Extreme Bachelor (20 page)

She dialed the number, but it went to voice
mail, for which she was really not prepared, and she started waving
her hand, trying to think what to say while Michael’s sexy deep
voice instructed her to leave a message and he’d call back as soon
as he could.

When the beep sounded, she
still wasn’t ready, and said, “Ah, hey,” like a dork. “I ah . . .
I—this is Leah, by the way. I ah . . . I got your gift.” Okay,
well
that
was
obvious. She waved her hand harder. “That was really nice.”
Nice
. That’s what she
said when Grandma sent her panties for her birthday. “And I, ah . .
. I remember, too,” she said, and squeezed her eyes shut. “So . . .
thanks,” she added, and quickly clicked off.

She opened her eyes,
looked at the phone in her hand. “Great, Leah. You’ve just made an
ass of yourself.
I remember,
too
,” she mimicked herself.
“
So thanks
,” she
added with a huge swoon, and with a groan to the rafters, she put
the phone down and took her real perfume to her bedroom to try
on.

MICHAEL didn’t get Leah’s message until he
returned from Malibu, where he’d spent the day with Jack and
Lindsey, the production assistant, and one of her closest friends,
Ariel, on a yacht Jack had scrounged up somewhere. Michael had only
done it as a favor to Jack—he’d called up, sounding desperate.
“Hey, I need a favor, and I can’t find Coop,” he’d said, dispensing
with any greeting. “I’ve got a yacht lined up, but Lindsey won’t go
unless her friend goes, too.”

“Okay,” Michael had said, in the middle of
some budget work. “Take the friend.”

“Don’t be a jerk, Mikey. I need a hand here.
Come on, come with.”

“What is it with women?” Michael had
sighed.

“Who the hell knows?” Jack responded with
exasperation. “Just come on. You love this sort of thing.”

Normally, Michael did love that sort of
thing. But for the first time in many years, his heart was not into
being surrounded by beautiful women on a glorious, sun-drenched
day.

But he went. And it was torture—all he could
think of was Leah. He cursed himself for not thinking to take his
cell along to Malibu—although it would have been awkward to receive
her call on a yacht while some other young woman was smiling with
big moon eyes at him—at least he would have had an opportunity to
talk to her, maybe coax her into a date. He took some solace in the
fact that she seemed receptive to the perfume, which gave him
another idea.

The next morning, Michael was up early,
driving to Laguna, where he hoped a little shop he knew of was
still in existence. By one o’clock, he was in his T-bird, headed
back to L.A. and Leah’s house.

When he pulled up in front of Leah’s house,
there were two cars in front of the house, both junkers, but Leah’s
car definitely taking top prize. He got out of his car, took a deep
breath as he smoothed the crease of his khakis, and walked up to
her door.

Michael presumed that the guy who answered
his knock was Brad. Brad was wearing pajama bottoms but no shirt.
His hair was sticking out in several different directions, as if
he’d just gotten up, and he scratched his bare chest as he took
Michael in. “Yo,” he drawled, and Michael had the impression that
he was as high as a kite.

“Hey,” Michael responded, suddenly
questioning his wisdom for having come here. “Is, ah . . . is Leah
here?”

“Leah?” the guy echoed, as if he had to
think of who Leah was, then shrugged. “Let me check.” He
disappeared from the door, leaving it wide open, but not inviting
Michael in. That was just as well—from where he stood, Michael
could see into the living room. The most remarkable feature was an
enormous, big-screen TV in one corner.

As he stood there waiting for Brad to come
back, a small, dark-haired woman poked her head out from the
kitchen. She was wearing a tiny T-shirt and very short shorts. She,
too, looked like she had just rolled out of bed. “Hey,” she said,
lifting a spatula. “We’re making pancakes. You want some?”

Was she kidding? “Ah, no . . . thanks,” he
said.

Brad reappeared, still scratching. “She
booked, dude,” he informed Michael.

“Oh. Okay.” He glanced behind him, to her
car. So did Brad. “Hey, sweet wheels,” he said.

“Any idea where she might be?” Michael tried
again.

“Nope.”

