Page 34 of A Star is Scorned
Hell, he had even endured the droning speech from the Symphony Association’s president, asking every guest to open their hearts and their wallets to help save the orchestra. When they’d passed around a plate, the expectant grin on Livvy’s face had him reaching for his pocketbook and placing a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the collection platter. She’d given him a look of such pure joy at this act of generosity that he’d turned his wallet upside down and emptied the rest of its contents without thinking twice.
The thought that he would do anything to make her smile like that flitted through his mind. But he dismissed it as gratitude for how she’d saved his hide with Devlin and Hays.
He flinched as the violins and French horns clashed in a cacophony of notes. This was grim. He was shocked his ears hadn’t started to bleed yet.
He glanced at Livvy, expecting to see the same blissful rapture on her face that he had committed to memory throughout the previous two numbers. But instead, she was studying her napkin. If he dipped his head just so, he could make out a grimace pulling at the edges of her mouth. She hated this song as much as he did. It was strangely satisfying.
He looked at her plate, where her chicken also remained largely untouched. She’d made her mashed potatoes into two mountains and mixed in flecks of the broccoli to make it look like a snowy forest. It was whimsical and lovely and unexpected. That was Livvy, to a T.
He leaned over. “Would you like to go somewhere a little less…atonal?” he murmured in her ear. She grabbed at the napkin in her lap, disguising her laugh as a cough. Her eyes darted to the table next to theirs where Harry was seated, flanked by Hays andDevlin. “Won’t he—”
Flynn shook his head. “We came, we’ve had our picture taken. You won over Will Hays. He should be more than satisfied.”
She furrowed her brow and bit her lip. “I don’t know…” She kept looking between him and Harry. “I should probably stay; I wouldn’t want to give Harry reason to scold me. Besides, the studio car is supposed to pick me up here. How will they find me?”
“Shhhh,” hissed another guest at their table, a woman with gray hair piled into a mass of curls in a style that hadn’t been popular in this century.
Livvy looked at Flynn as she shook with giggles and rolled her eyes. He could just make out the tip of her delectably pink tongue behind her napkin as she stuck it out in the direction of the shusher.
“I’ll drive you home,” he whispered. She still looked uncertain, her desire to leave clearly conflicting with her need to please Harry.
As if to punctuate the urgency of his offer, the clarinets and piccolos joined in a discordant trilling of chords that had Flynn fearing for the durability of the crystal goblets at each place setting.
Livvy winced at the sound and nodded. “Okay, I can’t stand it any longer.”
She put her hand in Flynn’s. It felt right—small, yet so strong—and her fingers knotted between his. His stomach lurched with excitement at the press of her palm. Or maybe he was woozy after three cocktails and just a bite of dry chicken and flavorless broccoli.
They stood together and he pulled her to the door, ignoring the mutters and gasps that erupted. He looked over his shoulderand stifled a laugh when he watched Livvy hold her hand to her head in Harry’s direction, feigning a headache.
“You know he won’t believe that for a second,” he growled in her ear.
“Yes, he will.” She looked quite pleased with herself. “Because I’m not you.”
She had him there.
Chapter 12
Flynn revved the engine and Livvy screamed, laughing as he pushed his foot to the gas and they peeled away from the intersection. Her hair was streaming behind her, a snarl of curls in the wind, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. That realization itself was thrilling—even more than the purr of the engine or the rush of adrenaline she felt as Flynn darted in and out of lanes and around slower cars.
“Where are you taking me?” she called over the roar of wind that whipped past them as he drove down neon-streaked streets, past blinking lights.
“Do you like Mexican food?” he asked, his voice similarly raised.
“I’ve never had it.”
He turned, his jaw hanging open in an exaggerated gape. “You what?”
“My parents didn’t like spicy food. And at any rate, we hardly ever ate out.”
He made a sharp left turn, and she slid toward him on the bench seat, the edge of her thigh colliding with his much firmer, more solid leg. She liked the feel of him pressed against her far too much. The embers of her girlhood crush were too easy to fan back to a raging fire.
Just as she was about to scooch back to her side of the car, he pointed ahead. “See that sign in the distance? That’s the El Cholo Café.” She squinted and could just make out the hot-pink neon sign that burned the name of the restaurant into the night sky. “I promise you, it’ll be the best meal you’ll ever eat.”
“You have an exaggerated opinion of everything, don’t you?”
He turned and gave her a gleaming movie-star smile. “Only of myself. But I have a feeling you might just cure me of that.”
The confession stole her breath away. He was teasing, right? This was all for fun, for show, to get him in good with the Production Code Administration and the Legion of Decency. A task she hoped they’d accomplished tonight.
