“Beaverdale.” I watched as he drained a tall glass of water. “Did you really take diuretics before today’s shoot?”
“You have to, as a male model. The world may accept a voluptuous girl in her underwear, but it’s a total double standard. We men have to be hard. Rock hard.”
“Speaking of which, did you have a sock stuffed in there? Underneath your goodies?”
He grinned and took the prop glasses out of his blazer pocket and put them on, turning into Clark Kent.
“I know those glasses are fake,” I said.
“But I still like wearing them to read menus.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “But at least it’s a cute kind of crazy.”
He perused the menu, avoiding my question about stuffing his shorts. Oh, that faux-nerdy look was doing a number on me. He made the room feel warm and my clothes feel restrictive with the simple addition of fake glasses.
That single shot of vodka had gone straight to my head, loosening my inhibitions.
I kicked his foot under the table. “Hey, so what else about today was fake? You gonna tell me or do I have to pat you down?”
He flipped over the menu as he said, “This is a trade secret, so keep it under your hat, but we underwear models use a loop with Velcro. It goes under and over and fluffs everything up.”
“Like a c**k ring?”
He flipped the menu page, looking studious. “Yes. Cock and balls.” He looked up at me, catching my breath with his brown eyes, still dazzling in the dim candle light of the steak house. “Don’t be worried about my circulation. I took everything off right after the shoot.”
The waitress returned and we were silent as she set down our drinks—vodka and soda, Keith’s choice. It was also my mother’s favorite drink, and I didn’t mind it sometimes, though I prefer sweeter drinks, usually, like sangria.
I took the smallest sip, my body loosening up just from the smell and the idea of more booze.
Some other ideas floated through my head, including me playing nurse and checking on Keith’s circulation.
Booze always makes me horny.
I felt my cheeks flush, remembering the interesting shapes that had been visible in the pouch front of Keith’s underwear that day. There’d been a lot there for a girl to hang onto.
We placed our food order, and after the waitress was gone, I said, “I wasn’t worried about your circulation, not until now. Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Why don’t you reach under the table and feel for yourself?”
I snorted and sat upright. “I have a boyfriend.”
“How long is the charade set to last?”
“What? You’re weird. I don’t know if I can even talk about Dalton. I signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement. Which is too bad, because I know some pretty interesting things about the guy.”
“Figures,” he said, nodding. “Forget him, then. Tell me about your favorite books. Your top five deserted island picks.”
How did he do that? Switch from being an incorrigible tease to being a gracious dining companion? Was it the fake glasses?
“Only if you tell me yours,” I said.
He began counting them off on his fingers, as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask this question. “First of all, Swiss Family Robinson. Classic story, plus appropriate to the situation, I think.”
I took a sip of my drink—a little bland for my taste, but refreshing—and leaned in with interest as he talked about his favorite books, which were mostly from his childhood.
Our food arrived, and we still weren’t through the list, because I had to keep arguing with him and lobbying for my own favorite books.
We ate and laughed, and I forgot about everything in the world that existed outside of the warm glow of the candle on our table.
“And last, but not least,” he said, “Call of the Wild.”
I gasped. “That book always made me cry. You wouldn’t think a story told from the perspective of a dog would be so heart-rending, would you?”
“I know! It seems so silly. I love dogs, but I wouldn’t expect great art from them.”
I grinned, feeling a pleasant buzz from the drinks, good food, and bookish conversation. “Not every dog has it in him to write an epic tale like that.”
Keith tossed back his drink and crunched the ice cubes, keeping eye contact with me the whole time. “This is a great song.” He nodded toward the small, checkerboard dance floor. “Come on, let’s dance off some of this meal.”
The music did have a hypnotic, trippy quality, but no one else was dancing.
“I don’t think you can handle my moves,” I said, shaking my head.
He was already up, offering his hand.
“Oh, hell.” I got up and followed him onto the dance floor.
Keith was doing an admirable job keeping my mind off my imminent break-up, so the least I could do was provide him with a laugh or two at my goofball attempt to move my body to music.
The song changed as soon as we got to the dance floor (doesn’t it always?) and he caught me in his arms.
“Grab onto me,” he said.
“You sure like to say that.”
“And you sure like to peer at me through those pale eyelashes like a flirt, and make me want to kiss you.”
“Stop being so flirty. We have a professional relationship, and I’m not available to you.”
He pulled me in closer, our bodies swaying together easily.
His lips next to my ear, he murmured, “I have those soft bags of topsoil in the back of my van. We don’t even need to drive anywhere. I could be all yours.” His hands traveled down past the small of my back, over my bu**ocks.
I grabbed his hands and moved them back up again. “Mitchell warned me about you male models, and I should have listened. Now I’m pressed up against all your bumps, and I’m not sure it’s even legal for you to have all these bumps.”
“Bumps,” he said, chuckling.
As we danced some more, he gazed down at me like he couldn’t understand why I was resisting his advances.
And why was I resisting? My affair with Dalton Deangelo had been brief and exciting, but was now as good as over. Did I really care if brown-eyed and charm-oozing Keith had a dozen girlfriends? The attention was nice. The dancing was sexy. He put me at ease, except when his hands traveled down to my ass and I thought about riding him like the twenty-five-cent horsie-ride machine at the grocery store.
Ride A Champion, the horsie-ride machine proclaimed.