Rebound (Boomerang #2)(40)

“Sit, sit!” she says, pulling me into the chair next to her.

The table is small and Julia’s arm stays linked through mine even though I’m tense, definitely not loving it. Julia doesn’t seem to notice.

Brooks and Carla—Julia’s cousin, an olive-skinned girl with a sleek black bob—break off what seems like an intense conversation to greet me.

“Ordered you a bottle of your favorite,” Brooks says, tipping his head to the open Roar Pinot Noir on the table.

“Good man.” Wine is the perfect choice. Maybe it’ll take the edge off. Or maybe it’ll get annoyed that I have to drink it with my left hand.

A waiter sweeps by, pouring me a glass, and I manage to get in the right frame of mind to make casual conversation, even though what I really want to do is throw Julia off and tell Jake Gyllenhaal to head home.

“What are you working on these days, Brooksie?” Julia asks, taking a healthy sip of her drink. She thinks it’s hysterical to give people ridiculous nicknames.

Brooks and Julia know some of the same people, both being in the business, but Brooks’s stock is higher. He’s been working with the top producers and directors in the business for years at Lionsgate, while Julia’s still trying to land a speaking role in a feature.

He casually mentions a few projects he’s wrapping up before he comes over to Blackwood Films full-time. A few heads turn at nearby tables and Julia’s eyes light up, but Brooks is done talking work. He drops his arm on the back of Carla’s chair. “Adam, listen to this. Carla was just telling me she’s been a dog groomer, a singing bartender, a preschool teacher, a PhD candidate in—what was it?”

I’m not surprised he’s changing the subject. Unlike most film guys I know, Brooks doesn’t like getting his ass kissed. You actually have to impress the guy to win him over. And he’s interested in everything, which explains the chemistry I see sparking between him and Carla, who fights off a smile like she’s embarrassed at his attention but also loving it.

“Nineteenth-century German philosophers.” She smiles. “You know. Super sexy stuff.”

“Now she’s a war journalist,” Brooks says. “She just got back from Afghanistan. And, dude. She’s our age. We’re losers, Blackwood. We gotta step up our game.” He leans back in his chair. “Can you believe she’s done all that?”

I take a sip of my wine. “No,” I say. “I Kant.”

Carla and Brooks laugh but Julia lifts her menu. “I’m starving, you guys. I did two hours of Bikram today. It almost killed me.”

Brooks lifts his eyebrows. “Death by yoga.” He turns to Carla. “Bet you didn’t see that in the Graveyard of Empires.”

“I can’t say that I did.”

Our waiter arrives to tell us the specials. I listen, but I’m distracted by Julia, who hasn’t let go of me yet. She’s started to knead my forearm and I’m not sure what the purpose of that is. It feels like she’s prepping to draw blood.

I want to pull away, but Julia has a temper and I don’t want to cause a scene. Maybe I’m here to see Ali, but Julia’s here to see me. We’ve done this sort of thing a few times. A casual night. Dinner. Then back to my place. I understand her expectations.

While the waiter gives us a full detail of the grilled salmon, I glance at Ali’s table and catch her looking at me. Her eyebrows are drawn down a little in confusion, or maybe in irritation. My guess is she’s not happy about seeing me here.

Does she think I’m cramping her style? It’s looking like a love connection between her and ole’ Jake—who now holds one of her hands in his, pretending to carefully examine her bracelet. Like he cares. Like any guy f*cking cares about a bracelet. Besides, it’s her earrings that are meaningful to her.

“Hey,” Brooks says, leaning my way and lowering his voice. “Isn’t that Alison Quick?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It is.” I remove my hand from Julia’s grip and stand. “Excuse me a minute.”

Julia blinks up at me with wide eyes. “What’s up, Scoobalicious?”

“Just saw someone from work. I’m going to go say hello.”

And maybe punch a guy I don’t even know.





Chapter 23



Alison


My “date” Paul glances over my shoulder, and his eyes widen. “Oh, my biscuits and gravy,” he says in his honeyed Mississippi drawl. “Is that Adam Blackwood coming our way?”

I know it must be, so I take a long fortifying sip of my second ginger martini and turn. And there he is, approaching our table with an expression of feigned nonchalance that’s as transparent as air. Well, non-LA air.

“Try to pretend you want to have sex with me,” I whisper to Paul. “Or at least like you don’t want to have sex with him.”

“I’ll give it my best, darlin’,” he whispers back, as his eyes rake across Adam. “But that’s a tall order.”

Adam’s wearing dark jeans and a midnight blue sweater that looks soft and touchable. And does amazing things for his broad shoulders and long, elegant torso.

As he comes closer, the amber light from the nearby space heaters shadows and brightens his face, making him look brooding one second and opaque the next. He smiles, and his whole face softens. I feel the usual prickle of attraction, a fluttering in my belly like I’m about to deliver a speech before a massive audience. Or take off my clothes before a much smaller one.