fine the way we are.”
Vernie knew when she’d said enough. One didn’t survive in the world of high-powered Hollywood employers without understanding the virtue of silence. “I’ll be taking my nap, then. And you’re a real good father. It’s just that Nicky seems— I don’t know—different … in a nice way,” Vernie couldn’t resist adding with a wink.
Johnny smiled. “It’s obvious she’s nice. But I’ve got too much going on right now to deal with any one woman.”
“Maybe once your ex is settled or at least stable.”
He snorted. “You’re a dreamer if you’re waiting for that. But so long as Lisa doesn’t put Jordi in danger again, I’m good. We’re ou t ta here in a day, and after that Lisa can go to hell any way she pleases. Now, go take your nap.”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled. “You must want something.”
“Just think about taking her out.”
“Nicky?”
“Yes.”
“No. And as far as ‘taking someone out,’ I haven’t done that since high school. Furthermore, how stupid would it be for me to start something with Nicky when she’s building Jordi’s tree house. She’s gonna be around for at least a month. Think how awkward that would be. Most of my relationships are measured in hours.”
“You’re going to end up old and alone.”
“No, I won’t. I’ve got Jordi.”
Seventeen
J ohnny found a comfortable chair in the sitting room, put on his headphones, and listened to some new tracks he’d been working on in his studio before he so precipitously left the Bay Area. Taking notes from time to time, he fine-tuned the sound, the rhythm, the lyrics—some of the words were questionable even to his ultraliberated sensibilities.
The sleepers slept on—both in his line of vision. So he took notice when Nicky stirred. Eyes shut, she rolled over on her back and kicked off the cashmere throw Vernie had tossed over her. Mumbling something unintelligible, she threw her arms over her head like children did in sleep, and let out a soft sigh.
That particular pose lifted her breasts high. The plump mounds provocatively on show and the shapely woman stretched out on his sofa suddenly took center stage in his brain. His focus on music faded away, short-circuited by one helluva good view. Jeez, he’d never really noticed her great tits before—the brevity of their acquaintance and recent events no doubt to blame.
Although, now that he had—those were world-class. Not that silicon didn’t offer every woman equal-opportunity tits, but the possibility of checking hers out suddenly crossed his mind.
Not that Vernie would approve. Nicky was normal, she’d said— as in nice normal. As in off-limits for ultracasual sex normal.
He pursed his lips and sof tl y sighed. Vernie was right.
Nicole Lesdaux from Black Duck, Minnesota, was normal as apple pie—an all-American girl.
Not his type —at all.
So why was he looking?
He didn’t have an answer. And before he could rationalize a suitable one, she abruptly stretched, arching her back languidly, like a cat in the sun. As if that wasn’t a full-fledged ripe-for-sex image, a moment later, she began moving her hips in a highly suggestive rhythm—half-smiling all the while, as though enjoying a pleasurable dream.
No way was that frigging apple pie, the drift of her hips erotic as hell, as were those spectacular upthrust breasts, their lush fullness barely covered by the t ight T-shirt stretched over them. Not to mention, the imprint of her nipples was searing his eyeballs. She must be having one helluva good dream with nipples that hard.
Shifting in his chair to accommodate his rising erection, unconsciously reverting to type, he swiftly sized her up from head to foot, his gaze finally coming to rest on target. The tantalizing juncture of her thighs offered a riveting view of her mons in that horizontal pose. Gap chinos never looked so good.
Forcibly wrenching his gaze away a second later, he reminded himself not to
Vernie knew when she’d said enough. One didn’t survive in the world of high-powered Hollywood employers without understanding the virtue of silence. “I’ll be taking my nap, then. And you’re a real good father. It’s just that Nicky seems— I don’t know—different … in a nice way,” Vernie couldn’t resist adding with a wink.
Johnny smiled. “It’s obvious she’s nice. But I’ve got too much going on right now to deal with any one woman.”
“Maybe once your ex is settled or at least stable.”
He snorted. “You’re a dreamer if you’re waiting for that. But so long as Lisa doesn’t put Jordi in danger again, I’m good. We’re ou t ta here in a day, and after that Lisa can go to hell any way she pleases. Now, go take your nap.”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled. “You must want something.”
“Just think about taking her out.”
“Nicky?”
“Yes.”
“No. And as far as ‘taking someone out,’ I haven’t done that since high school. Furthermore, how stupid would it be for me to start something with Nicky when she’s building Jordi’s tree house. She’s gonna be around for at least a month. Think how awkward that would be. Most of my relationships are measured in hours.”
“You’re going to end up old and alone.”
“No, I won’t. I’ve got Jordi.”
Seventeen
J ohnny found a comfortable chair in the sitting room, put on his headphones, and listened to some new tracks he’d been working on in his studio before he so precipitously left the Bay Area. Taking notes from time to time, he fine-tuned the sound, the rhythm, the lyrics—some of the words were questionable even to his ultraliberated sensibilities.
The sleepers slept on—both in his line of vision. So he took notice when Nicky stirred. Eyes shut, she rolled over on her back and kicked off the cashmere throw Vernie had tossed over her. Mumbling something unintelligible, she threw her arms over her head like children did in sleep, and let out a soft sigh.
That particular pose lifted her breasts high. The plump mounds provocatively on show and the shapely woman stretched out on his sofa suddenly took center stage in his brain. His focus on music faded away, short-circuited by one helluva good view. Jeez, he’d never really noticed her great tits before—the brevity of their acquaintance and recent events no doubt to blame.
Although, now that he had—those were world-class. Not that silicon didn’t offer every woman equal-opportunity tits, but the possibility of checking hers out suddenly crossed his mind.
Not that Vernie would approve. Nicky was normal, she’d said— as in nice normal. As in off-limits for ultracasual sex normal.
He pursed his lips and sof tl y sighed. Vernie was right.
Nicole Lesdaux from Black Duck, Minnesota, was normal as apple pie—an all-American girl.
Not his type —at all.
So why was he looking?
He didn’t have an answer. And before he could rationalize a suitable one, she abruptly stretched, arching her back languidly, like a cat in the sun. As if that wasn’t a full-fledged ripe-for-sex image, a moment later, she began moving her hips in a highly suggestive rhythm—half-smiling all the while, as though enjoying a pleasurable dream.
No way was that frigging apple pie, the drift of her hips erotic as hell, as were those spectacular upthrust breasts, their lush fullness barely covered by the t ight T-shirt stretched over them. Not to mention, the imprint of her nipples was searing his eyeballs. She must be having one helluva good dream with nipples that hard.
Shifting in his chair to accommodate his rising erection, unconsciously reverting to type, he swiftly sized her up from head to foot, his gaze finally coming to rest on target. The tantalizing juncture of her thighs offered a riveting view of her mons in that horizontal pose. Gap chinos never looked so good.
Forcibly wrenching his gaze away a second later, he reminded himself not to
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