Just the Sexiest Man Alive(54)

“Come with me to the Pacific Design Center.” Shit—he hadn’t meant for that to come out sounding like a command.

Taylor looked at him strangely. “Why?”

Jason stared awkwardly at the ground. He definitely should’ve done a run-through of this in the Aston Martin on the way over.

“Because I need help picking out a new couch,” he said, peering up at her uncertainly. “Isn’t that what friends do?”

He watched, trying to gauge Taylor’s reaction. Seemingly unsure at first, she studied him as if debating, looking him over with those bold green eyes of hers.

Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”

Jason’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Okay.” He exhaled, glad that was over. “Should we go?”

Taylor went back inside her apartment and grabbed her keys. As she followed Jason out to his car, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey—can I drive the Aston Martin?”

“No.”

“But isn’t that what friends do?”

“No.”

Jason opened the passenger door for her and walked around to the driver’s side. As he got in the car, Taylor glanced over.

“My, my, you’re awfully grumpy today . . . Is something wrong?”

Jason looked at her, sitting by his side. Actually, it was the best he had felt in the last two days.

True, it was not exactly the way he had envisioned things going with Taylor. But at least it was something.

So he grinned as he fired up the Aston Martin.

“Buckle up, sweetheart,” he told her. “This ain’t no PT Cruiser.”

And with that, he gunned the car to life and they drove off into the sunset.

Twenty

TAYLOR WATCHED AS Scott expertly chopped up some asparagus and tossed it into the sauté pan simmering on the stove. He added a dash of olive oil.

“You know, when you invited me to dinner, I didn’t know you were planning to cook it,” she said. She sat across from Scott on the other side of the chef’s counter, sipping the martini he had poured when she first arrived.

“Your rules about not being seen in public don’t leave room for much else,” he grinned teasingly. Taylor noticed that a stray lock of blond hair had fallen across his forehead, nearly into his eyes, as he worked. There was something inherently sexy about a man who knew his way around a kitchen.

“Thanks for being understanding about that,” she told him. “I’m trying to keep a low profile for my trial.”

Scott shrugged this off. “No problem. This isn’t yet the best moment for me to be spotted with the famous Mystery Woman anyway.”

Taylor straightened a little in her chair. That was kind of an odd thing to say. “What do you mean?”

Scott glanced up from his cooking and saw the expression on her face. He smiled reassuringly. “Oh, I just meant you’d probably be hounded even more if the press saw us together.”

Taylor’s nodded, softening. “Oh. Of course.”

Stop being so suspicious, she told herself. Trying to relax, she glanced around what she could see of his house. The kitchen, foyer, and living room suggested that Scott (or his decorator) had ultramodern taste. With stark white walls, metal staircases, slate countertops, and stainless steel cabinets, Taylor found the decor a little . . . cold. In her opinion, the best feature of the house was the deck outside that opened to a spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles.

Deciding to take a closer look, she grabbed her martini and headed over to the sliding glass doors.

“Do you mind?” She gestured outside.

Scott shook his head. “Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

Taylor stepped out onto the deck and felt the cool breeze cutting across the Hollywood Hills. She leaned against the railing and gazed out at the twinkling lights of the city.

For what had to be the hundredth time that week, she wondered what the hell she was doing.

She had debated over and over whether she should cancel her date with Scott. She had a whole list of reasons ready: she was too busy with her trial, she barely knew him, she didn’t want to get involved in a relationship in Los Angeles, et cetera. But none of those reasons had sounded particularly convincing, even to her.

Scott Casey had asked her out on a date.

Scott Casey.

Taylor knew that millions of women would die to be in her position that night. And that had been the clincher: she had realized that if she couldn’t say yes to a date with Scott Casey, then she seriously needed to examine what was stopping her. Or rather, who was stopping her.

And that was something she did not want to think about.

Scott popped his head out onto the deck. “Dinner should be ready in about five minutes. Do you want another drink?”

Taylor glanced down at her empty martini glass. “Sure, that’d be great.”

Determined to have the best night of her life—because that’s what a date with Scott Casey should be—Taylor followed him inside.

“SO WHERE DID you learn how to cook?”

Scott (or his assistant) had elaborately set the dining-room table with dozens of flickering candles. Music—what sounded suspiciously like the Garden State sound track—played throughout the house through unseen speakers.

Scott smiled in response to Taylor’s question about him. “You don’t know this?” He appeared surprised when she shook her head, no.