No Stopping Now. Dawn Atkins

tone. “Obviously.” She smiled.

      “But why you? I looked you up. You do documentaries. You’re absolutely serious and I’m absolutely not.”

      “You looked me up?” That surprised her.

      He nodded. “I can’t imagine why a woman who scored festival prizes for a film about foster kids would want to work on a cable show about men and beer and sex.”

      The blunt question made her stomach drop. She wasn’t ready to mention her new documentary. “Well, Doctor Nite is a hit show and I’d love the credit. It’s a challenge. I like variety. I did broadcast news for several years and—”

      “Is it the money? I know documentary makers are always strapped for cash.”

      “The money’s important, of course.”

      He watched her closely. The man was not nearly as laid-back as he let on.

      “I’d value the experience,” she said. “I enjoy learning.” Lame. So lame. She hadn’t expected to be grilled.

      “Do you have a boyfriend, JJ?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Relax, I’m making a point, not a pass.” He grinned. “At least not yet, anyway.”

      Her body responded as if he were, though, warming as automatically as a reflex.

      “This job is hell on couples. That’s my point. We’re on the road for days, out all night, surrounded by people looking to get laid. It gets wild.”

      “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it?”

      “You got it.” His eyebrows lifted, as if she’d surprised him by making a joke. She was coming off too serious, she realized. That had to be a strike against her with a man known for humor.

      “I don’t have a boyfriend, so that’s no problem. Neither is the travel or the hours. I’ll work hard. I’ll be what you need.”

      “And what do you think I need?”

      There was a beat of heat in his words, something sexy and intimate that caught her short.

      “Me,” she blurted. “You need me.”

      “Nice one,” he said, tapping his wineglass against hers before turning serious. “It’s a grind, JJ. There’s no glamour. I’m picky and demanding and a pain in the ass. Kirk has the patience of a saint. Most people would want to throw me out a window after the first shoot.”

      “I’m very patient. And I’ll shoot until I get it right. That’s how I prefer to work. You can count on me. Not to brag, but I’m good.”

      “I have no doubt of that. But I have to say no. It’s been nice meeting you and I appreciate your willingness to help, but I don’t think this will work out.”

      “You’re saying no? Just like that?”

      A buzzing sound at the table drew her eye. Brody’s cell had lit up and was vibrating against the laminate surface. He picked it up, glanced at the readout and said, “Sorry, I have to get this. My producer has issues with locations to talk about.”

      “No problem,” she said, disappointment washing through her.

      How could she reverse this? Be funnier, more insistent, more detailed? While she racked her brain, Brody talked to his producer about red tape in San Francisco, then something about Kirk Canter’s surgery at Santa Monica Hospital.

      Abruptly, he clicked his phone shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to hit the road. They moved Kirk’s surgery up a day and I need to go wish him luck. Let me get you a cab.”

      “But I—we—I mean—”

      “You’re too smart for this job, JJ,” he said with a compassionate smile. “Wait for something that suits you. Never forget how good you are. Never sell yourself short.” Somehow, he got her on her feet and hustled her out the door and into a cab, handing the driver money for her fare.

      “Good luck to you,” he said, leaning in the window. “I’ll watch for your next piece.”

      “Wait,” she said. “Is it because Kirk’s a guy? Because it won’t matter. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Whatever Kirk would do, I’ll do.”

      “Score a hooker? Would you do that for me?”

      She swallowed hard. “If I had to.” The idea sounded awful, but her chance was slipping away and she couldn’t bear it.

      “Don’t think I’m not tempted,” he said, taking her in, dwelling on her mouth, “but this is better for both of us.” He patted the taxi door and backed away.

      Her head spun. She’d just been rejected so smoothly she hardly felt the sting. He’d teased her, poured her wine, fed her by his own hand, told her no, then paid her way home. She watched through the rear window as he climbed into a cab and left, taking her hopes and dreams with him.

      2

      DAMN, THAT WOMAN smelled good. Brody inhaled his fingers where he’d shaken her hand. What was the scent? Fresh laundry, a floral perfume, but also a homey spice that reminded him of something from childhood. What?

      Barmbrack. Yeah. The Irish fruit bread his mother used to bake. JJ smelled like home. No wonder she’d caught his attention.

      She was beautiful, too, in a way that snuck up on you. Like a young Julia Roberts with a soft mouth and big, intense eyes. Steady. Smart. Interested.

      He’d liked that she didn’t flirt. All the women he knew flirted. The head tilt, the teasing smile, the light touch on the arm or the pressure of a thigh…it was as common as breathing in his world.

      J. James would be direct. Straightforward. I want you.

      He could go that way. Sure. You. Me. Naked. Now. That would be just fine with him. In fact, it sounded damn good.

      But he had enough on his plate at the moment. He didn’t need an earnest filmmaker who smelled like childhood and looked like an actress. Even if he did have a thing for Julia Roberts.

      He was sorry about the hooker remark, but he had to make the point that Jillian James was out of her league.

      Maybe Brody was, too. Sometimes he believed his own hype. Worse, he feared that was all there was to him.

      He was more than Doctor Nite. Jesus. He had to be.

      He was weary of the role and the fame, tired of people always wanting something from him—to be with him, to be on his show or in his bed. He was actually sick of sex—or at least the one-night stands that served as his nightcap.

      He watched L.A. traffic crawl by. Thudding music filled the cab from cars on either side. The night air was thick with the day’s smog. This was his city, these were his hours and he loved it. But he was changing, moving on.

      He was done with the show. He wanted to write. He’d started a book. The idea of it twisted him up inside. Writing alternately delighted and terrified him. When he was doing it, putting words on the screen, he felt like the Road Runner dashing over the gorge on thin air. He was good until he looked down.

      His cell phone went off and he fished it out of his pocket, startled to see his parents’ number in the readout. It was midnight. God. Had his father had another heart attack?

      He answered the phone, fingers shaking. “Pop? You okay?” He held his breath.

      “I’m fine, son. I can’t sleep and you’re the only night owl I know.”

      “Good. That’s good.” He blew out air, so relieved he wanted to laugh out loud. “So what’s keeping you awake, Pop?”

      “I get restless is all. Your mother kicks me out of bed when I get the jimmy legs.”

      “That’s