The Things She Says

“Kristian Demetrious. You are?” His face had gone hard and imperious—warrior-like, about to charge into battle, sword drawn and shield high. As if she needed another push to imagine him as her fantasy knight, come to rescue her from Small Town, USA.

Then his full name registered.

She blinked rapidly, but the image in black didn’t waver. Kristian Demetrious was standing in the middle of Pearl’s. No one would believe it. Pictures. Should she take pictures? He looked totally different in person. Gak, he probably thought she was a complete hick for not recognizing him. She had to call Pamela Sue this very minute.

Right after she made sure Lenny and Billy weren’t about to wipe the floor with Kyla Monroe’s fiancé.

“These are two of my brothers. They like to play rough but they’re mostly harmless,” she said to Kris. “I apologize. They don’t get day passes from the mental institution very often.”

With a hard push to each of her brothers’ chests, she said, “Go sit down and drink another cup of coffee on me. Cool off. Mr. Demetrious isn’t here to pick a fight with you.”

And just by saying his name, Kris turned into someone remote and inaccessible. A stone rolled onto her chest. He was Kyla Monroe’s fiancé. Of course he was. Men like him were always with women like Kyla—gorgeous, elegant and famous, with a shelf full of awards. Well, she’d known her Greek knight was out of her league but she hadn’t known he was that far out. Actually, she’d thought maybe he was flirting with her a little—but he couldn’t have been. She’d misinterpreted his innocent comments, twisting them into something out of a romance novel.

Lenny and Billy skulked away, shooting spiteful glances over their shoulders, and hefted themselves onto their stools, where they eyed Kris over their earthenware mugs. Cretins.

“I’m afraid you’ve discovered my secret superpower. I’m a moron magnet.” She met Kris’s eyes. “Thanks. For standing up for me.”

How inadequate. But what could she say to encapsulate the magic of that defense from someone like Kristian Demetrious? Small to him, huge to her.

He shrugged and flipped hair out of his face, looking uncomfortable. “One of my hot buttons. So, it’s Mr. Demetrious now?” He slid onto the bench. All the hard edges melted and he smiled wryly when she opted to remain standing. She couldn’t sit at the same table like they were even remotely in the same stratosphere. “I’m not a fan of formality. I introduced myself as Kris for a reason. Can’t we go back to being friendly?”

His smile was so infectious, so stunning as it spread over his straight, white teeth, she returned it before catching herself. “No, we can’t. My mama raised me to be respectful.”

“I liked it better when you were being disrespectful.” He sighed. “Obviously you know who I am. I’m going to guess it’s because of Kyla and not because you’ve seen my films.”

“Sorry. I read People magazine, of course, but we’re lucky to get a couple of wide releases at the theater in Van Horn. For this corner of the world, the films you direct are entirely too…what’s the word?” She snapped her fingers. “Cosmopolitan.”

“Obscure,” he said at the same time, and something passed across his features. Determination. Passion. “That’s going to change. Soon.”

“I have to clock in.” And put some distance between them before she asked him how and when. What his work was like, his plans. His dreams. She could listen to him talk all night. Sophisticated conversation, the likes of which she’d never had the opportunity to participate in.

She turned to go. His fingers grazed her arm, and tightened with a luscious pressure, holding her in place. What a thrill it would be to have that golden hand—both hands—wandering all over, undressing, caressing—and enough of that, now.

“Change fast. I’m starving,” he said, his eyes went liquid and a brow quirked up. Before realizing he was taken, that was the kind of comment she would have misread, mistaking his smoldering expression as invitation.

“You’re the boss. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

She edged away, terrified if she shifted her eyes, he’d disappear.

So what if he did? He belonged to Kyla Monroe, the blonde goddess of the screen.

Her stomach flipped. They were from different worlds. He was only here by an accident of navigation, not some divine plan to make all her wildest dreams come true.

Kristian Demetrious was another woman’s man who’d landed in the middle of Little Crooked Creek for a heartbeat and then would be gone.

