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His expression softened slightly, but if he’d intended to say something useful, the buzzing of the oven timer cut it off. “The frittatas are ready. If you sit over there, I’ll bring you your food.”

I’d been dismissed. But only to the counter behind us. This second island had no cupboards or appliances built in and was lined with bar stools along one side. I took a seat at one in the middle and watched as Reeve spooned the eggs onto our plates, any desire to pout dissipating. For one thing, he was too delicious to look at with his sculpted bare chest and sweatpants that rode low enough to highlight the sexy V where his torso met his thighs.

For another, he’d said that he didn’t do this often. What did that mean about me? I’d lied to him when I’d said I knew I wasn’t special. There were too many subtle signs from him that suggested not exactly that I was, but that maybe I could be. In the bedroom, though. Outside of there, I wasn’t so sure.

And what about Amber? Had she thought she was special? Had she been?

Perhaps it was best that he’d ended my line of questioning, because there were some answers I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I let out a weary breath and was ready with a grateful smile when Reeve set a plate in front of me, and another at the spot next to me. He didn’t sit yet, grabbing utensils and napkins next and making one more trip for mugs and the coffee pot.

As he filled my cup, I nodded to the unopened LA Tribune that was also on the counter. “A newspaper?”

“What’s wrong with a newspaper?”

“Nothing. Except the death of trees. Welcome to the modern age, Reeve, where you can get your news on an environmentally friendly device called an iPad.”

He shook his head emphatically. “It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not.” I took a sip from my mug. “It’s better.”

“My father used to read the newspaper,” he said, sliding onto the stool at my side. “As time goes by, my memories of him fade, but him and his Sunday paper – that’s a constant. As long as they continue to print, I’ll subscribe.”

“I take back everything I just said. I’m a bitch.” It wasn’t like I could have known, but I couldn’t help being disgusted with myself as I stuffed a bite of frittata in my mouth. “Holy shit. This is really good, Reeve.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”

“Thank you for making it,” I said, better late than never. “Where did a guy like you learn to cook?”

“My grandmother. She believed that every good Greek boy needed to know his way around a kitchen.”

He was tender when he talked about his family, reverent even, and I had a feeling he’d tell me more if I prodded. There were things I could learn from the conversation, but I couldn’t bring myself to pursue it. I would only use the information for gain, and while that was my agenda with him, it felt wrong to defile that now.

So I said simply, “You can feed me any time you like.”

“Can I, now?” He reached over and picked a piece of orange off my plate. “Open.” When I did, he placed it in my mouth but didn’t let go, holding it there with his finger and his thumb. “Now suck.”

I slid my tongue under the slice and sucked both the fruit and his fingers until he was moist and sticky and the space between my thighs wasn’t far from the same.

“I may have to remember this for the future.” His voice was huskier than it had been a moment before.

“Please do.”

Reeve reached for the business section as we dug into the meal, which I took to mean he preferred to eat in silence. I decided to give him that, picking up the entertainment news.

“Are you actively auditioning right now?”

I turned my head toward him and found him peering at me sideways. “No. The show’s going strong. I figure I can be happy with that for the time being.” Or content. Or maybe just not miserable. Besides, my career wasn’t really my focus at the moment.

Reeve made an mm sound, returning his eyes to his paper. I might have assumed he was bored with my answer, but I heard something else underneath. If he had something to say, I wanted to hear it.

I swiveled toward him. “Do you not approve? After all the other women you’ve dated, it’s probably embarrassing to be seen with one who plays a silly robot’s voice on network television.”

He threw me a sharp look of disapproval. “Don’t do that. You aren’t that girl.”

Not what girl? I wanted to ask. Because all I could think was that he meant I wasn’t Amber. And I knew that.

He lowered his paper. “You just seem to not be entirely satisfied with your role on the show. When you talk about it, you’re always demeaning it.”