Three hours later, Mont waited patiently in a chair outside the dressing room of a swanky dress shop. Sophie had tried on at least two dozen dresses at several shops. He’d said he liked them all.
But when she came out wearing a strapless black dress with a straight, slim cut, he stood up. The skirt fell to just above her knee, hugged her hips, and made her chest seem two cup sizes bigger.
His eyes traveled the length of her body several times before he managed to lift them to hers. “Uh, that’s the one.”
She turned, admiring herself in the three-way mirror. “It is, isn’t it?”
He came up behind her and put his hands on her hips, leaning down so his lips brushed her earlobe. “The only way this dress could get any better is if I could get you out of it.”
“Mont.” She swatted his hands away, but her face heated and she couldn’t stop thinking about being alone with him and telling him about the sale of her taco stand.
“I’ll take this one,” she told the clerk before she went to change. She looked at herself one last time in the mirror in her stall. Mont’s hands on her waist still burned.
By the time she’d found the perfect shoes, they’d eaten dinner with Lars, and the driver had dropped them off at The Ritz-Carlton, Sophie’s stomach was buzzing like she’d swallowed a hive of bees.
Mont checked in while she admired the art in the lobby. Well, admired was a strong term. She stared at the wall, unseeing. They were only going to be in LA for a few days, so they’d each packed light. Her single carry-on rested beside her, and she had been careful to pack something special with which she could impress Mont. Polly had helped her pick out the lingerie, but now she wondered if she should simply wear the dress.
She startled when he called her name. “We’re on the fifteenth floor.” He didn’t seem the slightest bit worried that in a few short minutes they’d be sharing sleeping conditions for the first time.
He chatted with the couple in the elevator, but Sophie stood a half-step behind him. She had a feeling she’d be doing that a lot this weekend. Mont was about to be a huge celebrity, and she was still a small-town cook without a culinary degree. Scratch that. She didn’t have The Sandy Tortilla anymore. She was simply his.
“Here we are.” Mont slid the electronic key into the lock and opened the door. Sophie didn’t even know when she’d gotten off the elevator, or how far down the hall she’d walked. He held the door while she entered. She flipped the switch by the door to find herself in a sitting area, complete with the nicest leather couch she’d ever seen, a glass coffee table and a wall-mounted television. Everything said wealth and elegance, a realm Sophie wasn’t used to.
Past the sitting room was a small kitchen, with a bathroom beyond that. Sophie left her bag by the door and wandered farther into the suite, looking for the bed without making it obvious. The bedroom was a separate room on the right, with a king-size bed, two end tables and another wall-mounted television.
One bed. One big bed.
“I can sleep on the couch,” Mont said, coming into the bedroom behind her. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the mountain of pillows. She pictured Mont there, shirtless, and her stomach flipped.
“Here’s your bag, Soph. I’m gonna shower, OK?”
She might have said OK. She wasn’t sure. Her mind raced. She needed a solution to this problem. Then again, Mont didn’t seem to think they had a problem. He’d volunteered to sleep on the couch. She hadn’t contradicted him.
She spun toward the bathroom. Why hadn’t she contradicted him?
The shower started, and she felt like crying. Things were not going according to her plan. She was supposed to tell him she loved him. Then tell him that because she loved him, she’d sold The Sandy Tortilla so they could be together. Then…whatever happened after that. She looked back at the bed, fantasies filling her mind.
“You still have time,” she murmured. “It’s fine. Just talk to him when he gets out.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mont toweled off, brushed his teeth and looked at himself in the mirror. His tanning sessions on the beach had paid off. His exercise routine had worked its magic. Lars was picking up his suit; Mont was getting his hair cut in the morning; he’d prepped his answers for the reporters. He was ready in every way for tomorrow night’s press conference.
He glanced at the closed bathroom door. If only he was ready for what lay behind it. He’d said he could sleep on the couch, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to lie next to Sophie in that bed and feel her heart beat against his as he kissed her.
He wasn’t sure he could handle her rejection tonight. She hadn’t exactly put him off over the past couple of months since he’d won the role and returned to Redwood Bay. She’d never offered for him to sleep over though, and he hadn’t asked. He’d done that once, and it had turned out badly. He wouldn’t be asking tonight either, though he had packed the appropriate protection should she suggest it.
He’d seen the look on her face at the shop when he’d said he wanted to get her out of her dress. The heat between them ran both ways; it always had.
“Maybe you should lead with ‘I love you’,” he told his reflection. “She seemed to like that last time.”
But she hadn’t said it back.
He pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and ran the towel through his hair again. Steeling himself to remain passive, he stepped into the sitting room.
The low sound of the TV came from the bedroom, and the door stood open. He leaned in the doorway, caught off-guard by Sophie wearing that sexy, black dress, lounging on the bed. “Bathroom’s free,” he said, his voice catching on the last word.
She slid to the edge of the bed, the dress hiking up her thigh. Mont couldn’t look away. “So,” she said, moving slowly toward him.
“So,” he repeated, his gaze raking her body. “Just making sure you still like it?”
