“Hey, now,” he said. “I want you to know I did my share of brawling back in my drinking days.”
“Did you like it?”
“Good question.” He checked the address of a building with only a glass door and a gold-embossed number. “Come on.”
In the elevator, she asked again, “So did you like fighting?”
“It was a high at the moment, because, of course, I was drunk. But no, there’s nothing satisfying about breaking another human’s flesh with your fist. That’s one of the reasons I quit drinking.”
“You were doing okay with that zin the other night.”
He stood back, sizing her up, his secretive smile like that of a man remembering a fine meal. “It was a good night, and that had nothing to do with the zin.”
She tried to look away, but there was only the reflection of her in the elevator’s glossy interior. She couldn’t deal with that much reality right now, so she gave him the little-girl Tania Maria smile and said, “I had a good time, too.”
“And I would have kicked that guy’s ass. I mean it.” The elevator stopped. They walked out onto the polished tile. Tania Marie’s shoes dug into the tile like brakes, screeching her to a halt.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“What’s the problem?”
“I can’t do this.”
“Youaredoing it.”
“I’m not sure, Rossi. I’ve been screwed over too many times.”
“And if you don’t do it, right now, today, you’ll never believe you can.”
His eyes were so fierce that she couldn’t turn away. She needed to grab some of that ferocity for herself if she were going to survive this session.
“So who appointed you lame-ass cheerleader of the month?”
His eyes didn’t change, but a weak little smile replaced the street-fighter scowl. “I appointed my lame-ass self. Now, let’s find this photographer before he changes his lame-ass mind.”
Gabriella
“Don’t get mad, okay?”
There was only one reason that would cause Christopher to initiate an exchange in such a fashion. Now she knew why he’d driven to the television studio in silence.
“If this is what I think it is, please don’t tell me until after I meet with John Crosby.”
Christopher gave her a sad smile. His shaved head glinted in the sun, and in his white linen shirt, wrinkled as only good linen can, he looked as if he were already the writer he aspired to be. He’d do it, too, working days at the clothing store and nights on his novel. The universe couldn’t ignore his kind of dedication.
Neither could she.
She touched his cheek. “Tell me I look okay, dear, and we’ll talk as soon as I get out of this meeting.”
“Princess Gabby looks wonderful.”
He ought to know. He’d helped her pick out the white denim skirt with its asymmetrical raw hem, that not only slenderized but created an off-center V-shape when she walked, revealing her legs. He’d also found the wedges—large X’s of cognac-colored leather, so soft she could dance in them if she had to.
The crochet halter, with its built-in bra, was her find, however. Its vivid cantaloupe hue made the rest of the ensemble stand out in a way that was well planned without looking that way.
She didn’t have to lean up to hug him. The shoes were higher than they felt. “Now then, give me a kiss for luck.”
“Just don’t get mad, okay?”
