My anger propels me up and off the coffee table. I turn, lashing out to kick a wicker basket full of pillows. They tumble out soundlessly, and the whole thing is so anticlimactic, I drop to the floor and clutch one to my chest.
"Oh, crap. I'm sorry." I take a deep breath, mortified by all the vitriol that just came out of my mouth. "But you've really managed to piss me off."
"I see that," he says. "And if it's any consolation, you're right."
"Good to know. About what?"
"Pretty much everything," he says, coming to sit on his heels in front of me. "But you can lead with the emotional idiot part."
I have to force myself not to smile, but there's no denying that I feel better. This is the guy I like. The one who made me smile last night.
Who made me feel things I haven't felt in a very long time.
I twist my fingers together, my head bent now, because if I look into his eyes, he's going to be the one who sees too much. "You left," I say again, only this time I sound much calmer. "There was something between us--at least I thought there was. And you freaked, then you bolted. And you didn't even care how that would make me feel."
"Hey," he says gently, taking my hands, so that right then, his touch is the only thing I'm aware of. "Emotional idiot, remember?"
"Why did you go?" I pull my hands away. His touch is too soothing, and I'm not sure I want to be soothed.
"I had to be at a media circus at nine. But you're right. I should have said goodbye."
He brushes my cheek, then cups my chin, so that I don't have any choice but to look at him. "Last time, okay? I really am sorry."
He leans forward, and I feel my chest tighten in anticipation, my lips tingling from the memory of his kisses. I want that, damn me. That closeness I felt last night. And I lean forward, not even thinking. Just reacting.
And it's only when I feel that first tentative brush of his lips against mine that I realize what's happening, and I turn my face sharply away. "No," I whisper. "I don't think so."
For a moment, I think he's angry. But then he nods, just one quick jerk of his head, before he stands
up and returns to the couch.
I stand as well, but I'm too restless to sit. "All of that was just door number one, remember? Now it's time to talk about the press invasion on my front lawn."
"Yeah," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. "About that..."
"Why would you tell someone we're engaged? And then not clue me into that little fact?"
"I didn't. Rip did."
It takes me a minute to process that information. "The guy you were in that sitcom with?"
He nods. "Apparently, he did a little rumor spreading during the opening last night. And then Frannie chatted up a few reporters, and it spun out of control from there."
"Why? I mean, why would Rip do that? And for that matter, why did it have to start spinning? Couldn't you have told Frannie or the reporter or whoever that Rip had his facts wrong?"
"As for the first, he probably did it to piss me off. He knows I don't date and don't like to be in the spotlight where relationships are concerned. And he's a little jealous that I'm doing movies now, and his last show was a web series.
"And as for why I didn't correct him," Lyle continues, "I honestly didn't think about it. Then again," he adds softly, "maybe it was there in the back of my mind."
"What was?"
"That if you were my pretend fiancee, I'd get to see you again."
"Oh." I draw a breath, hoping he can't tell how much I like hearing those words.
"Will you do it?" he asks. "Backing off now would draw the kind of attention I don't want. And besides, being engaged is a sure fire way to keep Frannie at bay for the filming."
"The filming? You aren't even set to begin for weeks, right?"