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“Fine by me.” He carried my glass of wine and a longneck beer for himself.
I opened my Milk Duds as we took our seats. I shook the box, loving that rattling noise they made. I was weird that way. “You sure you don’t want some?” I asked him.
“I’m good.” He grinned, swigging his beer and handing over my wine.
I lifted the tray beside the seat and set my wine there. Two older ladies tottered in and sat down lower, closer to the screen.
“You know?” I said, popping a Milk Dud in my mouth. “My Mom and I used to watchBarefoot in the Parkall the time growing up. It’s one of our favorites.”
He sipped his beer. “What is it you love so much about it?”
“The writing is perfect comedy. Neil Simon was a genius. Plus,” I whispered, a little tipsy from all the wine tonight. I had that lovely, happy buzz fizzing through my body. “I might’ve had a serious crush on Robert Redford. And on Paul Bratter.”
He turned his head, making me realize how close our faces were in these seats. The view of him up close made me feel even more intoxicated.
“How am I doing playing your childhood crush?” he asked in that low, intimate rumble.
“You’re doing really, really good.”
I was such a wordsmith after a few glasses of wine.
He licked his lips, gaze on my mouth. “I’m going to use my superior acting skills—”
“Cocky.”
“Confident. And stop interrupting. As I was saying, I’m going to use my superior acting skills to make you fall hard for me, Mouton.”
“So you can do what? Point and laugh, proving how awesome of an actor you are?”
“So I can prove how good we could be.” Heated hazel eyes flicked from my mouth to my eyes. “Then I’ll keep you.”
My insides liquefied. My heart catapulted faster. Then the lights went out and the screen shined brightly as the reel started. I broke our hypnotic trance first, focusing on the screen and trying to calm my heart rate. He settled in his seat, calm and assured as always.
There were a few trailers for next month’s features,The Quiet Manwith John Wayne andBreakfast at Tiffany’swith Audrey Hepburn.
When the intro music and credits started forBarefoot, Bennett draped his arm around me. Stiff at first, I managed to settle into his shoulder and watch Jane Fonda’s rendition of Corie Bratter. She was excellent, even though I played her with a bit more edgy snark.
When Mr. Velasco picked up Corie on-screen to turn on the heater and Paul walked in, catching them in what looked like a compromising situation, I belted out a laugh and knocked the Milk Duds off my lap. They fell to the right of me.
“Oh, crap,” I mumbled.
“Let me,” said Bennett, leaning over and across my legs to reach for the box.
He paused when he was fully bent over my lap, his eyes snagging where my dress had ridden up to mid-thigh. I watched him, my attention no longer on the big screen.
He froze for a few seconds, then he was on his knees in front of me. Though there was more space in the aisles than in modern-day theaters, I was thinking how big and broad his shoulders were as he knelt before me, his fingers skating up the backs of my calves.
Thissowasn’t a fake business date.
I shivered. Then he lifted the glass of wine and set it farther away on his tabletop, turning to look in the direction of the two elderly ladies. They were laughing at the screen.
I wasn’t. I was riveted to the man in front of me with ravenous hunger in his heated gaze. He folded the table down so that there was nothing between us.
Then those long fingers coasted up the front of my legs and thighs, so slowly, like he was waiting for me to push him away.
“Betty.”
Mouth parted and breath coming faster, I managed to whisper, “Huh?”
