Julie Kenner - The Perfect Score

“Playing tourist?” I asked, gazing meaningfully at the shirt.

He grinned, not at all embarrassed by the fashion faux pas. (I mean, what L.A. local actually advertises the area attractions?) “I’m entitled,” he said. “Until I stop confusing the Hollywood and Santa Monica freeways, I figure I am still a tourist.”

The man had a point. “You’ll get it down,” I said. I pointed once again at the shirt. “So what was your favorite thing?”

“The Back to the Future ride,” he said, referring to the amusement park ride where the guests climb into a mock-up of the famous DeLorean-turned-time-machine and then race around Hill Valley, narrowly avoiding all sorts of obstacles and, of course, barely escaping with their lives.

Since that’s my favorite ride, too, (well, with the exception of the tram ride that takes you through the actual Universal back lot), I gave him a thumbs-up sign and gestured toward the pitcher of margaritas I’d brought down on a tray with two glasses, the extra one for Carla on the off chance Mitch got held up. “You pass,” I said. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He picked up Carla’s glass, then filled it with my frozen concoction. He took a sip and made a face that suggested pure bliss. I grinned in satisfaction and leaned back, tilting my face up to the sun. Anyone who likes my very bold, decidedly not watered-down margaritas is okay in my book.

“I should probably confess something,” he said. I turned to the side. “The Back to the Future ride is really only my second favorite thing at Universal.”

I shifted, propping myself up on my elbow. “Oh? That answer earned you a margarita, bud. I expect some serious explaining.”

“Of course,” he said, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the moment. “My real favorite ride is the tram ride.” He held up a hand as if to halt my protests. “I know. Major Cheez Whiz, but it’s just so damn cool. I mean, you get to see the Psycho house. How do you beat that?”

Okay, I already knew that I liked this guy, but now I really liked him. “You,” I said, with an appropriate tone of respect and awe, “may have as much of my margaritas as you want.”

“I passed?”

“You totally passed.”

“I’m glad,” he said. But this time, the casual banter was gone, replaced by a voice that seemed to trill over me, making me shiver despite the relentless rays of the sun.

I took a long sip of margarita, wondering if he’d put that heat into his voice on purpose, and also wanting to quell the the way the warmth had bloomed inside me. I blamed it on the sun and the alcohol. Not my reaction to the guy. After all, I’d already determined that he was a nice guy. And I’d had my fill of nice guys with Dex.

I took a quick glance his direction and was immediately vindicated. He was, I noticed, holding a battered copy of Asimov’s The Robots of Dawn. For the record, I’m a big fan of Asimov. But so was Dex. And in my experience, guys who read Asimov tend not to be the kind of guys who can provide serious assistance in the sexual satisfaction department. Unscientific, possibly biased. But in Mattie Brown world, that’s a fact.

I told myself that was a good thing. Because that sensual little trill I’d felt a few moments ago was a fluke. A mistake. An alcohol-induced reaction. Not real, and certainly nothing to get excited about. Pun totally intended.

Besides, the truth is that there was no way that Mike I-Read-Asimov-And-Ride-The-Tram Peterson could have pulled out all the sexy-voice stops on purpose. I mean, why would he? Since I happened to know that Cullen was on a photo shoot in Aruba until tomorrow (he’d asked me to bring in his mail), I’d gone to the pool wearing no makeup, and decked out in my rattiest bathing suit, threadbare and sun-faded. The one that does not create the illusion that I have thin thighs. (For the record, my thighs aren’t huge; I know that. But they are disproportioned, or at least I think so. Bigger at the top than oh, say, Kate Moss. Which always makes buying jeans an adventure. At any rate, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my thighs since puberty, with the hate part of the equation usually coming out on top.)

This afternoon, I’d thrown caution and thigh camouflage to the wind. Not to mention makeup, hair and a remotely attractive bathing suit. In other words, I wasn’t exactly exuding sexuality. But I told myself that that was fine, because Mike wasn’t exactly Cullen. Which, to my margarita-soaked mind, put us on pretty equal footing.

I shifted a little, then turned to look more directly at him. I wasn’t really sure if he was keen on talking—he might rather read—but he must have caught my vibe because he lowered the book and shot me a winning smile.

“So how are you settling in?”

He put the book aside, giving me his full attention. “Well, the water pressure in the shower stinks, I still can’t find my electric razor, the radio from my car’s already been stolen and the lady who lives below me seems to think I’m the son she never had.” He smiled, a truly infectious grin, and I found myself smiling back. “In other words, a pretty typical move so far.”

I laughed. “That’s Mrs. Stevenson. She’s lived here since the beginning of time. She’s certain she knows who shot JFK, and insists we never actually landed on the moon. But she’s harmless and she bakes great chocolate-chip cookies. I highly recommend getting on her good side.” Those cookies more than made up for listening to her wild theories at the mailbox.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” When he grinned, a little dimple appeared in his cheek, and I was struck once again by how cute he was. Not knock-you-down gorgeous hunk-o-man like Cullen. But cute. Like your best guy friend in high school.

“Where’d you move from, anyway?”

“Austin.”

“Ah. A cowboy,” I teased.

“Hardly. Before that I was in Silicon Valley.”

“Then you must be a dot-com guy.”

“Something like that. Computer gaming.”

“Ooooh.”

His eyebrows raised. “Why do you say it like that?”

“I’m not saying it any particular way,” I lied.

“Yes, you are. You didn’t just say, ‘oh, computer games.’ You said ‘ooooh,’ like I’d just solved some mystery of life or something.”

“It’s just that that’s a field I know absolutely nothing about.”

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.