“Still with the sarcasm?”

“I have an audience now—I’m recharged,” she said sweetly, gesturing to Jeremy.

Jeremy feigned shock. “Surely you’re not implying that there are areas in which one can find fault with him?” He pointed. “You do realize that this is Jason Andrews we’re talking about, don’t you?”

“You two do realize that I’m standing right here, don’t you?”

They ignored him.

“Well, in that case,” Taylor said to Jeremy, “then I better not say anything else. Since we’re talking about the Jason Andrews.”

Jeremy thought about this, then held up his hand. “No, wait—I changed my mind. I think I should hear everything.” He threw his arm around Taylor’s shoulders. “Let’s adjourn to my office,” he said, gesturing to a table in back that was covered with empty beer bottles. “I need to hear this story in proper detail, to assess its potential damage. And you should walk very slowly through all the parts where Jason looks like a total ass.”

Left alone, Jason hung back at the bar, watching the two of them go. Nice talking to ya. But after giving his order to the bartender, he turned back and watched Jeremy laughing with Taylor.

He smiled to himself, strangely relieved by his friend’s approval.


ACROSS THE BAR, Taylor and Jeremy watched as Jason was distracted by something the bartender asked him. Jeremy leaned across the table as soon as Jason’s eyes were no longer on them.

“Quick—this is the part where I should get all crafty and try to squeeze information out of you.”

Taylor laughed. She liked this Jeremy guy, despite his apparent choice in friends. “I’ll save you the trouble. I’m just a lawyer from Chicago—I don’t have any information anyone out here would find very interesting.”

“You know Jason Andrews,” Jeremy told her. “That means people will have lots of questions for you, if they get the chance.”

Taylor considered this. “All right,” she said gamely. “Show me your craftiness. I’ll give you one question.”

Jeremy thought for a moment.

“I’m a big believer in first impressions,” he finally said. “Tell me what your first thought was when Jason walked into the courtroom.”

Taylor took a sip of her drink and grinned. This one was easy. “I vowed to hate him forever.”

Jeremy’s brown eyes twinkled at this. “That’s exactly what I said nineteen years ago, five minutes after he first walked into our dorm room.”

Jeremy’s words hung in the air as Jason arrived at the table with his drink. As he took a seat, Taylor studied him, intrigued.

Jason caught her look. “Did I miss something?”

Taylor mentally chewed on the information she had just acquired from Jeremy. She looked him over slyly.

“You’re a bit older than I thought, Jason Andrews.”

Jason glanced quickly at Jeremy, who held up his hands innocently.

“I swear, she forced it out of me.”


LATER THAT EVENING, as Jason walked Taylor to her car, she had what she could only describe as a momentary “realization”—a moment where it struck her who Jason actually was. It had happened when he cautiously looked side to side as he stepped out the tavern door, presumably checking for paparazzi or fans. Oddly, for the entire evening, she had somehow forgotten he was famous.

Frankly, those other moments—when it struck Taylor that Jason was pretty much the most famous film star alive—made her uncomfortable. Because those were the moments that made her feel as though they somehow weren’t equals. She much preferred thinking of Jason merely as some random jerk who annoyed the crap out of her.

But truth be told, there was a second reason she disliked these momentary realizations: they inevitably seemed to be paired with the “realization” that Jason was, in fact, divinely gorgeous. And that was a dangerous line of thought, particularly for someone who hadn’t had sex since the previous financial quarter. Early in the previous financial quarter.

“So we’ll meet Friday evening then?”

Jason’s question broke through Taylor’s reverie. She cleared her throat.

“Yes, fine—Friday evening. I should be out of court by five.”

“I was thinking we could grab dinner somewhere.” Jason saw her suspicious look. “But if you have an aversion to restaurants, we could always meet at my place.” He winked.

“A restaurant will be fine,” she said quickly. They arrived at her car.

“Good—I’ll set it up,” Jason said. “Where haven’t you been yet?”

Taylor laughed at this. “You’d be much better off asking me where I have been.”

“Okay, where have you been?”

“My office cafeteria.”

