The Perfect Score

“Yeah,” I said, figuring that it would be more likely that pink pigs would fly by my open window. “True enough.”

Carla sighed, obviously understanding what I hadn’t said: I’d never once defied my boss and I wasn’t about to start now. “Listen, Mitch will probably go home early tomorrow. I mean, he’s got to unpack, right? I could help you then.”

“Great,” I said, but without a lot of enthusiasm. I hung up the phone before she clued in to my suddenly miserable state. If Carla needed shelves assembled, she had Mitch. Me? I had neither a considerate boss nor a studly boy toy.

I leaned against the fridge and sighed, then took another sip of soda. The fact was, I was a neurotic mess. I mean, had I really announced to Carla that I wanted to up my score on a slut test? That was so not like me.

I called Carla back and told her that. She immediately laughed. “Are you kidding? That’s exactly like you!”

“Excuse me?”

“In school, if you made a lousy grade, you obsessed about it until you got it right. That’s why you’re still working for ballbuster John, isn’t it? Because you can’t go somewhere else until you’ve made a huge success of that? Which is ridiculous, actually, because you never wanted to be the queen of reality television. But you’re giving your life to the job. You haven’t finished a new screenplay in months. It’s your dream, Mattie, and you’ve stopped chasing it.”

We’d had this particular conversation about a million times, with Carla pushing and me pushing right back. I’d taken the job to further my writing career, and Carla damn well knew that. Today, though, I wasn’t in the mood to remind her. “This isn’t about my job. It’s about me. I mean, what normal person wants to up their Slut IQ?”

“Whoever said you’re normal?” she countered. “And you’re being ridiculous anyway. You and I both know it’s not about being a slut.”

“It’s not?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You just want to cut loose. Honestly, Mattie, it’s about time. You said yourself that your sex life is boring. And it has been boring ever since your first date. Louis Dailey? I mean, come on! You could have done so much better.”

I frowned at the phone. She had a point. I tended toward the safe guys. The nice guys. I wanted the spice in my life, but I think I was a little afraid that I was too…something for the bad boys. That they’d end up dumping me. And, yes, I was waaaaay too competitive to let that happen.

So I ended up with guys that I ultimately dumped. Guys without the adventurous quality that I craved. The wrong guys—I knew it from the start—but I hooked up anyway.

For years, I’d been living on the edge of a vicious—albeit comfortable—circle. Then Dex had gone and dumped me and my entire world view had shifted one-hundred-eighty degrees.

“A wild fling with Cullen is just the ticket,” Carla said, apparently reading my mind. “He’s definitely the guy to spice up a girl’s sex life, but you know he’s not boyfriend material, so it’s not like you’d date him. So there’s no emotional risk, you know?”

I did know. And it sounded delicious. In a super-scary sort of way.

The truth is, I’ve always played life pretty safe. Studying my ass off in high school because I was terrified of a bad grade. A good college. An even better law school. Not because I wanted to be a lawyer but because my parents had pounded into my head that I needed a solid career. Hobbies—like my love of writing—were fine…so long as I didn’t take them too seriously.

And so I’d emerged from school with a plan. Be an attorney. Get rich. Then do what I wanted. But I’d caught the Hollywood bug (to the chagrin of my mother who likes to pretend that Los Angeles is merely an economic center and not the heart of the film industry). I made the first unpredictable leap in my life—leaving law to take a television job.

I’d had night sweats for weeks before finally making the decision, but even then, I’d played it safe. I hadn’t taken temp jobs to support my writing habit. No, I’d taken an executive-level job with a major production company for an extremely lucrative salary. I was secure, my mom was happy. And most important, I was safe.

Except that so far, safe hadn’t paid off for me. Not in jobs (last I’d noticed, I had yet to win an Academy Award) and not in relationships. Looked at that way, I had to admit that scary might just be good for me.

And besides, Cullen Slater was a male model. A male model. As in über-hot. Odds were good he’d ignore me completely and I’d never be forced to face the sheer lunacy of my plan.

Thus reassured, I hung up from Carla once again, then stood there, peering into the living room. The bits of unassembled furniture were still scattered about. Apparently, the house fairies hadn’t taken pity on me and assembled the things while I was taking my break.

I frowned at the couch, under which the Allen wrench still resided. I didn’t want to rummage under there for the wrench any more than I wanted to sit on my rump staring at doodles that were supposed to be assembly instructions. This was my one rare weekend off! What the heck was John thinking, making me do construction work? Hadn’t he ever heard of worker’s comp? What if I hammered a finger? Or chipped my manicure?

