Page 23 of The Frog Prince
He weaves in and out of traffic as if we’re in the Indy500 and the checkered flag’s about to come down. I’m glad for the front and side air bags. “Not necessarily. There are all kinds of good movies being made these days, and I love indie films—”
“Indies?Like India?” He shifts down abruptly, slams on his brakes, gives the car next to us a look as we’re forced to change lanes. “What do you call those movies? Bollywood?”
I’m not even going to go there. Jean-Marc and I used to see all the foreign films we could, and of course, Jean-Marc adored the French films in particular. He collected the older French films, had one of the most extensive black-and-white collections I’ve ever seen. “What kind of movies do you like?” I ask, determined to get the focus off me.
“Action films. Thrillers. Tom Clancy’s my favorite.”
“Clancy hasn’t done anything in a while.”
“I know.” He makes another abrupt lane change. “What do you think of The Rock?”
“He’s all right.”
“And Vin Diesel?”
I purse my lips. “He’s good, too.”
“Who do you like better?”
“I don’t know that I like one better than another. They’re; both interesting.”
“But who would you rather watch in a movie?”
Are we really having this conversation? “Depends on the movie.”
Tom leans forward, opens the sunroof to let the damp San Francisco night in. “Never mind.” He laughs, reaches over, pats my knee, his hand lingering longer than I like.
I bite my tongue, hard, as the evening stretches before me. Lengthy. Endless. A Kevin Costner film brought to life.
“Feisty girl,” he adds. “I like that.”
And then he growls at me.
ChapterFive
Iwish Icould say the night improved.
It did not.
Tom Lehman liked to talk, especially about himself. Within the first hour of our cocktails, I learned that Tom had attended Brown University, considered going back to school for his MBA, but by then was making so much money as a broker, he passed on higher education to continue building his financial portfolio.
Tom owns his own condo by the water—stunning place, with a view—and has two cars: the BMW and a fun SUV for hauling his toys. He co-owns a “rustic place” in Tahoe with some buddies from the firm so they can ski every weekend in winter (the hot tub Tom insisted they put in has been the best investment ever), and he’s decent on skis but kicks ass on the board.
“You look like a skier, Holly,” he says, motioning to the waitress that we’d like another round. He’s already had two martinis to my one, and I could use another drink, but I can’t stomach another sickly sweet-tart appletini, which is what Tom ordered for me since all girls like it.
“Can I just get a glass of chardonnay?” I ask, trying to smile at Tom as I flag the cocktail waitress down. I don’t know why I feel compelled to ask permission—must be a leftover trait from my good-girl training days—because I really don’t care if he approves or not.
“You loved the appletini.”
“I know. It’s great, it really is, but I don’t want to get too tipsy before dinner.”
Tom winks. “Gotcha.” He orders the wine for me and another Stoli martini for himself, dry, three olives, up. “You don’t have to worry,” he adds in a whisper as the waitress moves on, “I’ll take care of you if you do have too many.”
I smile small and tight. “I’m sure you will.”
He laughs, ha ha. “So what were we talking about?”
“I don’t remember,” I answer, because honestly, at that point, I don’t. And for a moment there’s silence at our bar table, and Tom glances around, drums on the table with his fingertips. He’s not bad-looking—decent features, dark sideburns on the short side, blue eyes-^but his energy makes me nervous. He continues to scan the interior of the bar as if looking for someone or something.