The Perfect Score

That seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded and said, “It’s pretty interesting. Hard work, but interesting.”

In truth, I’d just told a big fat lie, but that was okay. Because this was one of those occasions when it’s okay to save someone’s feelings. Like a guy to whom you would otherwise have to say, I said ‘ooooh,’ because you’d just confirmed what I already thought I knew—that you really are the new nerd in residence. Not boy toy material at all. Which is too bad, because you really are a hottie, and I’m having a hard time not reaching out to stroke your chest.

Okay, yes, that was a little much. And I quelled those thoughts and simply said, “Sounds like you really like it.”

“Love it,” he said. “Right now I’m heading up a team that’s writing the code and the script for a new cutting-edge game. Multiple players, AI interface. It’s going to be state of the art.”

“Fab,” I said, but my enthusiasm was false. Computer games are so not my thing. I played Super Mario Brothers once years ago, lost badly, and was scarred for life. Haven’t hooked up an Xbox, Nintendo or logged on to a game site since. Clearly, Mike and I had very little in common.

Too bad a surprising little voice whispered before I managed to shove it to the back of my brain. Mike was simply not a possibility. I had a plan to up my slut score, and I wasn’t going to leap into a repeat of my three years with Dex simply because that plan—not to mention Cullen Slater—made me nervous.

Of course, considering Mike hadn’t made any sort of a move, I suppose I was getting ahead of myself….

“So what do you do?” he asked, following the traditionally accepted getting-to-know-you patter.

“I work in a production company. I’m the VP of Business Affairs.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be.” I resisted rolling my eyes. “I got into this job because what I really want to do is write screenplays, and I thought it was an in into the industry.”

“It’s not?”

“Hardly,” I said sourly. “And the worst of it is that I’m working such long hours that I’m usually too exhausted to write.” The words rolled off my tongue, surprising me. I desperately wanted to break into screenwriting, true, but I didn’t usually go around whining about it to people I’ve only just met. I told myself to tone it down as I waved vaguely around the pool area. “This weekend is an unexpected bonus.”

“That’s rough,” he said. “But it still sounds interesting. Working in television must be fun.”

He sounded genuinely interested. Most people are. Television does that.

I shrugged. “We produce reality shows. You know. The programs that are currently multiplying like locusts on your television lineup.”

“Ah, yes. I think I’ve heard something about those.” His mouth twitched, either amused at my definition or my utter lack of loyalty to my profession. My level of guilt, however, was minimal. Reality shows are a scourge. And at the moment, I was still irritated with John.

“Still, you’re in the business,” Mike said. “Isn’t that what L.A.’s all about?”

Okay, I was beginning to really like this guy. He was repeating back to me exactly what I’d told my mother after I’d turned down the law firm position. Not to mention what I told myself every time I felt a twinge about not having yet sold a screenplay. “Exactly.”

We shared a smile before he cleared his throat and stood up. “Listen, I’ve got a pizza in the fridge that just needs to be heated up. I’d love some company.”

“Oh. Right. Um.” The truth was that I’d love to just hang out with him, but I’d already filled and exceeded my allotment of sluffing off time for the day. My plan had been to simply veg for a bit—to numb my mind with margaritas and sunshine before returning to the equally mind-numbing task of furniture assembly. “I wish I could. But I have a pile of furniture waiting to be assembled.” I held up my margarita for emphasis. “I took a break to get in the mood.”

“I understand that,” he said. “I’ve schlepped more boxes to the recycling bin than I care to count, and it’s a wonder my eyes aren’t crossed from reading the assembly instructions on the IKEA shelves I bought.”

“Exactly,” I said, sensing a kindred spirit. “I mean, who wrote those anyway?”

“Monkeys with typewriters?” He laughed and I laughed, and for a second I thought maybe he’d offer to help me interpret my monkey-written instructions. But instead, he just stood up and gestured to the pitcher. “Thanks for the margarita.”

“Oh. Sure.” I started to gather my things, unreasonably irritated that he was so casually departing. I told myself I was annoyed by the breakdown of basic good manners. I mean, a chivalrous guy would have offered to help, right? Even Cullen would have offered. That’s what guys who look good without their shirts do, right? Offer to engage in manual labor so they have an opportunity to show off their pecs?

Mike, however, wasn’t showing off. He was just gathering his things to leave.

“So why are you out here all alone? I usually see you with Carla.”

“She declined my distress call for assembly help,” I said, giving him one more chance at that whole chivalry thing. “It’s okay. I’m well aware of how much she values her manicure.”

“Which apartment is hers?”

“Oh, she’s not in this building. She’s in the complex next door.” Our street was lined with apartment complex after apartment complex. “Her building doesn’t have a pool or a laundry room,” I added, by way of explaining why Carla was almost always here. At least, she was here if Mitch-the-Wonder-Stud wasn’t there.

His eyes met mine and he flashed me a zinger of a smile. “I guess that’s just one more reason why I’m certain I chose the right complex to move into.”

“Um, yeah.” For a guy who’d just failed Chivalry 101, he could be pretty damn charming.

“Later,” he said, with a small wave.

“Right. Later.” I waved goodbye, then watched him head up the staircase while I gathered my things. As I did, I realized he’d taken my extra glass with him. A little burst of emotion shot through me, and it wasn’t irritation.

No, this was anticipation. Because if he had my glass, I’d have to see him again. And that, I thought, wasn’t a bad thing at all.

He might not be chivalrous, but he was nice. And another friend in the building never hurt.

3

AS SOON AS MIKE opened his door, Stephanie greeted him with a wolf whistle. “Cute girl,” she said.

“Not your type,” Mike said with a grin. “She’s a fan of the Y chromosome.”

“Damn. Foiled again.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he slid into one of the kitchen chairs. He and Stephanie had been best friends since elementary school. They’d gone steady for about a week in eighth grade, which had ruined their friendship until the second semester of their sophomore year. That was when Steph had come to him in tears, desperate to talk about the crush she had on the new girl in school. Mike had listened, dried her tears, and their friendship had continued on, stronger than ever. With the added bonus that they could now discuss their relative girlfriends.

“So is she a new special friend?” Steph asked, lacing her voice with a tease as she tried to uncork a bottle of wine.

“Friend, yes. Special, definitely. Special friend…” He trailed off with a shrug, then took the bottle and the corkscrew from her, handily freeing the cork. “I’m working on that one.”

Steph’s eyebrows rose infinitesimally. “Oh, really? Tell me all about it or I withhold the wine.”

“I’ve been drinking margaritas,” he said, holding up his now-empty glass. “I’m passing on the wine anyway.”

She squinted at the glass, the blown Mexican kind with a bluish tint and a dark blue rim. “One of hers?”

“Yup,” he said, mildly proud of himself for walking off with it.

From Steph’s grin, he knew she understood. “Cinderella’s slipper.”

“Exactly. I keep the glass, I have a reason to go back and see her.”

Actually, he already had a reason. She’d been hinting hard enough about the furniture assembly. He could have easily stood up, held out his hand, and said, “Come on. Let’s go take care of that.”