with a keen eye, not unlike when Declan had first been measured for his costume. “I figure,” he murmured, “she’ll let me know when I should be worried. And if she doesn’t, you certainly will.”
“I will?”
“You will, because this is your first Hollywood film. I know you don’t want to be blacklisted right out of the gate.”
A chuckle burst out of Declan before he noted that nothing about Rick indicated he was joking. Sobering quickly, Declan leaned his elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely around his margarita tumbler. “And you’d do that?”
Rick’s smile was no less intimidating for all that it remained congenial. “You bet your Irish ass I would.” He clinked his glass against Declan’s before raising it to his lips. “You’re both adults, and you’ll do what you’ll do. But Fiona’s my kid. It’s my job to worry about her.”
Throat dry, Declan nodded. “I meant what I said, Rick. I like her.”
The older man ran a hand through his hair. “And I like you. So try not to screw this up, okay? My girl could use a little fun.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shut up.”
The tension dissipated as Declan laughed, and he wondered how he’d managed to get to nearly thirty years of age without having experienced this—being threatened in a friendly manner by a potential girlfriend’s father. That the father in question was Declan’s coworker, not to mention a man Declan respected, added an interesting twist to what could be a scene from any sitcom on air in the past decade.
Another song ended, and applause broke out across the cantina as Rick excused himself to the restroom. Declan watched as Fiona laid a hand on her partner’s shoulder to thank him for the dance, watched while she turned to make her way to their table. Watched, and waited for her to notice him.
He knew the moment she saw him. Not because her eyes met his, but because her spine straightened and her shoulders went back. Each footstep carrying her toward him held a whisper of the attitude she so often dealt his way, whether in the trailer or on the set. Attitude and bite—and that tantalizing hint of softness. Earlier today, she’d offered him a confession by admitting to the awareness he’d been unable to ignore since their first, jet-lagged morning together.
Then she was at the table, skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat from her exertions on the dance floor. The thin straps of her ivory top contrasted deeply against her bare, sun-warmed shoulders. Appropriating Declan’s margarita, she drained it, then set the glass back on the table in front of him with a decisive clink . Her tongue darted out, catching the salt that had collected at the corner of her mouth.
Heat climbed his neck, and he swallowed, hard. Crush be damned—this was so much more. So much better .
She turned her gaze on Declan, silver and brilliant without the usual shield of her glasses. “Mr. Murphy.”
He couldn’t resist. “Miss O’Brien.”
A beat of silence passed between them, even with the brassy blare of the band blistering their eardrums. Her lips twitched. Her eyebrow arched, a perfect, feminine mimic of her father’s. “Wanna dance?” She held out her hand.
He’d be a fool not to take it, and Declan wasn’t a fool. “Thought you’d never ask.”
FIVE
It felt good to be dancing, but it felt even better to be dancing with him.
Her hips swayed as they wove through the tables, her hand gripped firmly in his as she led him onto the dance floor. His fingers were strong, his palm warm, and his thumb kept rubbing across her knuckles.
She wondered if Declan even realized he was doing it.
Her heels clicked onto the battered parquet floor in front of the stage, the band just starting a mambo-driven number. Music blasted them, quick and bright and loud, and Fiona turned immediately, laying her palms flat on Declan’s chest. Firm muscles instantly flexed beneath his tee shirt. “I should’ve asked before,”
“I will?”
“You will, because this is your first Hollywood film. I know you don’t want to be blacklisted right out of the gate.”
A chuckle burst out of Declan before he noted that nothing about Rick indicated he was joking. Sobering quickly, Declan leaned his elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely around his margarita tumbler. “And you’d do that?”
Rick’s smile was no less intimidating for all that it remained congenial. “You bet your Irish ass I would.” He clinked his glass against Declan’s before raising it to his lips. “You’re both adults, and you’ll do what you’ll do. But Fiona’s my kid. It’s my job to worry about her.”
Throat dry, Declan nodded. “I meant what I said, Rick. I like her.”
The older man ran a hand through his hair. “And I like you. So try not to screw this up, okay? My girl could use a little fun.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shut up.”
The tension dissipated as Declan laughed, and he wondered how he’d managed to get to nearly thirty years of age without having experienced this—being threatened in a friendly manner by a potential girlfriend’s father. That the father in question was Declan’s coworker, not to mention a man Declan respected, added an interesting twist to what could be a scene from any sitcom on air in the past decade.
Another song ended, and applause broke out across the cantina as Rick excused himself to the restroom. Declan watched as Fiona laid a hand on her partner’s shoulder to thank him for the dance, watched while she turned to make her way to their table. Watched, and waited for her to notice him.
He knew the moment she saw him. Not because her eyes met his, but because her spine straightened and her shoulders went back. Each footstep carrying her toward him held a whisper of the attitude she so often dealt his way, whether in the trailer or on the set. Attitude and bite—and that tantalizing hint of softness. Earlier today, she’d offered him a confession by admitting to the awareness he’d been unable to ignore since their first, jet-lagged morning together.
Then she was at the table, skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat from her exertions on the dance floor. The thin straps of her ivory top contrasted deeply against her bare, sun-warmed shoulders. Appropriating Declan’s margarita, she drained it, then set the glass back on the table in front of him with a decisive clink . Her tongue darted out, catching the salt that had collected at the corner of her mouth.
Heat climbed his neck, and he swallowed, hard. Crush be damned—this was so much more. So much better .
She turned her gaze on Declan, silver and brilliant without the usual shield of her glasses. “Mr. Murphy.”
He couldn’t resist. “Miss O’Brien.”
A beat of silence passed between them, even with the brassy blare of the band blistering their eardrums. Her lips twitched. Her eyebrow arched, a perfect, feminine mimic of her father’s. “Wanna dance?” She held out her hand.
He’d be a fool not to take it, and Declan wasn’t a fool. “Thought you’d never ask.”
FIVE
It felt good to be dancing, but it felt even better to be dancing with him.
Her hips swayed as they wove through the tables, her hand gripped firmly in his as she led him onto the dance floor. His fingers were strong, his palm warm, and his thumb kept rubbing across her knuckles.
She wondered if Declan even realized he was doing it.
Her heels clicked onto the battered parquet floor in front of the stage, the band just starting a mambo-driven number. Music blasted them, quick and bright and loud, and Fiona turned immediately, laying her palms flat on Declan’s chest. Firm muscles instantly flexed beneath his tee shirt. “I should’ve asked before,”
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