Stalk Me

“I’m really glad you agreed to meet me,” he says.

“I’m glad you asked.”

He holds his index finger up in the air, and the attentive waiter brings us two glasses that he fills with Chardo

When the waiter walks away, Vincent leans close to me, clinks his glass softly against mine, and says, “To the beach.” He takes a drink then puts his head down slightly. Like maybe he’s saying a silent prayer.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask.

“Yes. Thinking about work helps.”

“Oh, so this is about work?”

He grins, takes a sip of wine, then says, “Now that I’ve found the perfect lead, work is about all I can think about.”

“What are you going to call the movie? Hopefully not something bad like Another Day at the Lake or A Day at the Lake: Part Deux.”

He laughs. “Those do sound bad. How about A Bad Day at the Lake?”

“Or Just Another Day at the Lake.”

“I actually like that one,” he says.

“So I don’t really get what my character will be doing besides screaming in a bikini.”

“She’ll kick ass in a bikini.”

“You mean I won’t get a cape and some tights? That’s it. I’m out.”

He laughs again and says, “You’re fu

“I wasn’t joking,” I say with a straight face to tease him.

He studies me, so I remove all trace of emotion from my face. Give him my poker face.

“Remind me not to play poker with you.”

A smile breaks out across my face. “I suck at poker. I always smile when I get a good hand. I can usually do a joke straight faced, but I’ll be honest. I’m not that good of a liar.”

“The key to lying is to convince yourself it’s the truth.”

I tilt my head and think about that. “So you have to lie to yourself first. That’s interesting.”

I drink a little more wine. Neither one of us is talking now. We’re looking at the ocean. Looking at each other. Drinking our wine. It’s a surprisingly comfortable silence. I don’t feel the least bit nervous around Vincent. I look at his expensive clothes, his handsome good looks, and wonder why he chose to be behind the scenes in the movie industry rather than in front of the camera.

“So why aren’t you an actor? You definitely have the face for it.”

“Well, thank you. I guess I’m more fascinated with what goes on behind the scenes. And I’m sort of a Type A personality. Very meticulous, very organized. Grandmother said you need to be very creative to act. I’m much more right brained. Facts, figures, deadlines. I’m good at those. Grandmother taught me a lot about the craft: how to spot talent, about the creation of the story—characters, story arc, plot tension, how special effects should enhance the story line not take the place of it.”

“It sounds like we have a lot in common. I grew up hearing about all those things too.” I take another sip of wine, and he immediately refills my glass. “And I’m pretty creative, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how you’re going to add special effects to A Day at the Lake. Are aliens go

“Aliens. The movie blurb is go

At first I start to laugh, but he looks serious.

“Ohmigawd, it's a spoof movie!? No way I'm doing that!”

He puts his wine glass up to his lips, and I notice his mouth break into a little smirk. He's got one knee bent up on the couch and I slap my hand down on it when I realize he’s lying.

“Oh my gosh! You’re doing it. You're lying to me.”

He laugh and then covers my hand with his.

It’s at this point I realize that I am touching his naked knee.

And that I probably shouldn’t have done that.

But Vincent doesn’t look offended. Instead he grins and says, “Part of me wants to teach you to lie. The other part of me loves that you can't. I watched four different emotions cross your face while you figured it out. I know you thought it was just a pickup line, but I was serious when I said you have a very expressive face.”

He’s rubbing his thumb across the top of my hand as he speaks. I don’t think he realizes that it’s making me feel kind of breathless.

He leans toward me. “So, just how old are you?”

I regain my composure and whisper back with a completely straight face. “Twenty-one, of course. Almost twenty-two.” I’m pretty good at this lie, because I tell it often. So often, I almost believe it myself.

He leans back on his elbow and studies my face.

I notice he has a dark eyelash loosely dangling dangerously close to his eye. I automatically reach out to brush it away.

“Close your eye.” I gently grab the eyelash when he complies. “Okay, you can open now. You had a loose eyelash. See? Now you have to make a wish on it.”

He leans into my hand, closes his eyes, and blows warm air across my fingers. “I wish you were twenty-one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because then this would be okay." He leans forward and places a little kiss on my cheek. “That’s for being so sweet to me yesterday.”

“What does my age have to do with a kiss on the cheek?”

“Let’s table that discussion for now. So is there anyone special you’d like to work with? Someone to play your boyfriend in the movie?”

“A boyfriend? Do I really need a boyfriend? I’m sort of sick of boys. You’re a man. Do you treat women well? Different than you did when you were a boy?”

He doesn’t answer. Just raises an eyebrow at me and takes a sip of wine.

I look at the appetizers that were brought to our spot a few minutes ago, at the wine chilling in a bucket, and at the platform bed he chose for us to lounge on rather than a booth or the ottomans. I laugh. “Of course you do.” I wave my hand across the spread. “Look at all this. Boys don’t really do dates like this.”

“Are we on a date?” he asks with little smirk.

“Oh no,” I say, embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant. I know this is all business.”

“It’s not all business,” he replies.

My cheeks flame thinking about being on a real date with Vincent. “Okay, then it’s a thanks-for-being nice-to-you thing. Di

“Is that what you think?”

“I’m not sure what I think, honestly. I just said that because you’re obviously too old for me.”

“And you're probably not old enough for me.” As he reaches over to grab the bottle of wine, his hand brushes across my knee. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. “Now, tell me how old you really are, Miss High School Drama,” he says as he refills my glass again.

“You’re serving me alcohol,” I whisper. “Do you really want to know the answer to that? Plus, I can't tell you here; they think I'm old enough.”

“Then tell me quietly.”

I look around and notice the waiter is giving me a stare down. I decide it’s best not to say it out loud, so I put my index finger on top of the scrolling Abby tattoo on his forearm and draw my finger down it in a straight line.

“The first number is a one?” he asks.

I nod. Then I trace an eight and tell myself it’s the truth.

“Well, that's a relief,” he sighs. “People are already looking at me like I'm robbing the cradle. At least you're legal.”

Vincent squints his eyes at me, and I think he’s just figured out I’m lying. Damn, I tried to use my most trustworthy look.

He taps his finger a few beats on one of the pillows. “You’re lying to me. Tell me the truth this time,” he says in a stern voice.

I trace another one down his forearm. Then I trace a six.

“Seriously?” he says, holding my gaze. “You do not look,” and then he takes his finger and slowly traces a sixteen on my forearm.

I close my eyes and let out an involuntary, “Mmhmm,” when his finger glides across my skin.

I should not have done that, because Vincent looks concerned by the fact that he practically made me orgasm just by tracing a number on my arm.