Meet Cute (Love, Camera, Action #5) - Elise Faber Page 0,2

meet them, to kiss and hold them, even knowing that the reality of that would never actually come true.

Although, in my reality, when he touched me, it wasn’t just in my head.

Chapter Three

Talbot

I half-expected the gun to make a reappearance when I knelt at her feet.

But instead her lips—lush enough to have a man (cough, me) consider all the different ways to sip at that mouth, to taste every millimeter—parted, a breath sliding out.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

I took the heels from her, held the first one out so she could step into it.

“What is this?” she asked again, those lips pressing flat, suspicion drifting into her pretty hazel eyes.

“I’m trying to help.”

Her gaze held mine, and a thread of derision crept in. “Is there a secret camera around? Someone who’s going to jump out and say, ‘Gotcha!’ and laugh at the small-town hick who’s playing Cinderella with the movie star?”

I kept my hands—and the shoes—where they were. “Nope.”

She rolled her eyes. “Nope? That’s it?”

“Yup.” I waved the heel. “You need to put these back on, don’t you?”

Her face scrunched up in a way that was totally adorable, and I felt my heart actually skip a beat. God, she was so fucking cute. Especially when she grumbled, “Maybe, but I don’t really want to.”

I chuckled. “Come on . . .” I paused.

“You just realized you don’t know Cinderella’s real name, didn’t you?”

Of course, I had just realized that. Because I was a dumbass who hadn’t asked. This woman knew me because she knew Maggie, knew I was her boss . . . but that right there was a clue, wasn’t it?

Normally, I’d have my assistant put together a guest list, arrange all the details.

But I’d handled this one myself—including sending all the invites and hand-addressing them, thank me very much. Which meant, I just needed to use my awesome short-term memory—who ever said actors didn’t have some handy real-world skills?—to deduce this woman’s name.

Not from town. One glance had told me that much.

She didn’t have that hungry expression of someone in the industry, and she was far too into simple, real beauty to be from Southern California. Light makeup, unstyled hair, an unassuming dress, heels from a common big box store.

Not that I was judging her.

She looked absolutely beautiful, completely appealing, much more so than any of the women I’d laid eyes on in the last few months. Hell, maybe the last few years.

It was just . . . context as I searched my mental database for names.

Blond. Not from town. Maggie’s friend.

She could only be one person.

“Oh, no,” I said, lightly gripping her ankle and bringing her foot up. She wavered, and her hands went to my shoulders, just as I’d planned—muhaha—and I slid the heel onto a foot with sky blue painted toenails. “I know who you are. You’re Tammy, and you’re from Darlington.”

Maggie’s tiny hometown in Northeastern Utah.

I kept scrounging those memory banks when Tammy’s lips parted, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re a police officer,” I said. “Which explains the gun.” I tapped a finger to my chin. “Though I’m not sure you’re abiding by California’s concealed carry permit restrictions. The gun laws here are pretty strict.”

A roll of those hazel eyes, and I was caught for a moment as they seemed to shift from tawny brown to a streaked emerald.

They really were the most gorgeous pair of eyes I’d ever seen.

“Well, technically, as an enforcement officer, federal law allows me to carry across the country,” she said, mock-condescension in her tone, “so don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

I wanted to worry about her.

That urge came on hot and heavy and intense. This yearning to be something to this woman, to understand the emotions flickering across her face, to mean something to her, even though, by rights, we’d only met a bare five minutes before.

Bare.

Heh.

I recognized the burst of humor for what it was.

Reality pushing fantasy away. Because as much as Tammy might be fascinating and beautiful and a little distant when everyone else around me always seemed to want to get closer, as much as that trifecta was absolutely intoxicating, our worlds were too far apart.

She’d go home and back to her life.

I’d move on with mine.

“Lean on me,” I told her.

Her fingers clenched my shoulders, and I felt an arrow of desire fly straight toward my cock.

If she were a normal woman of my sphere, if she weren’t Mags’ friend, I’d turn on the charm, I’d beg, borrow, and steal to get