The Princess and the Porn Star (5 page)

He probably gives a hell of a foot mass—

I cleared my throat. “So, Buck, do—”

“Lee.” He glanced up through his lashes. “Call me Lee.”

Heat rushed into my face. Of course he had a real name, and for some reason, knowing that added a whole new dimension to how much I liked what he was doing to my ankle.

Jesus, what is wrong with me?

“Oh. Okay. Lee.” I paused. “In that case, call me Rachel.”

He smiled. “Will do.”

Our eyes met again, and the silence teetered on the brink of awkward, so I said, “You have to use this stuff a lot?”

Lee nodded. “Last couple of years, I’ve started having problems with my neck and my hip.”

“Job related?”

He looked up again and smirked. “Well, my job hasn’t
helped
…”

I laughed. “No, I can’t imagine it has.”

He gestured at his neck. “Car accident, actually. Screwed up my neck and my shoulder.”

“And your hip?”

“No.” He chuckled, and my God, Buck Harder the porn star actually blushed. “No, that one’s definitely an on-the-job injury.”

I…had no idea what to say to that.

“I think that’s about enough.” He eased my foot back to the floor and then sat back on his heels. “Give it ten or fifteen minutes, and it should make a difference.”

“Already has, actually.” I carefully flexed and straightened my ankle, testing the irritated joint, and it really did feel better. “Wow. That’s amazing. Thanks.”

He smiled. “Any time.” He picked up the jar to screw the cap back on. “What about you? What happened to your ankle?”

My face warmed again. “I broke it. A few years ago.” I shifted in my seat and quickly said, “So, this isn’t your usual kind of…um…production, is it?”
Way to be articulate and not at all awkward, Rachel.
Oh well. At least the subject was changed.

Lee gave a quiet laugh and shook his head. “Not really, no.” He glanced up. “And I’m guessing I’m not your usual backup dancer?”

It was my turn for a soft laugh. “No.”

We exchanged a glance, then both dropped our gazes. I wasn’t sure what to say. How do you follow a conversation like that, especially when that conversation followed an almost-foot-massage from your porn star co-star?

Buck stood. “Well, I’ll leave you alone.” He gestured at his own tight leather pants. “I need to change clothes myself before I suffocate.”

I laughed again. “So I’m not the only one who can’t move or breathe?”

“God, no.” He tugged at the collar of the painted-on shirt. “I’m not used to putting something like this on and leaving—” He stopped abruptly, his cheeks coloring again.

“And leaving, what?”

“Leaving it on,” he said.

“What does—
ooh
. Right.”

We looked at each other again and laughed.

“Well,” I said. “I guess I should see if I can walk.”

“Need a hand?”

I didn’t know if I did or not, but at this point, I wasn’t going to turn him away, so when he extended his hand, I clasped mine around his forearm. Leather creaked on both of us as he helped me ease myself up out of my chair. I carefully tested my ankle before putting weight on it, and to my surprise, it wasn’t bad. Still very tender, but bearable.

“Wow,” I said. “That feels so much better.”

“Probably doesn’t hurt you’re out of those shoes.”

“Probably not, no. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Our eyes met.

Then we both lowered our gazes at the same time, and I realized we hadn’t let go of each other’s forearms. At the same time, we abruptly released each other, ending the physical connection and ratcheting up the awkwardness.

I coughed into my fist. “Thank you again. For the… the…” I gestured at the jar. “Whatever that is. I really appreciate it.”

“Any time.”

And once again, we were silent.

“Listen, um…” He cleared his throat and struggled to hold my gaze. “I know this is totally out of the blue, but…” He hesitated. “Would you be interested in getting a drink later?”

“I, well…” I bit my lip. “I don’t drink.”

His brow furrowed, and he cautiously asked, “Coffee, then?”

“I have an appointment just before seven.” I paused. “But maybe later this evening? Maybe at Coffee Republic?”

“I can meet you there. Is eight too close to your appointment?”

A little swell of excitement rose in my chest. “No, eight’s perfect.”

He smiled, and it was a shyer smile than I ever thought I’d see on a porn star’s face. “Great. I’ll see you then.”

I returned the smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He started to say something, but at just that moment, Quinn came strolling in through the door and stopped so suddenly he almost fell on his butt.

His lips parted, and his eyes darted back and forth between Lee and me.

I gestured at him. “This is Quinn, my assistant. Quinn, this is…”
Lee? Buck?
I turned to Lee. “I’m not sure how you prefer to be introduced.”

Lee extended his hand to Quinn. “Buck.”

“Hi. I’m…” Quinn, who was usually far more articulate, shook Lee’s hand. “I’m Quinn.”

“Right.” Lee chuckled as he let go of Quinn’s hand. “She mentioned that.”

“Oh. Yeah. She did, didn’t she?” Quinn’s gaze slid toward me, and that
we are going to talk about this, madam
crease appeared on his forehead for a split second before he looked at Lee again. “Nice to meet you, Buck.”

“Likewise.” Lee hooked his thumb in his pocket. “Well, I should get going.” He handed me the little white jar. “Hang on to that in case you need it.”

I hesitated. “Don’t you need it?”

“I have plenty at home. I stay well-stocked just in case the company goes under or something.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Anyway, I’ll see you to—” He stopped abruptly, glancing at Quinn. When he looked back at me, he said, “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His eyebrows rose slightly.

“Eight o’clock,” I said and winked.

“Right. Eight o’clock.”

“Um.” Quinn raised his index finger. “Jim wants you onstage at seven thirty.”

“Seven thirty.” Lee nodded. “Got it.” He and I exchanged knowing grins.

He turned to go, and Quinn stared slack-jawed as Lee disappeared out of the dressing room. Then he did an about-face and looked at me, eyes wide behind his rectangular glasses.

