Maybe the sex would have gotten better. Anything was possible…except what had turned out to be most possible was that Carlos’s interest had lasted about as long as the shelf life of a soufflé.
So, OK, she’d learned her lesson. Don’t be swayed by flattery. By good looks. Get to know the real man.
That was when Jack came along.
Jack Rutledge, every woman’s dream, that face, that body, up there on the big screen. If Carlos had been gorgeous, Jack was spectacular. He played small roles, sure, but he was on the move—mostly to the nearest mirror so he could gaze at himself in admiration, except she hadn’t really noticed that until it was too late.
The earth hadn’t trembled after she’d slept with him, either. Once again, the glassware and crockery were safe.
Not that it mattered.
Turned out that she’d been perfect for quiet evenings—This is the real me, baby, not the Hollywood guy people see—but once Jack landed a part in an upcoming Channing Tatum movie—I’m in four scenes, he’d said excitedly, four entire scenes!—she’d discovered that the real Jack was, after all, that Hollywood guy he’d so disparaged. Sorry, baby, you’re a treasure, but I gotta be seen with names now, like, starlets, you know what I’m sayin’?
Lissa licked a dollop of Chunky Monkey from the spoon.
Her heart hadn’t exactly been broken. It had been dinged, along with her ego, and OK, L.A. was the kind of town that could make you feel really lonely, especially when your brothers, whom you adored, were falling heads over heels in love, which was what had been happening back in the real world.
Then Emily found Marco.
And, at almost the same time, The Black Pearl closed.
She’d been surprised, but not shocked. Restaurants had a half-life of maybe twenty months, plus or minus, even the ones that people raved about. A place was hot one minute, not just cold but dead the next. So, no, she hadn’t been shocked by The Black Pearl’s closing.
She’d been shocked that the owner had given neither her nor the staff any warning.
Lissa took a deep breath.
Right about then, she’d met Raoul.
Jesus. Raoul. Hadn’t she learned anything about names back in the days of Jefferson Beauregard the Third?
But Raoul was different.
He was—surprise, surprise—an actor, but with a difference. Good-looking? Yes. Sexy? Sure. He was also well-educated. And rich. Mega rich. They met at a party, he took her for drinks afterward and they talked. And talked. And talked. He was interested in her opinions. In the places she’d traveled as a kid, places he had also lived.
That night was followed by others. They went to dinner. They went to a movie premiere. He held her hand, kissed her goodnight.
And that was it. No moves. No sex. He respected her. She could tell.
He was giving her time to get to know him.
It was the best six weeks she’d spent since moving to the West Coast.
One night, sitting in her living room having coffee after a quiet meal she’d prepared, Raoul told her that he’d been dreaming of something for a long time.
Lissa’s heartbeat had quickened.
He’d reached for her hand.
“You won’t laugh?”
She’d assured him that she wouldn’t.
He’d drawn a deep breath.
“I want to open a restaurant.”
She remembered blinking. And saying something really brilliant like, “Huh?”