The Things She Says. Kat Cantrell
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nearly twenty years now, a small-town staple completely in contrast to this man, who doubtlessly frequented chic sushi bars and classy nightclubs.
What had she been thinking when she invited him here?
“Interesting place,” he said.
Dilapidated, dark and smelling of rancid grease maybe, but interesting wasn’t a descriptor of Pearl’s. “Best cooking you’ll find for miles. And the only cooking.”
He laughed and she scoured her memory for something else funny to say so she could hear that deep rumble again. Then she abandoned that idea as he pierced her with those incredible melty-brown eyes. She settled for drinking him in. He was finely sculpted, as if carved from marble and deemed so perfect that his creator had breathed life into his statue and set it free to live amongst mere mortals.
“My name’s Kris.” He held out a hand and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “From Los Angeles.”
Surreptitiously, she wiped the grime and sweat off her palm and clasped his smooth hand. Energy leaped between them, shocking her with a funny little zap.
“Sorry, static electricity. It’s dry this time of year.” She folded her hand into her lap, cradling it with the other. Was it too melodramatic to vow never to wash it again? “I’m VJ. From nowhere. And I’ll keep being from nowhere if I don’t get to work. I’m saving every dime to get out of here.”
She jumped up, hating to desert him, but it was almost four o’clock.
“You’re leaving me?” Kris cocked his head and a silky strand of his shoulder-length hair fell into his face. She knotted her fingers behind her back so she couldn’t indulge the urge to sweep it from his cheekbone. Touching the artwork was a no-no, even when it wasn’t behind glass.
“Not a chance,” she said. “I have to put my uniform on, then I’ll take your order.”
He glanced at the other customers, who weren’t ashamed to be caught in open inspection of the foreigner in their midst. “You work here?”
His accent was amazing. The words were English, a language she’d used her entire life, but every syllable sounded exotic and special. It was the difference between Detroit and Italy—both produced cars, but the end result had little in common other than tires and a steering wheel.
And it was way past time to stop rubbernecking. “Uh, yeah. Five days a week.”
Her brothers lumbered off their stools at the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched them hulk over to the booth.
“Who’s the pansy?” Lenny sneered. VJ butted him in the chest with her shoulder until he glanced down.
“Back off,” she demanded. “He’s just passing through and no threat to you. Let him be.”
Lenny flicked her out of the way as if she weighed no more than a feather.
Before she’d fully regained her balance, Kris exploded from the booth and descended by her side, staring down Lenny and Billy without flinching. Okay, so maybe he didn’t actually need defending. Her heart tumbled to her knees as he angled his body, shielding her, unconcerned about the five hundred pounds of Lewis boys glaring at him. Nobody in Little Crooked Creek stood up to even one of her brothers, let alone two. He really was heroic.
“Kristian Demetrious. You are?” His face had gone hard and imperious—warrior-like, about to charge into battle, sword drawn and shield high. As if she needed another push to imagine him as her fantasy knight, come to rescue her from Small Town, USA.
Then his full name registered.
She blinked rapidly, but the image in black didn’t waver. Kristian Demetrious was standing in the middle of Pearl’s. No one would believe it. Pictures. Should she take pictures? He looked totally different in person. Gak, he probably thought she was a complete hick for not recognizing him. She had to call Pamela Sue this very minute.
Right after she made sure Lenny and Billy weren’t about to wipe the floor with Kyla Monroe’s fiancé.
“These are two of my brothers. They like to play rough but they’re mostly harmless,” she said to Kris. “I apologize. They don’t get day passes from the mental institution very often.”
With a hard push to each of her brothers’ chests, she said, “Go sit down and drink another cup of coffee on me. Cool off. Mr. Demetrious isn’t here to pick a fight with you.”
And just by saying his name, Kris turned into someone remote and inaccessible. A stone rolled onto her chest. He was Kyla Monroe’s fiancé. Of course he was. Men like him were always with women like Kyla—gorgeous, elegant and famous, with a shelf full of awards. Well, she’d known her Greek knight was out of her league but she hadn’t known he was that far out. Actually, she’d thought maybe he was flirting with her a little—but he couldn’t have been. She’d misinterpreted his innocent comments, twisting them into something out of a romance novel.
Lenny and Billy skulked away, shooting spiteful glances over their shoulders, and hefted themselves onto their stools, where they eyed Kris over their earthenware mugs. Cretins.
“I’m afraid you’ve discovered my secret superpower. I’m a moron magnet.” She met Kris’s eyes. “Thanks. For standing up for me.”
How inadequate. But what could she say to encapsulate the magic of that defense from someone like Kristian Demetrious? Small to him, huge to her.
He shrugged and flipped hair out of his face, looking uncomfortable. “One of my hot buttons. So, it’s Mr. Demetrious now?” He slid onto the bench. All the hard edges melted and he smiled wryly when she opted to remain standing. She couldn’t sit at the same table like they were even remotely in the same stratosphere. “I’m not a fan of formality. I introduced myself as Kris for a reason. Can’t we go back to being friendly?”
His smile was so infectious, so stunning as it spread over his straight, white teeth, she returned it before catching herself. “No, we can’t. My mama raised me to be respectful.”
“I liked it better when you were being disrespectful.” He sighed. “Obviously you know who I am. I’m going to guess it’s because of Kyla and not because you’ve seen my films.”
“Sorry. I read People magazine, of course, but we’re lucky to get a couple of wide releases at the theater in Van Horn. For this corner of the world, the films you direct are entirely too…what’s the word?” She snapped her fingers. “Cosmopolitan.”
“Obscure,” he said at the same time, and something passed across his features. Determination. Passion. “That’s going to change. Soon.”
“I have to clock in.” And put some distance between them before she asked him how and when. What his work was like, his plans. His dreams. She could listen to him talk all night. Sophisticated conversation, the likes of which she’d never had the opportunity to participate in.
She turned to go. His fingers grazed her arm, and tightened with a luscious pressure, holding her in place. What a thrill it would be to have that golden hand—both hands—wandering all over, undressing, caressing—and enough of that, now.
“Change fast. I’m starving,” he said, his eyes went liquid and a brow quirked up. Before realizing he was taken, that was the kind of comment she would have misread, mistaking his smoldering expression as invitation.
“You’re the boss. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She edged away, terrified if she shifted her eyes, he’d disappear.
So what if he did? He belonged to Kyla Monroe, the blonde goddess of the screen.
Her stomach flipped. They were from different worlds. He was only here by an accident of navigation, not some divine plan to make all her wildest dreams come true.
Kristian Demetrious was another woman’s man who’d landed in the middle of Little