I had a sudden mental image of John in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, panting after some former child star, hoping she’d either shoot up on camera or deign to sleep with him. And all the while, he’d be mainlining Bloody Marys and soaking up the sun.

With a picture like that in my head, is it any wonder I decided that Carla was right? Debauchery really was the way to go. And the damn furniture could wait. After all, I had relaxing of my own to do.

“MATTIE, RIGHT?”

The smooth, masculine voice wafted over me, and I peeled my eyes open, then looked up at him through my RayBans.

“Mike Peterson,” he said, apparently in answer to my blank stare.

“Oh, right. I know. Hi.” In my sunscreen and margarita-induced haze, I’d fantasized the voice belonged to Cullen, home early from this weekend’s photo shoot. I hoped I didn’t sound too disappointed.

He dragged a lounge chair closer. “Do you mind?”

“Um, no.” That was a half lie. After abandoning furniture assembly, I’d rummaged in my cabinets until I found my blender, then repeated the process in the freezer until I found some limeade. The tequila didn’t require a search. I keep it handy, right on top of the refrigerator. One can frozen concentrated LimeAid, a bunch of ice cubes, and a can full of tequila, and I was good to go.

I’d finished one glass and was nursing my second when Mike joined me. Since I’m a lightweight, I already had a nice little buzz going, and I was perfectly content to lie there in the sun, reveling in my newfound status as the rebel of John Layman Productions.

Still, I supposed I could manage to revel and be polite to the new guy. Especially a new guy who looked so damn sexy in swim trunks and a black Universal Studios Hollywood T-shirt. Too bad he was the computer geek, nice-guy type. Too much like Dex to be a candidate for my “guy to have a sexually adventurous relationship” plan. Besides, Carla and I had already picked Cullen. And he was, undoubtedly, perfect for the role.

“Playing tourist?” I asked, gazing meaningfully at the shirt.

He grinned, not at all embarrassed by the fashion faux pas. (I mean, what L.A. local actually advertises the area attractions?) “I’m entitled,” he said. “Until I stop confusing the Hollywood and Santa Monica freeways, I figure I am still a tourist.”

The man had a point. “You’ll get it down,” I said. I pointed once again at the shirt. “So what was your favorite thing?”

“The Back to the Future ride,” he said, referring to the amusement park ride where the guests climb into a mock-up of the famous DeLorean-turned-time-machine and then race around Hill Valley, narrowly avoiding all sorts of obstacles and, of course, barely escaping with their lives.

Since that’s my favorite ride, too, (well, with the exception of the tram ride that takes you through the actual Universal back lot), I gave him a thumbs-up sign and gestured toward the pitcher of margaritas I’d brought down on a tray with two glasses, the extra one for Carla on the off chance Mitch got held up. “You pass,” I said. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He picked up Carla’s glass, then filled it with my frozen concoction. He took a sip and made a face that suggested pure bliss. I grinned in satisfaction and leaned back, tilting my face up to the sun. Anyone who likes my very bold, decidedly not watered-down margaritas is okay in my book.

“I should probably confess something,” he said. I turned to the side. “The Back to the Future ride is really only my second favorite thing at Universal.”

I shifted, propping myself up on my elbow. “Oh? That answer earned you a margarita, bud. I expect some serious explaining.”

“Of course,” he said, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the moment. “My real favorite ride is the tram ride.” He held up a hand as if to halt my protests. “I know. Major Cheez Whiz, but it’s just so damn cool. I mean, you get to see the Psycho house. How do you beat that?”

Okay, I already knew that I liked this guy, but now I really liked him. “You,” I said, with an appropriate tone of respect and awe, “may have as much of my margaritas as you want.”

“I passed?”

“You totally passed.”

“I’m glad,” he said. But this time, the casual banter was gone, replaced by a voice that seemed to trill over me, making me shiver despite the relentless rays of the sun.

I took a long sip of margarita, wondering if he’d put that heat into his voice on purpose, and also wanting to quell the the way the warmth had bloomed inside me. I blamed it on the sun and the alcohol. Not my reaction to the guy. After all, I’d already determined that he was a nice guy. And I’d had my fill of nice guys with Dex.

I took a quick glance his direction and was immediately vindicated. He was, I noticed, holding a battered copy of Asimov’s The Robots of Dawn. For the record, I’m a big fan of Asimov. But so was Dex. And in my experience, guys who read Asimov tend not to be the kind of guys who can provide serious assistance in the sexual satisfaction department. Unscientific, possibly biased. But in Mattie Brown world, that’s a fact.

