The Perfect Score. Джулия Кеннер

      “Hardly,” I said sourly. “And the worst of it is that I’m working such long hours that I’m usually too exhausted to write.” The words rolled off my tongue, surprising me. I desperately wanted to break into screenwriting, true, but I didn’t usually go around whining about it to people I’ve only just met. I told myself to tone it down as I waved vaguely around the pool area. “This weekend is an unexpected bonus.”

      “That’s rough,” he said. “But it still sounds interesting. Working in television must be fun.”

      He sounded genuinely interested. Most people are. Television does that.

      I shrugged. “We produce reality shows. You know. The programs that are currently multiplying like locusts on your television lineup.”

      “Ah, yes. I think I’ve heard something about those.” His mouth twitched, either amused at my definition or my utter lack of loyalty to my profession. My level of guilt, however, was minimal. Reality shows are a scourge. And at the moment, I was still irritated with John.

      “Still, you’re in the business,” Mike said. “Isn’t that what L.A.’s all about?”

      Okay, I was beginning to really like this guy. He was repeating back to me exactly what I’d told my mother after I’d turned down the law firm position. Not to mention what I told myself every time I felt a twinge about not having yet sold a screenplay. “Exactly.”

      We shared a smile before he cleared his throat and stood up. “Listen, I’ve got a pizza in the fridge that just needs to be heated up. I’d love some company.”

      “Oh. Right. Um.” The truth was that I’d love to just hang out with him, but I’d already filled and exceeded my allotment of sluffing off time for the day. My plan had been to simply veg for a bit—to numb my mind with margaritas and sunshine before returning to the equally mind-numbing task of furniture assembly. “I wish I could. But I have a pile of furniture waiting to be assembled.” I held up my margarita for emphasis. “I took a break to get in the mood.”

      “I understand that,” he said. “I’ve schlepped more boxes to the recycling bin than I care to count, and it’s a wonder my eyes aren’t crossed from reading the assembly instructions on the IKEA shelves I bought.”

      “Exactly,” I said, sensing a kindred spirit. “I mean, who wrote those anyway?”

      “Monkeys with typewriters?” He laughed and I laughed, and for a second I thought maybe he’d offer to help me interpret my monkey-written instructions. But instead, he just stood up and gestured to the pitcher. “Thanks for the margarita.”

      “Oh. Sure.” I started to gather my things, unreasonably irritated that he was so casually departing. I told myself I was annoyed by the breakdown of basic good manners. I mean, a chivalrous guy would have offered to help, right? Even Cullen would have offered. That’s what guys who look good without their shirts do, right? Offer to engage in manual labor so they have an opportunity to show off their pecs?

      Mike, however, wasn’t showing off. He was just gathering his things to leave.

      “So why are you out here all alone? I usually see you with Carla.”

      “She declined my distress call for assembly help,” I said, giving him one more chance at that whole chivalry thing. “It’s okay. I’m well aware of how much she values her manicure.”

      “Which apartment is hers?”

      “Oh, she’s not in this building. She’s in the complex next door.” Our street was lined with apartment complex after apartment complex. “Her building doesn’t have a pool or a laundry room,” I added, by way of explaining why Carla was almost always here. At least, she was here if Mitch-the-Wonder-Stud wasn’t there.

      His eyes met mine and he flashed me a zinger of a smile. “I guess that’s just one more reason why I’m certain I chose the right complex to move into.”

      “Um, yeah.” For a guy who’d just failed Chivalry 101, he could be pretty damn charming.

      “Later,” he said, with a small wave.

      “Right. Later.” I waved goodbye, then watched him head up the staircase while I gathered my things. As I did, I realized he’d taken my extra glass with him. A little burst of emotion shot through me, and it wasn’t irritation.

      No, this was anticipation. Because if he had my glass, I’d have to see him again. And that, I thought, wasn’t a bad thing at all.

      He might not be chivalrous, but he was nice. And another friend in the building never hurt.