All Over You. Sarah MayberryЧитать онлайн книгу.
wonder if you do,” Sadie mused. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
“I honestly can’t remember. But do I look like a woman who’s pining for a man?” Grace asked, gesturing toward herself.
Sadie’s gaze traveled over Grace, obviously assessing her dead-straight burgundy-colored hairstyle, her severely straight bangs, her lush, full mouth outlined in deep-red lipstick, her ever-present chunky black-framed glasses and the smooth creaminess of her skin—her one acknowledged vanity.
“No. As always, you look fabulous. Except for the glasses.”
“There we go, then. And I love these glasses,” Grace said.
“Those glasses are ugly. And I’m not pining for a man, but I miss the sex. Don’t you miss sex? I miss sex a lot,” Claudia said. “I so need to call Harry or Simon and set up a date.”
Claudia had been so busy working her butt off as the newly installed producer on Ocean Boulevard that she hadn’t had a man in her life for months and months—but Harry and Simon were ex-boyfriends who were happy to provide essential services on demand.
“I have sex.” Grace shrugged.
“I meant with a man,” Claudia said dryly.
“Now why would I ruin something so good by inviting a man along?” Grace asked.
Sadie looked so outraged that Grace ruined the whole Bette Davis thing by laughing. Sadie threw a napkin at her.
“So, what date is the wedding?” Claudia asked, masterfully changing subjects.
Sadie sat up a little straighter. “How did you know we’d set a date?”
Grace snorted with laughter. “Hello! We thought we were going to have to pry you guys apart with a crowbar out there.”
Sadie blushed, then shrugged a shoulder. “End of August. Is two months enough time to get our shit together?” Sadie asked worriedly.
“Hell yeah,” Grace said.
“The dress won’t be a big deal, since I’m going off-the-rack this time. And it’s all going to be very low-key… But I still want you guys to be my bridesmaids. What do you say— are you up for a second shot?” Sadie asked, referring to her first, failed wedding to her former fiancé, Greg.
“Try and keep us away,” Grace said.
“The bridesmaids’ dresses are my shout this time around,” Sadie said. “I don’t want anything to be the same again, but you guys shouldn’t have to pay twice.”
“Forget it,” Grace said firmly. “There’s no way we’re letting you pay for our dresses.”
“Yeah. How are we supposed to argue with you when you’re paying?” Claudia asked.
“And, this time, I get a vote,” Grace said. “Something with straps would be nice for the fuller-figured members of the wedding party.”
“You looked hot in that strapless red sheath and you know it,” Sadie scoffed.
The rest of their lunch slipped quickly away as they hammered out the broad strokes of Sadie and Dylan’s wedding, argued over dress styles and laughingly suggested flowery wedding vows to personalize the ceremony. After two hours, they’d moved from cocktails to coffee and had filled the backs of innumerable napkins.
“Why do writers never have paper on them?” Grace asked as she gathered the napkins together.
“Or pens,” Claudia added, counting out her share of the bill. “What’s with that?”
Sadie shrugged. “Don’t want to take our work home with us?”
As if that particular strategy ever worked.
Later that evening, Grace sat down to a gourmet-meal-for-one at her small drop-leaf dining table. She’d bought a crisp sauvignon blanc to accompany her salmon with baby vegetables and garlic mash, and she slathered her bread roll with proper butter, damning her curvy hips and thighs to hell.
Consigning the washing up to tomorrow—one of the joys of living alone—she slipped into a satin gown she wore to bed and flopped onto the couch. When a quick flick through the offerings on TV drew no interest, she resorted to her movie collection. She was about to dust off an old Indiana Jones DVD when her eye fell on the DVD she’d brought home from work. She hesitated a moment, then gave in to temptation. Sliding the disc into her player, she made a fortress of cushions for herself on the couch and settled in for the evening. The Ocean Boulevard theme song came on and the credits flickered across the screen. Her heartbeat picked up and her body tensed a little in anticipation…. And then Mac Harrison’s tall body filled the screen and every nerve ending in her body went on hyper-alert.
It was part of her job to keep up-to-date with how the scripts she edited translated on-screen—but she’d be kidding herself if she pretended watching the show was anything other than a chance to spend some time with the only man she’d allowed into her life in the past four years.
He was so hot. Six-foot-three-inches of sexy, hard male. Gorgeous. Dynamic. Charismatic. And all hers for the next few hours.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to define exactly what it was about Mac that had captured her imagination and led her to cast him as the star of her most intimate fantasies. It wasn’t as though she’d been looking for a man to play the role. She’d always spread her favors, so to speak, across a broad spectrum of hunks—George Clooney, Jude Law and Johnny Depp. And even if she had been looking for inspiration closer to home, there were plenty of attractive men on the show—eye candy galore, in fact—who could have fit the bill equally well. But none of them had the power to turn her insides to mush the way Mac did.
Of its own accord, her finger pressed the pause button, the better to complete her appraisal.
He was wearing only a pair of worn jeans, exposing most of the good stuff to her roving eye. She scanned his broad shoulders appreciatively—well-muscled but not too Arnold Schwarzenegger chunky, they were just about perfect. Then her eyes dropped to his trim, toned waist. Also pretty damned fine. And his butt—the perkiest, most grabbable, most I-want-to- take-a-bite butt she’d ever seen. As if all of the above wasn’t enough, her gaze slid to his long, strong legs. Firm thigh muscles hinted at speed and strength and stamina and a whole lot of other S words that were making her feel decidedly… warm as she lay stretched on the couch.
God, he was hot. With a capital H.
Biting her lip, Grace pressed the play button and watched as he swung back into action. He had an amazing walk—almost a swagger, really. Like a modern-day cowboy. It screamed masculinity and confidence, and combined with his sans-shirt condition, was almost enough to make her hyperventilate.
“Oh, yeah,” she groaned as he turned toward camera, revealing superbly toned abdominal muscles and a chest covered with exactly the right amount of darkened caramel curls.
The camera zoomed in tight for a close-up and she was treated to the full force of his cerulean-blue gaze as he stared down the barrel. He had a strong brow, cheekbones and jaw line, with a straight, very masculine nose. His lips were chiseled and generous, and his dirty-blond hair flopped over his forehead enticingly. The preferred media comparison was to Paul Newman as a young man. Personally, Grace thought his face was all his own.
“I trusted you,” his character, Kirk, said on-screen, his voice a low, gravely husk. “I believed every word you said.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” his on-screen wife, Loni, said.
“Haven’t we always been honest with each other?” he asked.
“Too honest sometimes,” Loni admitted.
A long silence as they eyed each other. Mac lifted a hand, running it through his already tousled hair. Grace squeezed her knees together as she watched his muscles ripple.
On-screen,