“No.” She stopped in front of him, just out of arm’s reach. “Just making sure you still do.”
He’d learned a lot about Sophie Newton in the past few months. He’d fallen in love with her, idiosyncrasies and all.
He cleared his throat. “I like it a lot.”
She toyed with a lock of her hair. “Didn’t you say you wanted to get me out of it?”
He stepped into the bedroom and reached for her. She met him halfway, the kiss turning passionate after only a moment. As quickly as it had fogged, his head cleared. He pulled back. “Are you saying you want me to get you out of that dress?”
She ducked her head. “I love you, Mont.”
Mont felt like he had won the lottery. He smiled and lifted her chin so she’d have to look at him. “Although that’s brilliant, that’s not an answer.”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, lightly leading her toward the bed. He wanted to experience her slowly, and he didn’t let his head fog over like he usually did when he kissed her.
“Wait.” She placed her hands on his chest.
He stilled, his heart dropping. “Wait?”
She licked her lips, completely distracting him. “I have something to tell you first.”
He stepped back when she wiggled out of his grasp. He ran his hands through his hair. “OK,” he said. “Shoot.”
She stared at his bare chest for a moment past comfortable. When she finally raised her eyes to his, he was grinning. “Do we need to keep waiting?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “OK, so I have some exciting news.”
Mont waited, his patience wearing thin. She looked amazing in that dress, and she’d just given him permission to take it off. Whatever she had to say better be quick.
“I’ve sold The Sandy Tortilla.” Her fingers wound around each other; she shifted her weight; she cleared her throat again.
It took a moment for Mont’s brain to register her words. “You’ve what?”
She took a step toward him. “I am in love with you. I want to be with you. In order to
do that, I had to sell The Sandy Tortilla.” She shrugged, but the nervous energy in her eyes didn’t go out. “So I did.”
Mont remembered the secret phone calls she’d taken, the texting. She’d been brokering a deal for her taco stand!
As much as his heart swelled at her proclamation of love, he couldn’t let her do this. Not for him. “Sophie—”
“It’s done,” she said, moving closer. “You can’t threaten to quit if you don’t get your way this time.” A teasing glint entered her eyes as she folded her arms.
“Maybe I can get it back,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I’ll have enough money come January.”
“Mont.” She swatted his bicep. “It’s done. I did what I wanted to do.”
He gathered her into his arms. “You are stubborn like that.” He wasn’t happy with her decision, and had he known her plans, he would’ve tried to talk her out of them. He could find out who had purchased the stand and try to get it back. He could be stealthy if he had to be.
“I know what I want,” she said, her fingers moving over his shoulders and chest, distracting him from his plot.
“Do you, now?” He bent his head down to kiss her.
She let him for only a moment. “Are you upset?”
He touched his nose to the tip of hers. “Soph, I just want you to be happy. The Sandy Tortilla makes you happy. I’m worried—”
“You make me happy.”
Mont felt the weight of being that man for her. While it scared him, he felt like rising to the challenge. He dipped his lips to her earlobe. “Any other surprises?”
“Just one.” She pressed herself into him, and then all systems were go.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Sophie woke, a warm, breathing body lay next to her. She startled, her hand pulling across Mont’s rock-hard midsection. His very bare, rock-hard midsection.
She sat up, more than a little frazzled, yet taking a moment to admire his handsome face, slack with sleep and without worries. Her heart swelled with love, and she leaned down and softly kissed his cheek.
He was worth selling The Sandy Tortilla, because he was her future. Which scared her as much as it made her want to cry tears of happiness. Before she could go all sappy, she left him lying in bed and went to shower.
When she stepped out, the noise from the television alerted her that he was awake. They had a busy day, a meeting with Lars, a luncheon with the cast and crew of the film—including the director—a full afternoon of photos, all leading up to the big press conference at six o’clock that night.
A knock sounded on the door, pulling her from her thoughts. “Can I get in there?” Mont sounded amused.
“Sure.” Sophie opened the door, electricity zipping through her as she pulled her towel tighter. He stood in the hall, wearing only his boxers and a sly smile. “Hey, pretty girl.” He leaned down and kissed her, a slow, heated kiss that reminded her of their night together. By the time he stepped past her to get in the shower, she’d lost the ability to reason. She shook herself out of the Mont-kissed-me fog she’d fallen into.
Sophie normally didn’t think much past making sure the essential parts were covered, but now she dressed with care. The right underwear, the cleavage-producing bra, the shaping spandex. Then the dress. She’d thought about jewelry, shoes, makeup. She wasn’t doing the photo shoot, but Lars had said there would be more reporters and photographers in attendance than just those the production company had hired.
She pulled a hotel robe over her black dress in preparation to do her hair and makeup. As she added the finishing touches to her lips, someone knocked on the door to the suite.
“Can you get that?” he called from the bathroom, where she heard the shower turn off. “It’s probably Lars with my suit.”
Sure enough, when Sophie opened the door, Lars stood there with a garment bag. “Good morning,” he said. Another man waited beside him, a shaving kit in his hands.
