in disappointment. It was hard to believe they shared a similar gene pool. “For failing my life lesson last night.” A lesson she hadn’t requested.

  “We’re not the kind of family that holds pity parties.” The sarcasm in Cora’s voice was nearly palpable.

  “And last night wasn’t about you,” Blue added sternly.

  “At least, not the way you think.” Amber absently ran a hand over her belly.

  Gemma fingered the red ribbon. “If last night was some kind of test, I failed. I ran out of that restaurant, and away from a guy I like because he wants a polished Hollywood Rule. He doesn’t want this.” She gestured to herself. “I’m not cut
out to be a Rule.” She wasn’t worthy of her father, Dooley Rule, who’d once streaked across a movie production lot to show his client that what they thought was embarrassing could always be topped.

  “Open the box.” Amber’s hand went to her hip, a gesture of her impatience.

  Despite the fact that her half-siblings didn’t get it – she wasn’t one of them and never would be – Gemma obeyed. She untied the red ribbon, unwrapped the white paper, and opened the black box. “Oh, my God.” It was a silver name plate. Her name was engraved in block letters: Gemma Kent Rule. It was like being named a Kennedy who hadn’t summered in Hyannis Port. She knew nothing of their family traditions. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t a go-getter. She wasn’t part of the in-crowd. She was just another commuter on the 405.

  She swallowed back hopes and almosts and the harsh reality of scuffed, nearly worn-out army boots. “Thank you. But we don’t have to tell anyone that we share the same roots.” Gemma looked at each of her siblings in turn. “I don’t deserve the name Rule. You all are…And Dooley was…” Louder than life. Genetically stylish. Buzz-worthy.

  They each grabbed life by the handlebars and shifted into high gear, accelerating above the speed limit, especially when it came to romance.

  And Gemma? She was too scared to tell Randy she liked him, too afraid to show him the plain woman she really was – a woman who wanted to enter a romance without exceeding the speed limit.

  “You think we’re embarrassed to be related to you?” Amber gestured to Cora and Blue. “After all the embarrassment we’ve brought to the Rule name in the past year?”

  “I don’t know what yardstick you’re judging yourself by,” Cora said sharply. “But you are a Rule – whether you wear those hideous combat boots or zebra spike heels.”

  “Agreed,” Blue practically growled. The deep timbre of his voice stopped Brutus from chewing on Cora’s shoe. “Put the damn name plate on your damn desk.”