Just the Sexiest Man Alive
Page 39
Jason stared at her in amazement. He didn’t know anyone who would turn down such an offer.
“You’re the perfect model, you know,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Seeing her confusion, he explained. “The character I’m playing in the film is this driven, workaholic lawyer who has never lost a case. When I’m playing him . . .” He paused, his voice softening. Somehow they were now standing just inches apart. “I think of you.”
When their eyes met, Jason grinned and added, “With a penis.”
“Is that what this is all about?”
“Penises?”
Taylor laughed. “I meant, you needing a model for your character. Is that why you . . .” She trailed off, as if uncertain how to finish her sentence.
“Is that why I . . . what?”
Jason realized then that despite the fact that Taylor was trapped between him and the railing, she seemed to be making no attempt to move away.
Her eyes searched his. “Why you keep . . . pestering me,” she said softly.
“Is that what I’m doing?” Jason murmured, stepping closer.
Drawn in, Taylor’s eyes lowered seductively as she raised her face to his. “Yes,” she whispered, “you’re definitely very pesty.”
And suddenly, Jason couldn’t help himself.
Despite all his best-laid plans, he was lost . . . his hand reached up to the nape of her neck and he gently pulled her in to him . . . she wasn’t stopping him, in fact her hand slid up his chest and her lips parted invitingly as she pulled him closer and his lips came down to hers and—
“Oh my god, it’s Jason Andrews!”
The scream came from the terrace below.
Jason watched as it happened—the dreamy fog dissolved from Taylor’s eyes, like a method actor who’d been deeply into character when the director suddenly yelled “Cut!” Reality set in.
She immediately stepped away from him as if caught. He looked down and saw that a crowd had formed on the terrace below them. Several women shouted frantically, pointing, crying out his name. Paparazzi appeared out of nowhere. Cameras began to flash as everyone scrambled to get photographs. Suddenly, it was pure bedlam. Jason took a step back from the balcony and reached for Taylor—
But she was gone. Inside.
With a look of disappointment, Jason waved to the crowd, then turned and headed to the terrace doors.
The screams of his fans were upon his back all the way inside.
AS JASON WALKED Taylor up the brick path to her apartment, she was quietly relieved that the evening was coming to an end. She’d been internally berating herself over the Terrace Snafu (as she’d come to think of it) and externally had been doing her best to let Jason know that whatever he thought was about to happen back in Vegas was not, in fact, what had been about to happen.
Of course, she knew full well what had been about to happen.
God only knows what she’d been thinking, but she had, in fact, been about to kiss Jason. Such a move would have been unprofessional and unethical, not to mention overwhelmingly stupid. She blamed the vodka and the heat for getting to her. Never mind the fact that it had been only sixty-five degrees on the terrace and she’d gone instantly sober the minute the crowd had begun screaming.
“Did you have a good time tonight?” It was the fourth time Jason had asked her that since they’d landed.
She nodded. “Yes.”
For once, conversation seemed to elude them. Luckily, they arrived at her front door. Taylor was careful to keep a good distance between her and Jason as they said good-bye.
“So, thank you, again, for the gambling lesson and, you know, everything else,” she said lamely.
Jason, too, seemed to be struggling for something to say.
“So . . . okay, then.” He shifted uneasily.
When another awkward moment passed, Taylor nodded efficiently. “Good-bye, Jason.” She turned and unlocked her door and was just about to step inside her apartment when—
“I’m having a party next Saturday.”
Taylor glanced back over her shoulder. Jason stood there, on her doorstep, wearing the same lost-but-adorable expression he’d had that first evening when she’d left him alone with the paparazzi outside her office building.
“You should come,” he said, shrugging with a boyish grin. “If you don’t have other plans, that is.”
“Next Saturday?” Taylor quickly tried to think of an excuse.
Jason nodded. “June twenty-first. Mark it in that little BlackBerry you carry everywhere.”
The words hit Taylor with a shock, like a bucket of icy water that had been dumped over her head.
“June twenty-first?” she repeated.
Her wedding day.
Or rather, her former wedding day, before she called it off after finding Daniel in flagrante doggie-stylo with his assistant. With everything going on, the date had completely slipped her mind.
Jason saw the expression on her face. “Do you have other plans that day?”
Taylor shook her head slowly. “No. Um, not anymore.”
Jason smiled, the matter having been settled in his mind. “Great. Then I’ll see you there.”
HE HAD MADE up the whole thing about the party, of course.
Jason had been struggling, trying to think of anything to say to get a second nonwork date/meeting/whatever with Taylor, and he’d just blurted the words out. He hadn’t hosted a party in years (he hated having people in his house), but it had been the first thing that had come to mind that wouldn’t so obviously convey to her exactly what he was trying to do.
