The backs of the kid’s fingers brushed the peach silk of her tank top as he lifted the tiny suitcase. He jumped. She didn’t. Lauren gazed at him thoughtfully as he flourished his little key and tried to fit it into the lock. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him before?
Her lock didn’t open.
Oh, good.
“Nice to have met you,” the guy said cheerfully, obviously not that cut up that he wasn’t going to be spending the rest of the evening with her. He moved on to Rory, who was standing ten feet away. She topped him by a couple of inches, but he, evidently, was a brave man. He reached for her cleavage.
Lauren looked out over the crowded dance floor. The guy was in her reader demographic. She should have interviewed him while she’d had the chance. But she’d already talked to six or seven people and so far hadn’t found one who presented an opposing view. Everybody seemed to think a key party was a good thing. But then, if you hated them you’d probably just put a check in the mail to Maureen’s office, wouldn’t you?
She glanced around the room in an attempt to locate Michaela, who had gone to get more drinks. Those who had found the person with the key to their suitcase were crowding the stage, where Maureen was busy handing out prizes and putting the numbered slips from the lockets into a big rotating basket like the ones the lotteries used.
Lauren moved her stool closer to Rory’s when her sister sat down. “Is there a reason that kid looked familiar?”
Rory always knew stuff like this. A woman who had subscriptions to People and Variety and who hosted movie-and-dinner parties where people actually came in costume had to know.
“Alien Bodyguard.”
Lauren snapped her fingers. “That’s it.” He’d played the hapless younger brother killed off on the first episode of Alien Bodyguard, one of the midseason TV shows Lorelei had ripped to shreds. That had started a lovely big controversy about turning science fiction novels into TV shows that had made her blog traffic peak at ten thousand hits a day. She’d better go interview him before his key fit someone’s lock. A celebrity quote wasn’t something you lucked onto every day.
“No sign of Johnny Depp?” Michaela swiveled around a good-looking jerk who was making graphic hand motions and put their drinks on the table, including a soft drink for herself.
Good girl, Mikki. Every time her sister resisted temptation meant a victory in a long chain of victories that took her further away from the alcoholic darkness of four years ago, which had peaked after her breakup with her husband.
They chatted for a few minutes and then Lauren said, “Why do they pair the women up with men, anyway? My perfect date is a little old lady with an early bedtime.” She scanned the room for a leather jacket. “Then I could go home and start on this story.”
Michaela bumped her shoulder as she sat. “Don’t be so focused, honey. Have some fun with this. Your partner could be tall, rich and gorgeous.”
“I hope he’s tall, rich and gay, and I can give his key to Vivien. Don’t forget, I’m in the market for a motorcycle, not a man.”
“What about the fun part? You’re like a laser beam, tracking your target.” Mikki looked half-amused, half-exasperated. “Come on. Let’s get out there and dance.”
But before Lauren could reply, Rory nudged Michaela and her sister froze at the sight of a man approaching them.
“Oh, my God,” Lauren murmured. As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Mikki’s ex, Nolan Baylor, approached them with those bedroom eyes and that same confident grin, both trained on her sister. But how could this be? Wasn’t his law practice in Los Angeles? What was he doing here, looking all buff and casual in his charcoal polo shirt? And what business did he have spoiling Mikki’s night by showing up?
But as anyone in her family could tell you, Mikki Correlli could take care of herself. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.
In answer, Nolan grinned and flourished a small, white-gold key.
2
LAUREN COULDN’T DECIDE whether to leap up and claw his eyes out, or let Michaela do it. Something seemed to combust in the air between her sister and former brother-in-law as he practically taunted her with the key. Her eyes flashing with anger and contempt, Michaela made a big show of ignoring him and introducing his friend, Tucker Schulz. Tuck’s eyes signaled interest, but that was the last thing Lauren could deal with amid all this sudden tension. Her options seemed to be sticking by Mikki’s side for support and fading into the wallpaper. Neither was very appealing.
Thank God there were no serious men in her past to reappear and mess up her life. She’d had enough trouble keeping it on an even keel on her own. After she’d come to live at Garrison Street, it had taken years for her to figure out that there were people in this world who would actually love you and stick around when you said you loved them. Her childhood had taught her the opposite, after Dad had taken off when she was ten. When she was fourteen, Mom had looked at the choice between her habit and her daughter—heroin or the kid? Hmm, that’s a hard one. Let’s pick heroin. And the choice had killed her.
That was why love—the kind of love that meant picket fences and permanence and kids—was one helluva scary proposition, one that both attracted and repelled Lauren.
Not that she was against picket fences in principle. She was looking thirty-one in the face, after all. But she seemed to have a knack for picking guys who already had something in their lives she had to compete with. Like Carl, who loved programming games for Lucas Arts more than doing things with her. Or Luis, who had wanted kids and picket fences as long as his mom and most of his extended family could come and share them, too.
Then she’d gone out on a limb and tried online dating with one of those nifty interfaces where you filled out your wish list of the perfect man’s qualifications. What had she wound up with?
An interesting archaeologist—oh, yeah, and her son.
Feeling like a coward, Lauren excused herself as gracefully as she could and got back to work. Circling the room, she ran a hand over the mass of curls Rory’s clever fingers had coaxed into her taffy-colored mop, and got her mind back on a safer track.
She needed to decide on a theme for her article. What did it say about society when you could surf for a partner in the same way she surfed TV channels, searching for something that looked good enough to spend some time on?
Hmm. That would make a good lead. Then she could follow it with—
“Excuse me,” said a baritone voice behind her. She turned and looked straight into a crisp shirtfront. Her gaze traveled up a row of buttons, one by one. Here was the stuff dreams were made on, or it would be if her subconscious ever thought to cast men like this.
His hair, which was on the long side, flopped into his left eye in a way that should have made him look messy but instead made him look intriguing and mysterious. He grinned, and she dropped ten years from her first estimate. He had the kind of grin that made a woman do a double take—all little-boy mischief on the one hand and pure male appreciation on the other. What was it about dimples in a male cheek that could make a woman’s knees go all soft and wobbly? And check out the way the overhead light made hollows under his cheekbones. His eyes were dark as sin, with long lashes that managed to look sexy instead of feminine.
“May I?” He held up his key.
A miracle. No tired one-liner. The man was not only yummy, he was so classy he’d achieved originality.
“Sure.” She should be so lucky.
No, luck was a lady