I told myself that was a good thing. Because that sensual little trill I’d felt a few moments ago was a fluke. A mistake. An alcohol-induced reaction. Not real, and certainly nothing to get excited about. Pun totally intended.

Besides, the truth is that there was no way that Mike I-Read-Asimov-And-Ride-The-Tram Peterson could have pulled out all the sexy-voice stops on purpose. I mean, why would he? Since I happened to know that Cullen was on a photo shoot in Aruba until tomorrow (he’d asked me to bring in his mail), I’d gone to the pool wearing no makeup, and decked out in my rattiest bathing suit, threadbare and sun-faded. The one that does not create the illusion that I have thin thighs. (For the record, my thighs aren’t huge; I know that. But they are disproportioned, or at least I think so. Bigger at the top than oh, say, Kate Moss. Which always makes buying jeans an adventure. At any rate, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my thighs since puberty, with the hate part of the equation usually coming out on top.)

This afternoon, I’d thrown caution and thigh camouflage to the wind. Not to mention makeup, hair and a remotely attractive bathing suit. In other words, I wasn’t exactly exuding sexuality. But I told myself that that was fine, because Mike wasn’t exactly Cullen. Which, to my margarita-soaked mind, put us on pretty equal footing.

I shifted a little, then turned to look more directly at him. I wasn’t really sure if he was keen on talking—he might rather read—but he must have caught my vibe because he lowered the book and shot me a winning smile.

“So how are you settling in?”

He put the book aside, giving me his full attention. “Well, the water pressure in the shower stinks, I still can’t find my electric razor, the radio from my car’s already been stolen and the lady who lives below me seems to think I’m the son she never had.” He smiled, a truly infectious grin, and I found myself smiling back. “In other words, a pretty typical move so far.”

I laughed. “That’s Mrs. Stevenson. She’s lived here since the beginning of time. She’s certain she knows who shot JFK, and insists we never actually landed on the moon. But she’s harmless and she bakes great chocolate-chip cookies. I highly recommend getting on her good side.” Those cookies more than made up for listening to her wild theories at the mailbox.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” When he grinned, a little dimple appeared in his cheek, and I was struck once again by how cute he was. Not knock-you-down gorgeous hunk-o-man like Cullen. But cute. Like your best guy friend in high school.

“Where’d you move from, anyway?”

“Austin.”

“Ah. A cowboy,” I teased.

“Hardly. Before that I was in Silicon Valley.”

“Then you must be a dot-com guy.”

“Something like that. Computer gaming.”

“Ooooh.”

His eyebrows raised. “Why do you say it like that?”

“I’m not saying it any particular way,” I lied.

“Yes, you are. You didn’t just say, ‘oh, computer games.’ You said ‘ooooh,’ like I’d just solved some mystery of life or something.”

“It’s just that that’s a field I know absolutely nothing about.”

That seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded and said, “It’s pretty interesting. Hard work, but interesting.”

In truth, I’d just told a big fat lie, but that was okay. Because this was one of those occasions when it’s okay to save someone’s feelings. Like a guy to whom you would otherwise have to say, I said ‘ooooh,’ because you’d just confirmed what I already thought I knew—that you really are the new nerd in residence. Not boy toy material at all. Which is too bad, because you really are a hottie, and I’m having a hard time not reaching out to stroke your chest.

Okay, yes, that was a little much. And I quelled those thoughts and simply said, “Sounds like you really like it.”

“Love it,” he said. “Right now I’m heading up a team that’s writing the code and the script for a new cutting-edge game. Multiple players, AI interface. It’s going to be state of the art.”

“Fab,” I said, but my enthusiasm was false. Computer games are so not my thing. I played Super Mario Brothers once years ago, lost badly, and was scarred for life. Haven’t hooked up an Xbox, Nintendo or logged on to a game site since. Clearly, Mike and I had very little in common.

Too bad a surprising little voice whispered before I managed to shove it to the back of my brain. Mike was simply not a possibility. I had a plan to up my slut score, and I wasn’t going to leap into a repeat of my three years with Dex simply because that plan—not to mention Cullen Slater—made me nervous.

Of course, considering Mike hadn’t made any sort of a move, I suppose I was getting ahead of myself….

“So what do you do?” he asked, following the traditionally accepted getting-to-know-you patter.

“I work in a production company. I’m the VP of Business Affairs.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be.” I resisted rolling my eyes. “I got into this job because what I really want to do is write screenplays, and I thought it was an in into the industry.”

“It’s not?”

“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.

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