His hand is just a little rough, not soft and prissy like some manicured, pampered actor. He feels like he's struggled. Like he's earned what he's achieved. But as I remember the pain I saw in his eyes, I can't help but wonder what price he's paid along the way.
I glance down at our joined hands. "I really--"
"What were you expecting?" he demands.
"Expecting?"
"When you came here tonight. This first time, for money. What did you think was going to happen?"
"I--I'm not sure." I tug my hand free, then rub my suddenly sweaty palms down the skirt of my dress.
"You must have had some idea. Didn't Marjorie say anything?"
I look up at his face. "I get the impression she doesn't know that much about you."
"Not many do."
For some reason, those three little words make me incredibly sad. "Why?"
But he just shakes his head. "You still haven't answered my question."
I exhale loudly, coming to terms with the fact that the only way I'll avoid the question is if I yank the door open and take off running down the hall. And if I do that in these shoes, there's no doubt that he'd catch me.
"I don't know," I say, punctuating the words with an exasperated sigh. "Sex, of course. But I guess I thought it would be capping off a seduction."
"Really?"
He's obviously holding back laughter, and I scowl at him. "It's not that far out of the realm of possibility. I mean, I've seen Pretty Woman. Richard Gere bought her strawberries."
"Are you saying you're hungry? I think there's a selection of cheeses in the fridge, along with some wine."
"Ha, ha. And no, I'm not--" I take a deep breath, because what the hell. "Actually, wine would probably be a really good idea."
"All right, then. After you." He gestures toward the living room that opens up just past the foyer in which we've been standing. I pause when I reach the room, uncertain where to go. But he indicates a stool on one side of a freestanding wet bar.
I take a seat, and he goes behind the bar, then bends down. Apparently, he's opening a refrigerator, because when he stands again, he has a bottle of white wine and a plate with cheese and grapes.
He takes the plastic wrap off the plate, then sets it on the bar between us. Then he holds up the wine for approval. When I nod, he pours a glass and hands it to me.
"You're not having any?" I ask when he puts the bottle back in the fridge.
"Honestly, I haven't decided if I need to keep a clear head around you or have something stronger."
I narrow my eyes in a mock glare, and he laughs. The sound startles both of us, I think. And I realize that despite the overall awkwardness of the situation, this moment is actually okay.
"I have to debate your seduction theory," he says, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels into a highball glass.
"It wasn't a theory," I correct. "Just an expectation. Apparently, a lame one."
"I'll say. Under the circumstances, a seduction is the last thing you should have expected."
"The circumstances?"
He's lifted the glass to take a sip. Now he raises his other hand and rubs his fingers together, indicating money. "Isn't the whole point of paying so that I don't have to put on the show? Don't have to seduce or entice or play games of any type at all?"
"I guess." I frown as I trace my fingertip over the rim of my wine glass. "But isn't that ... I don't know ... anticlimactic?"
"Interesting choice of words." The smile he flashes is wide and genuine and full of the confident charm that has fueled his ride to stardom. "But I assure you that no one has ever accused me of being anticlimactic."