“You’re the perfect model, you know,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Seeing her confusion, he explained. “The character I’m playing in the film is this driven, workaholic lawyer who has never lost a case. When I’m playing him . . .” He paused, his voice softening. Somehow they were now standing just inches apart. “I think of you.”
When their eyes met, Jason grinned and added, “With a penis.”
“Is that what this is all about?”
“Penises?”
Taylor laughed. “I meant, you needing a model for your character. Is that why you . . .” She trailed off, as if uncertain how to finish her sentence.
“Is that why I . . . what?”
Jason realized then that despite the fact that Taylor was trapped between him and the railing, she seemed to be making no attempt to move away.
Her eyes searched his. “Why you keep . . . pestering me,” she said softly.
“Is that what I’m doing?” Jason murmured, stepping closer.
Drawn in, Taylor’s eyes lowered seductively as she raised her face to his. “Yes,” she whispered, “you’re definitely very pesty.”
And suddenly, Jason couldn’t help himself.
Despite all his best-laid plans, he was lost . . . his hand reached up to the nape of her neck and he gently pulled her in to him . . . she wasn’t stopping him, in fact her hand slid up his chest and her lips parted invitingly as she pulled him closer and his lips came down to hers and—
“Oh my god, it’s Jason Andrews!”
The scream came from the terrace below.
Jason watched as it happened—the dreamy fog dissolved from Taylor’s eyes, like a method actor who’d been deeply into character when the director suddenly yelled “Cut!” Reality set in.
She immediately stepped away from him as if caught. He looked down and saw that a crowd had formed on the terrace below them. Several women shouted frantically, pointing, crying out his name. Paparazzi appeared out of nowhere. Cameras began to flash as everyone scrambled to get photographs. Suddenly, it was pure bedlam. Jason took a step back from the balcony and reached for Taylor—
But she was gone. Inside.
With a look of disappointment, Jason waved to the crowd, then turned and headed to the terrace doors.
The screams of his fans were upon his back all the way inside.
AS JASON WALKED Taylor up the brick path to her apartment, she was quietly relieved that the evening was coming to an end. She’d been internally berating herself over the Terrace Snafu (as she’d come to think of it) and externally had been doing her best to let Jason know that whatever he thought was about to happen back in Vegas was not, in fact, what had been about to happen.
Of course, she knew full well what had been about to happen.
God only knows what she’d been thinking, but she had, in fact, been about to kiss Jason. Such a move would have been unprofessional and unethical, not to mention overwhelmingly stupid. She blamed the vodka and the heat for getting to her. Never mind the fact that it had been only sixty-five degrees on the terrace and she’d gone instantly sober the minute the crowd had begun screaming.
“Did you have a good time tonight?” It was the fourth time Jason had asked her that since they’d landed.
She nodded. “Yes.”
For once, conversation seemed to elude them. Luckily, they arrived at her front door. Taylor was careful to keep a good distance between her and Jason as they said good-bye.
“So, thank you, again, for the gambling lesson and, you know, everything else,” she said lamely.
Jason, too, seemed to be struggling for something to say.
“So . . . okay, then.” He shifted uneasily.
When another awkward moment passed, Taylor nodded efficiently. “Good-bye, Jason.” She turned and unlocked her door and was just about to step inside her apartment when—
“I’m having a party next Saturday.”
Taylor glanced back over her shoulder. Jason stood there, on her doorstep, wearing the same lost-but-adorable expression he’d had that first evening when she’d left him alone with the paparazzi outside her office building.
“You should come,” he said, shrugging with a boyish grin. “If you don’t have other plans, that is.”
“Next Saturday?” Taylor quickly tried to think of an excuse.
Jason nodded. “June twenty-first. Mark it in that little BlackBerry you carry everywhere.”
The words hit Taylor with a shock, like a bucket of icy water that had been dumped over her head.
“June twenty-first?” she repeated.
Her wedding day.
Or rather, her former wedding day, before she called it off after finding Daniel in flagrante doggie-stylo with his assistant. With everything going on, the date had completely slipped her mind.
Jason saw the expression on her face. “Do you have other plans that day?”
Taylor shook her head slowly. “No. Um, not anymore.”
Jason smiled, the matter having been settled in his mind. “Great. Then I’ll see you there.”
HE HAD MADE up the whole thing about the party, of course.
Jason had been struggling, trying to think of anything to say to get a second nonwork date/meeting/whatever with Taylor, and he’d just blurted the words out. He hadn’t hosted a party in years (he hated having people in his house), but it had been the first thing that had come to mind that wouldn’t so obviously convey to her exactly what he was trying to do.