The woman appeared from the kitchen again,
this time holding a plate of pancakes. “I think she went for a
run.”

“A run?” Brad asked, then laughed. “Since
when does Leah run?”

Since New
York
, Michael wanted to tell him. Even
when he would tease her, telling her she looked like she was
bouncing on a pogo stick when she ran, she would get up at dawn,
walk the two blocks up to Central Park, and run.

Brad shrugged and looked at Michael. “So you
want me to tell her something?”

Michael had no hope that this guy would
remember he’d even been here, much less any message he might give
Leah. “Ah, no . . . no thanks,” he said. “I’ll catch up with her
later.”

“Sure.”

“Come on, Brad! I made like four dozen of
these things!” the woman shouted from the living area.

Brad smiled sheepishly. “Gotta run.”

“Right,” Michael said and stepped off the
porch. “Thanks.”

“No prob,” Brad said, and shut the door.

Michael sighed, turned on his heel, and
walked back to his car.

He pulled out onto the street, drove down to
the intersection, and took the first parking spot he could find.
This was undoubtedly a useless exercise—Leah had probably gone
another route, or if she hadn’t, maybe she’d already been by here.
But it was a gorgeous day, and as long as he was in the area, he
figured he had nothing to lose by waiting a little while.

As luck would have it, about a half hour
later, he spotted her down the street. She was at a crosswalk, her
hands on her hips, waiting for a light to change. Her hair was
pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing tight running pants
with a jacket tied around her hips, and a form-fitting sports
bra.

When the light turned green, she strode
purposefully into the crosswalk, her arms and her ponytail
swinging. As she neared him, Michael got out of his car, walked to
the front, and perched himself on the bumper. Leah kept walking,
was about to stride past him when she saw him, and caught herself
just before she walked into a light pole.

“Hey!” she said, and
smiled. She
smiled
. A beautiful, almost-happy-to-see-him sort of smile. “What
are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“You’re kidding. How did you know where to
find me?”

“Your roommate made a good guess. Come on,
I’ll give you a ride home.”

Leah laughed. “But I live like a block
away.”

“I was going to take the long way around. By
Santa Monica, and Malibu, on up to Oregon, and back. Maybe.”

She grinned, cocked her weight to one hip,
folded her arms across her middle, and eyed him curiously. “You
must have met Brad. Everyone wants to run to Oregon when they meet
him.”

“I got a pretty good look at him, yeah.”

“Sort of goofy, isn’t he?” Leah asked with a
wrinkled nose. “But then again, I guess most actors are.”

“I guessed doper,” Michael said.

She laughed again. “He’s a Sunday doper—it’s
his weekend ritual. And the woman he is seeing these days—Alice—she
loves to cook. It’s a perfect arrangement for the two of them.”

“Aha. That would explain the four dozen
pancakes,” Michael said dryly. “So is it a perfect arrangement for
you?” he asked, wondering how long she had lived with Brad, how
long she could keep on living with him, and how she deserved to be
living in Bel Air or Brentwood instead of a Venice Beach
rattrap.

But Leah shrugged nonchalantly at his
question. “Brad and I wound up in L.A. at the same time, in the
same acting class, and we’ve been friends ever since. But I keep
different hours. I like the daytime.”

Michael smiled, privately appreciating how
pretty she was, how genuine her smile. His casual perusal seemed to
make her self-conscious; she suddenly lifted a hand and smoothed
her hair. “So hey, listen . . . thanks for the perfume,” she said.
“I don’t know why you are going to all that trouble, and I really
should give it back—”

“No, I—”

“But I’m not going to,” she quickly
interjected. “Because it is my favorite perfume, and I ran out two
years ago and couldn’t afford another bottle. I figure if you are
fool enough to buy it, then I am just fool enough to keep it.”

Sweeter words were never spoken. “Good,
because I want you to have it,” he said. “Even if you don’t want to
talk to me, or if you find another way to make me the laughingstock
in front of the cast, or if you tell me you never want to see me
again, I want you to have it.”

“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head
graciously. “That’s really very sweet. And I’m not going to make
you a laughingstock. That was fun for the week, but I’m over
it.”