Two

Kris leaned against the hard booth and watched his desert mirage do a dozen mundane things. Punching her time card in the antiquated machine mounted to the wall of the open kitchen. Making a phone call at the honest-to-God pay phone nestled between the upright video game and the bathrooms.

She moved with vibrancy, like the progression of a blooming flower caught in time-release photographs. Suddenly bursting with color and life. Magnificence where a moment before had been nothing special. Where was his camera when he really needed it? Anything that visceral should be captured through the lens for all posterity.

No. Not for anyone else. Only for his private-viewing pleasure. A selfish secret celebrating artistry instead of capitalism. Maybe that was the key to unlocking the yet-to-be-conceptualized theme for Visions of Black, a frustration he’d carried for weeks.

The light in this dive was sallow and dim. All wrong. He’d position her outside, with the late-afternoon sun in her face and mountains rising behind in an uncultivated backdrop. Maybe an interview, so he could capture that mellifluous drawl and the unapologetic raw honesty. With VJ, everything was on the surface, in her eyes and on her tongue, and he was greedy for transparency after drowning in Hollywood games.

He’d left his condo in L.A. before dawn this morning, intending to drive straight through to Dallas, where he’d meet up with Kyla to start the engagement publicity and get rolling on preproduction work for Visions.

But one more Kyla-free night now felt less like a reprieve and more like a requirement.

He just wanted to make films, not deal with financing and publicity and endless Hollywood bureaucracy. Visions of Black was the right vehicle to propel his career to the next level, with the perfect blend of accessible characters, high-stakes drama and a tension-filled plot. Audiences would love Kyla in the starring role, and her charisma on the screen was unparalleled. She was a necessary part of the package, first and foremost because executive producer Jack Abrams insisted, but Kris couldn’t disagree with the dual benefit of box-office draw and high-profile PR.

The need to commit this story to film flared strongly enough that he was willing to deal with his ex and any other obstacles thrown in his path.

Tomorrow.

VJ skirted the tables and rejoined him, smiling expectantly. “Fried chicken?”

“Absolutely.” Nobody in L.A. ate fried chicken and the hearty smell of it had been teasing him since he walked through the door. “And a beer.”

“Excellent choice. Except you’re in the middle of the Bible Belt. Coke instead?” she offered.

“You don’t serve alcohol?” A glance around the diner answered that question. Every glass was filled with deep brown liquid. Five bucks said it was outrageously sweet tea.

“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s dry as a bone here.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrows. “We’re all good Baptists. Except behind closed doors, you know.”

He knew. Where he came from, everyone was Greek Orthodox except behind closed doors. Different label, same hypocrisy. “Coke is fine.”

“I’ll have it right out for you, sir.”

He almost groaned. “You can stop with the sir nonsense. Come right back. Keep me company,” he said.

Keep the locals at bay. A convenient excuse, but a poor one. He liked VJ, and he’d have to leave soon enough. Was it terrible to record as much of her as possible through the camera in his head until then?

“I can’t. I’m working.”

“Doing what?” He waved at the dining room. “This place is practically empty.”

Her probing gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for something, and the pursuit was so affecting, he felt oddly compelled to give it to her, no matter what it was.

“Okay,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”

She glided through the haphazard maze of tables and bent over her order pad, then handed it to the middle-aged woman in the kitchen. Pearl, if he had to guess.

The brutish brothers, clearly adopted, continued to shoot malevolent grimaces over their shoulders, but hadn’t left their stools again.

Only a couple of things were guaranteed to rile Kris’s temper—challenging his artistic vision and picking on someone weaker. Otherwise, he stayed out of it. Drama belonged on the screen, not in real life.

A slender young woman with a wholesome face whirled into the diner and flew to VJ’s side. Amused, he crossed his arms as they whispered furiously to each other while shooting him fascinated glances under their lashes. Benign gawking, especially by someone who intrigued him as much as VJ did, was sort of flattering. After a couple of minutes, the other woman flounced to the bar, her sidelong gaping at him so exaggerated she almost tripped over her sandals.