Page 84 of The Best Wrong Move

Dom looks faintly annoyed. “Taryn.”

Quinton isn’t listening anymore. He’s studying me closely, mere inches above my face. The whiskey on his breath has a hint of smoky citrus, so I assume his drink of choice must be an Old Fashioned. I vaguely wonder how many he’s had.

“I don’t remember Taryn being this pretty.”

I try not to wince, forcing myself to smile. I never know what to say when men compliment me boldly like that.

“Easy, Quinton.” Dom pats him on the back, then rolls his eyes at me. “Ignore this guy. And go easy on her, Quinton.” There’s an edge to his voice when he addresses Quinton, a slight warning shot I wasn’t expecting.

“Oh gosh” — I wriggle out from under Quinton’s arm — “you’re too kind.” I hold up the most expensive bottle of wine I could find at the ABC Store. “I brought wine!”

“Ah, I’m more of a whiskey man,” Quinton says.

I fight the urge to reply,I can tell.

“Though I appreciate the gesture, love.”

“Ah, you’ve arrived!” Selma — formerly known as Selma Hatfield, the international supermodel — floats around the corner. She’s easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on in person. At least six feet tall in bare feet, probably weighing in around one hundred and ten pounds, practically gliding on air. When she hands me a glass of white wine, I’m blinded by her diamond ring. It’s the size of a ping-pong ball and looks even bigger than that balancing on her chopstick-sized finger. I peel my eyes off it to study her face as she studies me back. She’s absolutely exquisite.

“Selma!” My voice sounds breathy and awkward. I’m grateful for the full glass of wine she’s just handed me. “Thank you for the drink. And for having me here tonight.”

She holds out her hand to shake mine, then pulls me in for a hug. Her frame feels so thin, as though she might break if I squeezed hard enough. Like a tiny bird with hollow bones.

“A pleasure to have you.” She shows me the infamous smile that’s made her one of the most recognizable people in the world.

“You’re gorgeous,” I stutter, knowing she hears that all the time, but it seems like I can’t be in her presence without acknowledging it out loud. She practically radiates perfection.

“Aw, Dom told me you were sweet.” She presses a hand into Dom’s shoulder. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

I’m relieved to have a job to do so I’m not just awkwardly standing around, though I’m surprised to hear that Selma is cooking. I figured either Dom would cook or they’d have a private chef for the length of their stay.

She hands me a frilly pink apron when we get to the kitchen, then snatches it out of my hand and tosses me a crisp white one. “Goes better with that outfit.” She quickly winks at me. “Don’t want you clashing on my account tonight.”

I smile, feeling like she and I are going to get along just fine.

“I appreciate that. Your place here is incredible, by the way. Dom’s been nice enough to let me write in the garden the last few weeks.” I hope she won’t mind.

“You write?” She visibly stiffens.

I glance at Dom, wondering if he only told Quinton that I write. I hope this isn’t a blind pitch, that they know I’m here tonight to meet them, but also to discuss my film project.

“I do . . .”

“What are you writing?” She grabs a head of broccolini and a wooden cutting board. She starts chopping away at it, throwing the pieces into a hot pan over the stove that sizzles with every toss.

I lick my lips, letting her question sink in while my heart pounds in my ears.This is going to be a blind pitch.They have no idea I’m here to discuss my script.

“Funny enough, I’ve just finished a film script, actually.” I fight the urge to close my eyes and hide. I feel sick as the words leave my mouth, saying a silent prayer that she lights up and begs to hear more.

Selma stops chopping. The long knife hovers over the cutting board for a mere four seconds before she resumes. Hitting the board loudly with each chop. Then she flings a handful of broccolini into the wok from across the counter. Half of the bundle misses the pan and tumbles onto the counter beside it.

“Ah, well, we’re not here to talk shop, tonight, are we Quinton?” She says this almost to no one, and certainly not to Quinton, who is too busy across the room, discussing the next whiskey bottle with Dom to hear her. “Can you put that in the pan, please?” She gestures to the pile of broccolini that landed on the counter.

“Right.” I force a smile.What the hell?My nervous energy starts to drain out of me, slowly replaced with a sinking feeling of disappointment.

“We’re on vacation.” Selma raises her brows at me. She grabs a head of cabbage and starts shredding it with the same butcher knife. “I love cooking, don’t you? We’re too busy back home, but, when we’re onvacation, I have all the time in the world to get my hands dirty in the kitchen.” My mouth goes dry as cabbage flies around the cutting board. “It relaxes me.” She pauses to take a long sip of her wine until the glass is empty. She sure doesn’t look relaxed. “Pour me more?” She’s looking directly at me, holding out her glass. “Please?”

I try not to widen my eyeballs too much. The bottle is sitting right next to her, easily within reach. Why would she want me to pour it for her?

---