“Great news,” he said, standing up from the
hood of his car and dropping his hands. “I think we’re making
progress here. What about seeing me again? Have you decided
that?”

She half-laughed, half-groaned, and clasped
her hands behind her neck for a moment before peeking up at him.
“I’m not going to see you again.”

“Damn,” he said. “Isn’t there anything I can
do to convince you that it would be the best decision of your
life?”

She dropped her hands, smiled up at him.
“You could try feeding me.”

His heart nudged him, and he felt the first
real glimmer of hope since he saw her on the gym floor, eyes
closed, brought down by a dodgeball.

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but okay,
what would Soccer Mom Number Five like to eat?”

With a grin, she put her hands to her hips
and rose up on her toes. “Hamburgers,” she said, and her blue eyes
lit up with pleasure before sliding down to her heels again.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve gone all California and will only eat
sushi, because I want a hamburger. A big, juicy hamburger. With
cheese. And fries. And maybe even a milkshake. And I know the best
place in town to get it.”

Michael laughed and gestured toward his car.
“Hamburger it is, then. Your carriage awaits.”

With a pleased-as-punch smile, Leah got
in.

MICHAEL followed Leah’s directions to a
hole-in-the-wall burger joint near Venice Beach. They ordered
cheeseburgers with fries and a couple of beers instead of
milkshakes and sat out on the wooden deck overlooking a parking
lot.

Michael was a wealthy man. Personally, he
was not accustomed to this sort of joint, but it was clear to him
that Leah was. And as he listened to her talk about how she and
Brad had found that wretched little house, he couldn’t help but
wonder what path their lives might have taken—together—had he not
done what he did five years ago. It made him feel a little ill, and
he left half of his burger uneaten.

“So what sort of acting have you done since
you came to L.A.?” he asked when Leah had exhausted the subject of
Brad, thank God.

She snorted, shoved a fry
into her mouth. “Nothing great. A couple of national commercials. A
ton of regional ones,” she said with a weird little flip of her
hand. “A few theater gigs, and now,
War of
the Soccer Moms
.”

So . . . nothing but bit parts and
commercials, and no big breaks. He felt even worse.

“Which reminds me,” she said, lifting her
gaze and pointing a fry at him. “What’s the truth about this film?
I mean, how is it we ended up working together? Don’t tell me it’s
a coincidence, because it’s too freaky. Be real, Raney—how did we
end up here?”

Ugh. He preferred having her believe that it
was one big coincidence, but he wasn’t about to lie to her anymore.
He reached across the table and snagged one of her fries, because
he knew she wouldn’t eat them all. “Well,” he said thoughtfully,
“it’s sort of a long story.”

“I’m all ears,” she said, sitting back,
focusing on him instead of her food.

“Okay . . . Cooper and Jack and I were in
New York a few months ago, and while we were there, I happened to
see a commercial.” He looked up at her. “A laxative
commercial.”

“Oh,” she said, coloring slightly, and gave
him a lopsided smile. “We do what we have to do.”

He smiled thinly. “I saw the commercial, and
it was the first time I’d seen you in almost five years. So I guess
I sort of reacted, and Jack took notice. He asked me what the deal
was, and I said I used to know you. So when they were doing the
casting for War, Jack was sitting in for T.A. He saw your audition
and remembered that night in New York, and added you to the list.
He did it as a little joke on me, I guess—but he had no idea who
you were or what you meant to me.”

“Wait a minute,” Leah
said, suddenly sitting up, planting her elbows on the table, her
eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you saying I got this role as
a
joke
?”

“No, no,” Michael said, instantly waving his
hands and smiling reassuringly. “The casting was a decision by
committee. T.A. had one vote out of five. It’s legit, Leah, I swear
it.”

That seemed to appease her; she leaned back,
folded her arms again, and said, “Go on.”

He laughed. “What else is there? You got the
part, I came back from Costa Rica, and there you were.”

“How many times have you been in New York
since then?” she asked.

“Since . . . a few months ago?”

“No, since five years ago—since March 18
five years ago, to be exact.”