All Over You by Sarah Mayberry Page A

threshold.
    “Before I get in — I owe you an apology,” she said uncomfortably. She was eternally grateful for her sunglasses — at least they afforded her a tiny skerrick of protection from his bright, hawkish gaze.
    “I’m listening,” he said.
    She took a deep breath. “I have been beyond rude all day. I’m sorry. It was entirely my problem — nothing to do with you — and I took my bad mood out on you,” she said, fudging the last part but figuring he really didn’t need to know that the reason she’d been such a harpy all day was because she hated herself for finding him almost irresistibly attractive.
    There was a long pause before he reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a second Popsicle, still in its wrapper.
    Offering it to her, he jerked his head. “Get in,” he said.
    He’d bought her a treat. Bewildered, she slid into the car, unconsciously wincing as one of her blisters brushed the carpet. He frowned.
    “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
    “Blisters,” she explained, too busy tearing the wrapper off her Popsicle to elaborate.
    His glance dropped to her broken shoe, lying on the floor.
    “And you broke your shoe?” he said.
    “It’s repairable.” She shrugged, taking a big, deliciously cool bite of tangy raspberry ice.
    He gave her an intent look before signaling and pulling back out onto the road.
    She polished off her treat and he silently passed her a travel pack of tissues to wipe her sticky hands.
    “Thank you.” She hesitated a moment, then reminded herself that she still had some ground to make up. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” she asked, forcing herself to be light.
    He shrugged. “It depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On whether you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
    Grace jerked her head around to look at him. “You’re kidding.”
    “That’s my price for pretending today never happened,” he said, eyes hidden behind his own sunglasses now.
    “Why would you want to have dinner with me when I’ve been a total bitch all day?” she asked honestly.
    He didn’t take his attention off the road. “We need to have a decent working relationship,” he said.
    “Okay, I agree with that. But dinner really isn’t necessary, is it?” she asked. The thought of spending more time with him — of sitting opposite him for a meal, being unable to avoid looking into that stunning, unforgettable face — was too, too overwhelming.
    “I think it is.”
    She could hear the determination in his tone. He’d offered his deal — forgiveness for dinner. She closed her eyes. Why-oh-why hadn’t she picked someone completely outside her world to be her fantasy lover? Hell, why hadn’t she picked someone really safe, like Elvis or Jim Morrison?
    She opened her eyes again. “Okay. Where do you want to meet?”
    “I’ll pick you up,” he said.
    This time, she didn’t even bother trying to argue.
    G RACE W ELLINGTON was a revelation. The thought crossed his mind somewhere between their appetizers and main courses that evening.
    By the time he’d arrived at her low-rise art deco apartment block to collect her, he’d had two hours to regret his impulsive invitation. Why prolong the misery of a genuinely shitty day by extending it into dinner? But he’d always been unable to refuse a challenge — and Grace was definitely challenging.
    The moment she’d opened her door to him, most of his doubts had turned to dust. Somehow, in the time between dropping her off at the production offices and navigating his way to her Venice Beach apartment, he’d forgotten how striking she was. The smell of her heavy, musky perfume smacked him in the nose even as his eyeballs boggled at all the delights they were being offered. Her breasts looked incredible in a fitted, high-necked-but-still-sexy pale-yellow dress featuring about a million little buttons down the bodice. Her hips got their fair share of attention, too, since her skirt hugged her curves like nobody’s business.