It was the truth. But, of course, he couldn't say it. "I was a sixteen year old guy. I'm pretty sure my singular goal at that age was to get laid."
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Well, I'll believe that was a goal. But I think there's more to you than that, even back then."
"Not really. I'm basically as shallow as they come."
She rolled her eyes, and he resisted the urge to put an arm around her and pull her close for a sweet, gentle kiss laced with absolutely no agenda. Something he hadn't wanted to do with a woman in, well, pretty much forever.
"What do your parents think of your skyrocketing fame?" she asked as they turned right at the next intersection. "They must be incredibly proud."
His chest tightened, and he fought the urge to just chuck it all and tell her the truth. It was a battle he won--and why not? He had years of practice keeping his secrets.
Instead of the truth, he said, "They have an entire shrine to me in the guest bedroom. Embarrassing, really. And lately I haven't won the good son award. I've been so focused on my career I don't visit or call nearly often enough."
"I'm sure they understand. And speaking of careers," she added, nodding at the main door to Blacklist. "Thanks for walking me. And let me know if you ever need another girlfriend stand-in, okay?"
"Actually, I thought I might hang out and walk you back. Unless you have plans after."
Her brows lifted. "I got three hours of sleep last night. My plans after involve crashing facedown on my bed."
"All the more reason for me to walk you home. It'll be late. You're tired. You'll be too exhausted to pay attention to your surroundings. And don't tell me the neighborhood's safe. Nothing's safe that late."
She crossed her arms and cocked her head. "You realize my shift is four hours."
"I'll have a drink, catch up on some emails on my phone."
"You're determined, aren't you?"
"You're very perceptive."
She sighed, but he thought she looked amused. Maybe even pleased. "Suit yourself."
He did, grabbing a seat at a table near a wall so that he'd have a view of the entire restaurant. He wasn't in her section, and his waitress--Nessie--spent the first few minutes fawning over him before Laine came over and told her to get over it.
"I couldn't believe it when I saw those pictures of you two on Twitter," she said after he ordered a burger with fries and two shots of bourbon on the rocks. Riley would give him shit for the burger, but he'd deal with that later.
"I mean, I figured it was some sort of stunt where you pay to have your picture taken with a celebrity."
"No," he assured her. "She's my girl."
"Wow," she said, then thrust a napkin at him. "Would you sign?"
He did, fearing that would send a flood of other employees and patrons to his table, but that possibility was forestalled when David, the owner, plunked himself down in the seat opposite him.
"You're dating our girl, Laine?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't want to hear about you pulling any Hollywood asshole crap with her, you got me?"
"Absolutely," he said, meaning every syllable. "You have my word."
David stared at him through narrowed eyes, then must have decided that Lyle wasn't tossing bullshit his way, because he grunted approval, then left the table, telling Nessie and the bartender to make sure that Lyle was left alone. "He's here to drink, not to put up with all of you."
After that, Lyle wasn't bothered. And he spent the next four hours watching Laine, and completely ignoring his emails. She was graceful and efficient. She chatted with the staff and the customers, seemed to know most everybody's name, and she did her job with superlative efficiency.
It obviously wasn't her passion. Just a job. But that didn't matter to her. She took it seriously. The way she took her life, her responsibilities.
It seemed like a lifetime ago when she'd come to his hotel room, scared and determined. He'd seen only one side of her then, and he'd liked what he saw. But he'd been seeing through the eyes of sex. Of lust.