“The fuck?” He pointed at the door behind him. “That was… You…”

“Aww, Quinn.” I clasped my hands over my heart. “You are so adorable when you’re starstruck.”

“Starstruck?” he squeaked. “I think
not
. I’m mildly fucking gobsmacked because I just walked in here and found you flirting with
Buck
.
Harder
.” He folded his arms across his chest, cocked his hips and tilted his head sharply. “And don’t you dare even try to tell me that’s not what I saw.”

I just laughed and shook my head. “Quinn, you’re—”

“You listen here, Little Miss I-Didn’t-Want-to-Work-with-a-Porn-Star.” He wagged a finger at me. “I know what I saw, and what I saw was you making flirty little fluttery eyes at Buck Harder.”

I thought about protesting, but I was in too good a mood. I folded my arms across my leather-covered chest and gave him a defiant look. “And what if I was?”

Quinn’s eyes could not possibly have gotten any bigger. Then he dropped the suspicious front, rubbing his hands together and asking in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did he flirt back? Is he nice? Ooh, tell me, tell me!”

I couldn’t help giggling. “Quinn, you are such a dork.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Details, woman!”

“There isn’t really much to tell,” I said. “You saw most of what happened.”

“Mm-hmm. Go on.”

“Go on? I don’t know what you want to hear. Well, I mean…” I gave a noncommittal shrug and pretended to be interested in something on my fingernail. “We
are
getting coffee tonight, but that—”

“You have a date?” He clapped both hands over his mouth and glanced back at the door. Cheeks reddening, he lowered his hands and whispered, “Seriously?”

“Oh, come on. It’s just coffee.”

“But it’s with—” He jumped like someone had shocked him. Then he put his hand on top of my head. “You’re shorter than me again. That means…” Slowly and more than a little dramatically, he let his gaze drift downward. “The shoes. The shoes are
off
, madam.” He took his hand off my head and pointed sharply at my feet. “There is no way you got those off by yourself while you’re still wearing that torture device you call a dress.”

And there was no way my face wasn’t glowing bright red at that moment.

“Okay, okay.” I sighed. “Look, my ankle hurt. He gave me this stuff.” I held up the jar. “And in this dress, I couldn’t reach my feet if they were on fire, so he helped me with my shoes and…” My eyes darted toward the jar. Then to Quinn. “Okay, I swear, it doesn’t sound nearly as—”

“Buck Harder took off your shoes and rubbed cream all over your feet.”

“Foot.”

“So is he going to do the other one after coffee tonight?”

I smacked his arm and rolled my eyes. “Very funny.”

“What?” He showed his palms. “Seems like a legitimate question.”

“Uh-huh.”

The corner of Quinn’s moth rose a little. “So what’s he like?”

I shrugged. “He’s nice.”

“Nice?” Quinn huffed. “Could you be a little more vague?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, is he nice in the sense that he doesn’t push old ladies down escalators? Or are you already mentally waiting in line at the DMV to change your name to Rachel Harder?”

I burst out laughing. “Okay, as far as I can tell, he doesn’t push old ladies down escalators.”

“
That’s
a relief,” he said with mock seriousness.

“And… I don’t know. He’s just nice. To be honest, I kept forgetting I was talking to a porn star.”

“That’s because he had his pants on, sweetheart.”

“Quinn!”

“I’m just saying.” He put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me around.

“It’s not a date,” I insisted as I pulled my ponytail up to keep it out of his way.

Quinn tugged at the zipper on my dress. “Whatever, love. Let’s just get you out of this thing and off to your appointment.” Under his breath, he added, “And your date.”

“It’s not a date!”

“If you say so, darling.”

“It’s just coffee.” My lungs finally expanded with a proper deep breath. My God, it felt good to breathe without restriction. Looking over my shoulder, I said, “I
do
say so.”

“And I don’t believe you.”

I wasn’t sure if I did either.

Chapter Four

Lee

At a little past eight, I walked into the coffee shop. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places that the college kids and insomniac screenwriters frequented, sucking down coffee while they pounded on laptops and talked about how badly this or that politician was fucking up the universe. The kind of place with a microphone standing in the middle of a stage that was—thank God—currently deserted. Poetry slams were terrible mood killers on first dates.

First dates? Dude. It’s not a fucking—

Oh, Jesus. There she is.

Rachel was dressed down now. Sitting at a table beside the window, hands folded between a pair of sunglasses and a steaming coffee cup, she looked like a regular everyday woman. Her hair was pulled back into a baseball cap, shading her eyes and obscuring her face enough to avoid recognition by anyone who wasn’t looking for her. The faded black
Star Wars
T-shirt was a surprise, one that tripped all my inner geek’s buttons.

Well, sort of. She didn’t stand out as Olivia Taylor the pop princess, and she didn’t have throngs of screaming fans trying to get her autograph, but she didn’t exactly blend in either. The woman had a quiet presence about her. She was one of those people who walked into a room and every head turned, like she had a subtle magnetism that couldn’t
not
draw attention. More and more, I got the impression it was impossible to be unaware of her. Maybe someone wouldn’t recognize her beneath the bill of her cap or dressed in street clothes, but they’d notice her.

Right then, she looked up, and when she saw me, smiled. I returned the smile and made a just-a-minute gesture, to which she responded with a single nod. Then I got into the short line at the counter.

I perused the selection in the case, trying to find something edible among the organic this, conscientiously grown that with free-range frosting or whatever. Danishes were always a safe bet. At least no one usually put bean sprouts or tofu into those. Sometimes I really missed those coffee shops back in Tucson. At least then I could get something unhealthy and flavorful to accompany my high-octane caffeine consumption.