“Morning.” She stepped back to let them in. She retrieved her shoes from their box, wondering how she was going to last all day in four-inch heels. But when she put on the emerald-green heels, she smiled. She didn’t care if they hurt her feet. With crisscrossing straps and diamond jewels, they were gorgeous.
She waited while Mont got his hair cut and his face shaved. She’d never known a barber to make hotel calls, but she was quickly learning that the rich and famous lived differently than she did. She pushed away the inadequacy that clogged her throat.
Mont changed into his suit in the bedroom while Sophie dug through her suitcase to find her jewelry. With all the layers in place, she felt strong and ready for anything that might happen that day.
When Mont came out of the bedroom, he allowed Lars to straighten his tie, but he couldn’t look away from Sophie. Which was fine, because she couldn’t tear her gaze from him either. His charcoal suit jacket fell from his shoulders to his waist like it had been tailored just for him. Which, of course, it had.
She was once again reminded of how tall he was, how lean, how muscular. Somehow the suit showed it all. He looked powerful, distinguished, wealthy. He looked like someone who would be playing a lead role in a major action film.
Lars gave Mont a few last reminders, and they moved toward her. Mont laced his fingers through hers, and they left the hotel hand in hand.
By the time the press conference began later that evening, Sophie had spent about an hour with Mont. Other actors had brought their significant others too, and she stayed with them while Mont worked the room, meeting his fellow cast members. Lars had instructed him to do just that, and Sophie didn’t mind watching him.
He was friendly, and people were drawn to him. Much the same way she’d been. She marveled that it had taken him this long to get the role he wanted. Men with as much charisma as Mont usually got what they wanted, when they wanted it.
She sat next to him at lunch, but they didn’t get a chance to talk much. The photo shoot had been a whirlwind of activity. He got head shots done. Full-body shots. Alone. With the actor playing James Bond. With his band of villains. It seemed like he needed to be in every picture, which Sophie assumed was a good thing.
It meant his face would be out there for the world to see, for other directors and producers to admire. Fans, too.
Mont’s life was about to morph from a lion into a tornado, and zebras didn’t fare well in the wind. He was going to be somebody; she was still just Sophie. She swallowed her thoughts, reminding herself that he loved her.
Now, with ten minutes until the cars started rolling up to the red carpet, Sophie waited with Mont in their vehicle. Sleek, black and with tinted windows, theirs would be the second car to arrive. The producers had spared no expense with the press conference. They were announcing a new James Bond, and everyone in Hollywood was there to see who it would be.
For the first time, Mont looked nervous. He couldn’t keep his leg still, and he kept running is hands over his already-smooth tie.
“So this is how it feels,” she said. “I get it now.”
“How what feels?”
“How you must feel when I freak out.” She smiled. “You’re right. It is kind of funny to watch.”
“Ha ha.” He flashed her a grin, but it only lasted a second.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You already have the role.”
Mont didn’t answer, because the car started to move. When they pulled up to the curb, he waited until someone opened his door for him. Then he stood, a huge smile plastered on his face. He lifted one hand in a wave as the announcer’s voice flooded the streets.
“Montgomery Winters, debuting alongside our new James Bond, as Viktor Romanoff.”
Sophie wasn’t sure which was louder: the applause or the clicking of cameras. He reached for her and helped her from the car. She laced her arm through his the way Lars had instructed her to do, her own smile getting captured by the scads of photographers.
Everything moved in a blur—faces, sounds, flashin
g lights. Reporters asked Mont questions that he answered with ease. She was proud to be the woman on his arm, the one whose hand he gripped when he finished an interview, the one with whom he exchanged knowing glances.
They made it inside the conference center where Tom, the new James Bond, was already waiting. Mont shook his hand—something he’d done countless times that day—and sat next to him at the center table.
Sophie faded into the background, something she had become very good at. Half an hour later, all the major players were inside, and the official press conference began. Reporters peppered the director and producer with questions, and asked the actors every question under the sun. Mont answered several, his wit quick and his smile sexy.
A reception followed the press conference, and Sophie found herself alone in the crowd. Mont had been swept out a side door with the rest of the cast, and she hadn’t seen him come into the ballroom yet. Low music played; an open bar sat in the corner; people mingled and talked.
She’d had enough social interaction for one day, but she knew she couldn’t leave. She wandered the perimeter of the ballroom, her feet protesting from the long day in heels. She picked up a glass of champagne. After thirty insufferable minutes, Mont still hadn’t come in, and she decided to get some air.
She left through a side door, her thoughts far away—which was why it took her more than a moment to realize that a couple had also escaped the stuffy atmosphere of the party. They stood down the hall a bit, far enough that Sophie couldn’t hear them talking. But it looked more like arguing. She glanced at their faces just before the woman stepped toward the man and kissed him.
She saw blackness, and blinked to clear it away. The couple wasn’t kissing anymore, but Sophie desperately wanted to leave. She ducked her head just as another man entered the hall. “There you are, Amber. I’ve been looking for you.”
Sophie bit her lip, the name Amber clanging in her head. She slipped back into the ballroom, hopefully unnoticed by the three other people in the hallway.