When Jason fell silent, Taylor looked over and saw his stunned expression. She straightened up defensively.

“I’ve been busy with work, you know. And I don’t exactly know a lot of people—”

Jason cut her off with a wave. It was something else that had shocked him.

“Is this your car?” He pointed in disbelief at the PT Cruiser.

Taylor waved this off. “Oh no—tonight I figured I’d just take whichever vehicle was closest.”

Jason ignored her sarcasm, unable to tear his horrified eyes away.

“It’s just a car, Jason,” she said, annoyed.

At that, he glanced over at her and grinned.

“You definitely are not from Los Angeles, Taylor Donovan.”

The whole drive home, she tried to figure out whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult.

Eleven

THE NEXT TWO days flew by quickly with the trial and before Taylor knew it, she was standing in front of her closet on Friday evening. The night was not off to a good start—court had gone on longer than expected, so she was running late for dinner. And now she had the most pressing concern to deal with: what to wear.

Her suits were stylish enough—for suits. But this was Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills, and her first official dinner out in Los Angeles. She didn’t want to look like some jackass from out of town.

On the other hand, she also didn’t want to look like she thought she was on a date. And most important, she didn’t want Jason to think she looked like she thought she was on a date.

Taylor finally settled on jeans, heels, and a white button-down shirt. But even that had its issues: two buttons open, or three? Two or three? She went back and forth in the bathroom mirror at least ten times.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor pulled in front of the restaurant and handed over the keys to the PT Cruiser. The valet gave her the same appalled look that Jason had two nights ago.

Taylor smiled charmingly at him. “You’re going to leave this baby out front, right?”

As the valet stammered some horrified response, Taylor stepped inside the restaurant, where she was greeted by a hostess with an aloof smile.

“Yes, can I help you, miss?”

“I’m meeting someone here,” Taylor said. She paused, suddenly stuck in one of her “realizations.” The whole thing was just so ridiculous. “I’m . . . um . . . meeting a Mr. Andrews here,” she continued, attempting a casual tone. Then she wondered if he used a fake name when making reservations. She’d once heard that Brad Pitt checked into hotels under the pseudonym “Bryce Pilaf.” Cute.

But from the look on the hostess’s face, no secret password or code name was required. The woman straightened up immediately, and her entire demeanor changed.

“Of course,” the hostess said in an awed voice. “You must be Ms. Donovan. It would be my pleasure to show you to your table.” She led Taylor through the restaurant, to a private staircase in back. Upstairs, there were only a few tables. Jason sat at one of them, waiting.

“Sorry I’m late,” Taylor told him when she got to the table.

“Court ran longer than I had expected.”

“It’s fine,” Jason said with an easy smile. “I’m just glad you could make it.”

Taylor watched as his eyes skimmed over her shirt with an appreciative look.

Dammit. She knew she shouldn’t have gone with the three buttons.


TAYLOR SCRUTINIZED THE script that was open on the table in front of her. Now immersed in the project (albeit very reluctantly) she took the job as seriously as any other.

“Then we just need to take out this line here, where you yell at opposing counsel in court . . .” She gave Jason a look, letting him know this was a big lawyer no-no.

The waiter refilled their wineglasses as she continued her lecture. “Remember—you have triangle conversations in court. You speak to the judge, they speak to the judge, but you never speak to each other.”

She turned back to the script and finished reviewing the scene they were working on. After a moment, she pushed the script away, satisfied. “Yep—I think that scene is finished.”

“Do you think it’s good?” Jason asked.

Taylor considered her answer, sensing he wanted more than a meaningless stamp of approval. “I think some of the legal aspects still need to be refined, but it has a good story that should connect with the audience.”

Jason grinned. “You just sounded so Hollywood.”

Taylor smiled guiltily. “I did, didn’t I? See—one evening with you and I’m already corrupted.” She gestured casually to her half-empty glass. “Or maybe the wine’s affecting me.”

“So you approve of my selection?”

“I doubt there’s anyone who wouldn’t,” Taylor quipped. She was hardly about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d somehow managed to pick the one label she’d been wanting to try since getting her first issue of Wine Spectator.