Meet Cute (Love, Camera, Action Book 5) by Elise Faber (red white and royal blue hardcover .TXT) 📕

“See?” I said, moving back to her and holding it up, waving it around like a flag. “I’ll help you get it on and leave you to get settled and—”

Something flashed across her eyes.

My words came faster. “I won’t look, I promise, I’ll just—”

Fingers on my arm.

“Okay.”

“And a shower will—” I broke off, turned to look at her. “You’re agreeing with me?”

There was still something almost fragile about her, as though pressure in the wrong spot might shatter her into pieces. But then she smiled, and I saw that flash again, only this time it was definitely tinged with amusement. Not a lot of it, as her tone was still a little bit sharp, but at least enough to take the sting out. “Can you spend at least one moment not arguing with me?” A beat. “Just one?”

I shut up, just nodded in response, and slipped the cover up and over her arm. “Okay?” I asked, smoothing the edge to make sure it would keep her arm dry.

“Yup.”

She brushed past me, taking the blanket with her.

I followed, moving into the bathroom and immediately pulling out several fresh towels, a new toothbrush, and my toothpaste. Then, inspiration striking, I dug in my linen cabinet and pulled out a gift bag from an event I’d gone to the week before. Usually, I passed, but this one had been pressed into my hand as I’d left the party, and I hadn’t been able to demur. Today, however, it came in handy. I set it on the counter and pulled out the hair and body products. “Probably not your brand,” I said. “But they’ve got to be better than my stuff.” I nodded at the counter, where I had some deodorant, face wash, and other stuff. “Feel free to use mine, though, if you’d prefer.”

She swallowed, was quiet for a long time. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thanks.”

I nodded, slipped into the toilet room to finally deal with the condom, then stopped back by the sink to quickly wash my hands. The shower was still on, filling the room with sticky, humid air. I flicked on the fan, knowing that I was probably singlehandedly responsible for California’s drought that day but unable to regret what had just happened with this woman.

Hell, regret was the absolute last thing on my mind.

That had been incredible. She had been incredible.

“I’ll go take care of Maggie,” I said, unable to stop myself from cupping her cheek, from feeling some part of her skin against mine. “You take your time in here. Holler if you need anything.”

I watched her throat work as she swallowed then smiled gently when she nodded.

It was harder to force my hand to drop, to make my feet carry me back, carry me away from her and out the door of the bathroom, across to my closet to get some clothes on—no need to scar Maggie twice in one day.

And then I had to keep forcing them to move out into the hall, and then to the kitchen, where my lovely, beautiful, scowling publicist was standing next to the island, her arms crossed, her toe tapping on the ground, as I closed the distance between us.

One finger poked into my chest. Hard.

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing, Talbot Green?”

Chapter Twelve

Tammy

For fuck’s sake.

I was waffling more than a . . . well, a waffle.

One second, I was critically embarrassed, ready to run (not screaming) from this house and get the fuck back to my own life, one that was far, far away from all things Talbot Green related.

And the next—

“What, Tammy?” I muttered, shampooing my hair with a product that looked like it would cost more than my car—and that was just the sample size. “Because the truth is that you got all squishy and happy, and your spine turned to Jell-O when the man got a little flustered.” I shoved my hair into the stream. “Because he wanted to take care of you.”

Look, I got it, okay?

That was my weak spot. I’d always been the one to do the caring, and when someone wanted to look out for me for a change (something that never happened—okay, something that had perhaps happened a half-dozen times, all courtesy of my asshole ex-husband), I went all gooey inside.

Stupid, huh?

More capital S.

Sighing, knowing it was only a matter of time before I headed over the cliff to absolute heartbreak, I decided that I was just going back to that fantasy.

Talbot was guy number twenty.

And it had been fabulous.

Now, I was ready to exit Stage Right.

“Exactly, Tam,” I said, smoothing some luxurious conditioner into my hair. It felt like the expensive stuff my hairdresser used on my bi-annual appointments, the stuff I never splurged for because I spent ninety percent of my life with my hair wrestled back into a ponytail or bun, and the other ten letting it air dry straight out of the shower. It was drugstore shampoo and conditioner, all the way, no matter how much she tried to convince me to treat my hair to something special.

I didn’t even treat myself with something special.

Why would I binge on my hair?

“Maybe I should steal the container,” I muttered. “Ferret it into my pocket and slip out the front door with it.”

I wouldn’t do that. Of course, I wouldn’t (maybe). But I wanted to (definitely). No, no. I wouldn’t. It would be wrong, and Talbot had been nice, and even though I wanted to jump on the man like a monkey, to beg for another round of orgasms, I knew that I wouldn’t survive a second interlude.

The man had already reduced me to goo almost effortlessly.

“I thought that stealing and illicit drugs are right up there together on the list of bad things bad guys do.”

I froze, having been almost mesmerized by the feel of my ends after I’d rinsed out the conditioner. They were softer than I’d ever felt before, and maybe my hairdresser wasn’t just trying to hawk me expensive product after all.

Talbot’s