Funny You Should Ask(5)

“Can you take her for a moment?” he asked.

I was apparently incapable of speech so I just nodded and held out my arms. His fingers brushed mine as the wiggling, furry bundle was passed over. My heart stopped again, and the tingly feelings returned.

Dammit.

At this rate, if he shook my hand, I was likely to pass out at his feet.

After giving me the dog, he turned and headed back into the house. The puppy shifted in my arms, craning her head so she could take a swipe at my chin with her soft, pink puppy tongue. I inhaled deeply, breathing in her puppy breath. Pure. Unfiltered. Good.

It stabilized me.

“Come on in!” Gabe said from inside the house.

I followed his voice, taking in the beautiful rental with its wood-paneled walls and warm, cabin-like feel. The back of the house was open—glass sliding doors pushed to the side—and I could see a big, grassy lawn with a pool and hot tub. The rental itself had maybe two bedrooms, but the property was spacious. It was exactly the kind of Laurel Canyon home where you could easily imagine the Mamas and the Papas or Fleetwood Mac doing drugs, having sex, and making music during the seventies.

I walked into the kitchen and found Gabe on his hands and knees. Without a shirt on.

“Sorry,” he apologized, using his cotton T-shirt to wipe the floor. “I still have no idea where any of the rags are, and we’ve been having a hard time with house-training.”

He looked up at me, and I realized I was holding the puppy in front of me like a shield.

Standing, Gabe looked down at the pee-stained shirt in his hand and winced before tossing it in the trash. Then he came toward me.

“It’s okay,” he said to the dog. “I still love you.”

“Unngh,” I said.

He took her from me, cuddling her against his bare chest. It was smooth and sleek—all those muscles perfectly defined—exactly how it looked on the big screen. Well. Not exactly. He was actually a little thinner than I had expected.

Not that I minded.

He still looked good. Beyond good.

I laced my fingers behind my back to keep from reaching out and touching, but my imagination did not hesitate in envisioning how his skin might feel beneath my palms. Because if I was going to touch—even if it was just a fantasy—I was going to be putting my whole hands on him. Maybe my mouth too.

If I had the time, there was a long list of my body parts interested in touching his body parts.

It was completely inappropriate, but it was just in my head. What harm could there be in that?

“Sorry about that,” Gabe apologized again.

We both stood there for a moment. He made no motion to indicate he was going to put a shirt on, and I wasn’t going to prompt him to do so.

As far as I was concerned, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ogle one of the hottest up-and-coming stars of our time and I was going to ogle my brains out. Silently. Covertly.

I knew I was justifying my unprofessional thoughts, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure I could help it. He was just so handsome and my pulse was racing like I was being chased.

“Wow,” he said, almost under his breath. “Your eyes.”

I blinked.

“They’re very big,” he said.

It was the last thing I expected him to say.

And he said it as if he’d never seen eyes before. As if he might take my face in his hands and try to examine them close up, like an archeologist would with a fossil. I tilted my chin upward, my eyes—my very big eyes—meeting his straight on.

My heart felt a little like a live wire, jerking around in my chest, throwing off electrical currents. Could these currents be mutual? Did he believe the stereotype about female reporters? Did he think I was going to try to sleep with him? Did he want me to try to sleep with him?

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

Anything, I thought.

“Mmhmumph,” I said.

He tilted his head, his hair sliding across his forehead. I wanted to brush it to the side. Wanted to run my fingertips down the side of his face and trace the line of his jaw. Wanted to lick—

“Has anyone ever told you that you kind of look like one of those cat-clock things?” he asked.

When I didn’t answer, Gabe put his hands on either side of his face, opening his own eyes wide.

“You know—tick tock, tick tock?” He looked from side to side.

I knew what he was talking about—it was a decent impression—and felt a weird sort of relief at being compared to a plastic, kitschy clock. It made more sense than Gabe Parker, movie star, complimenting me. Or wanting to sleep with me.

It threw some much-needed cold water on my rampaging libido.

“How do you pronounce your name?” he asked, not waiting for a response.

I’d barely said one fully formed word since I’d arrived, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“My manager said Han-ni, but I wanted to make sure.”

My name was confusing for a lot of people. During my last interview—with a breezy starlet—she’d spent the entire time alternating between “Hannah” and “Tawney.” It made a weird sort of sense as my name was basically a combination of the two, and I hadn’t bothered correcting her.

“That’s fine,” I said.

Gabe frowned at me. “But I’m saying it wrong, aren’t I?”