Not in the Script by Amy Finnegan Page B

used to have of him. He announced to the group earlier that his ultra-casual beach attire—including board shorts—is due to not hiring a housekeeper yet, who will eventually be unpacking his moving boxes. So this morning, he’d just grabbed something from the first box he opened.
    Yes, Brett is extremely nice to look at, and oozes a confidence that always catches my attention, but I didn’t picture him being so spastic; he can’t sit still—constantly touching me, for example—for longer than fifteen seconds. Now that I think about it, he reminds me of a boy who used to sit behind me in the second grade and flip paper footballs at my back.
    â€œOur dressing rooms aren’t ready yet,” I tell Brett, surprising myself with a complete sentence. “And I have to call my best friend.”
    â€œOh, chick stuff.” He brushes his bangs to the side. “Look, I’m sorry you got dragged into that hot tub crap earlier. It sorta got out of control.”
    I let go of the restroom doorknob. “Yeah. What was that all about?”
    He hesitates, brushing his hair to the other side now, as if he isn’t sure which side it’s supposed to be on. “Kimmi will probably tell you a villainized version of it, so I might as well fill you in onhow it really happened,” he says. “When I first saw her this morning, I thought she was someone who I … well, once met in a hot tub. Then, you know, spent some time with in a really awesome suite at the Hard Rock Hotel—oops, I don’t think I said that part before.” He laughs, eyeing me like I should be laughing too. “Anyway, I was wrong. It wasn’t Kimmi. But whoever that Vegas girl was, she must have
looked
like Kimmi.”
    I am
sooo
not laughing. This story isn’t a far-fetched
Celebrity Seeker
article. I’m hearing it straight from Brett himself, and he’s clearly not the least bit ashamed of treating girls like … throwaway party favors.
    â€œWow,” I reply. “For once, someone really is as bad as the tabloids say he is.”
    â€œNo, I promise, I’m not!” It’s the first time I’ve seen Brett with anything close to a serious expression. “I’ve only been
half
that bad. And McGregor says I need to be a freaking choirboy now if I want to keep this job. But I’ve really been no worse than guys even you’ve dated. In fact, I could tell you things about them that—”
    â€œBrett,” I say, feeling something like ice cubes sliding down my back. Definitely not the good kind of chills. “If you’ve heard anything at all about my dating history, you’d know that it’s a bad idea to compare yourself to my ex-boyfriends.”
    â€œWhoa, whoa, whoa,” he tells me, holding his hands up between us. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I figured that’s why you were avoiding me, but I’m not saying all this because I want you to think I’m worthy dating material. I don’t date girls I work with anymore. I haven’t for years.”
    I relax again. “Neither do I. Date coworkers, I mean. Never again.”
    A smile jumps back onto his face. “I just hope we can hang out—with Jake too, or whoever. Well, not Kimmi. But I’m going to be
bored to death
in Tucson if you don’t stop ignoring me. And it isn’t fair for you to judge me as a potential
friend
based on my crappy dating record. Because you’ll never hear anyone say that I’m a bad friend.”
    I swallow, a little ashamed of myself. This is Brett Crawford, after all, someone who I’ve studied, judged, and evaluated in more ways than I’d ever admit to him. Being his friend hasn’t even crossed my mind until now.
    â€œThat’s probably true,” I tell him. “But if the tabloids have even been half right about you, I doubt that what you’ve been doing with girls can actually be