“Have you written anything I might know?”

“Maybe. I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.”

I tense and have a sudden urge to flee the kitchen. He notices. “I am off the record tonight, so relax. I’m just a guest here like you.”

He extends his hand. “Jesse Harris.”

“Chrissie.”

“Good, now I’ve officially met one person and I can go home. That was the deal I had with my brother.”

I laugh and pop open the top. I don’t bother to get a glass and take a sip from the can. I ease up on the butcher block table in the center of the room, to sit on the edge with my legs dangling.

“So, who are you here with?” he asks.

“Sort of a guy.”

God, that came out stupid.

Jesse laughs.

“Just my luck. The cute ones are always with sort of a guy. So, why are you in the kitchen instead of with your sort of a guy?”

I usually hate it when people make fun of me, but there is something just plain nice about Jesse Harris. He seems too nice to be a reporter.

I shrug. “He’s dancing with an ex-girlfriend. I’m not sure what I should do.”

He takes a sip of his beer. “I’m a writer. Give me your options. I’ll give you expert advice on the right option.”

“You’re a reporter not a novelist. You’re the wrong kind of writer.”

“I’m a reporter to pay for being a novelist. So give me a shot. Let’s see if I’m going to be a good novelist.”

I laugh, and I am suddenly aware of some of the nicer changes in me since Alan. I am more confident. More comfortable in my skin.

“Well, I was debating just going out there planting a big wet one on him and locking myself to his side like a Siamese twin.”

“I can tell you right now that that one is definitely wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’ll like that, and he was a jerk to leave you all alone ending up in the kitchen with me.”

“Why do you say that? Is there something wrong with you that I should be worried about?”

Those gorgeous hazel eyes lock on me. “I find you incredibly cute and I’d take you out of here in a heartbeat if I thought I had half a chance.”

Whoa, where did that come from? Shy and yet direct. Interesting.

I shake my head and push away that thought.

He smiles. “What’s the other option you were thinking to do?”

Boy, he is really good looking when he smiles. Why isn’t he out there enjoying the party?

I take another sip of my Coke and say, “Just going out there, forgetting all about him, and having a good time at the party.”

He holds up a hand, palm down and gives me the iffy wobble. “Better than option one, but not good.”

I cross my legs at my ankles and make them swing a little more. “OK, since you’re the writer, what would be better?”

Hazel eyes lock on me like a laser. “Leave with me.”

Oh my, not what I expected. I’ve gone as far in this as I should. It was fun, for some reason Jesse hitting on me was fun, even though he’s right. He doesn’t have a chance. Three weeks ago, he would have. But not today.

I pretend to give it serious thought. “Sorry, I don’t think I can do option three.”

“Why not? I sort of had the feeling I was doing this better than I usually do. Why shoot me down now?”

I start to laugh. “Because the guy I’m sort of with is Alan Manzone.”

He gives me the oh-shit-good-one face. I push off the counter and go to the freezer. “Are you hungry? They have all this fancy food out there, but you know what I’d really like is some ice cream.”

I rummage through the cartons and pull one out. “Häagen-Dazs, Swiss Vanilla Almond.”

I grab a spoon and ease up on the counter next to Jesse. I pull off the lid, take a bite, and offer him the spoon.

“Why are you really hiding in the kitchen?” I ask.

Jesse takes a spoonful and then laughs. “I’m not hiding. I’m exhausted. I flew in from Afghanistan wanting only a hot shower and sleep, but Sandy dragged me here. I’ve been covering the aftereffects of the Soviet withdrawal.”

I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. “Sounds interesting,” I say, filling my mouth with ice cream.

Jesse laughs. “No, it doesn’t. Most Americans don’t even know where Afghanistan is or what the hell the Russians did there.”

My cheeks warm, their color betrays me. “I’m not political. My father, extreme ’60s radical. It’s made me not political, but I’m sure lots of people find your work interesting.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Jesse laughs. “So, what are you then? A model?”

I kick him with a leg. “No, a cellist.” I frown, shake my head, and take another bite. “Well, sort of, or maybe I should say, used to be. I’m kind of confused about that part of myself right now.”

Those divine eyes lock on me. “So, tell me one thing about yourself that you are not confused about.”

“That she already has a date for the evening.”

The voice I hear is not the one in my head.

I look up, startled, to find Alan in the kitchen doorway. He crosses the kitchen, planting his hands on either side of me, and gives me a kiss that would have embarrassed me if we’d been alone in the bedroom: wide open mouth, full tongue, hard, fast and sexual.

I force my body not to respond and when he finally pulls back, his black eyes are burning and probing. “You’ve been back for two hours. Where have you been?”

So, he does know when I got back. Why didn’t he look for me? And why is he angry with me?

I shrug. “I called Jack. Had daiquiris in the bedroom with Linda. And I’ve opted to eat ice cream with my new friend, who wants to take me home with him.”

Shit, what made me say that last part? Not smart, Chrissie. Not smart to say something that might set Alan off. Ian and Vince rise as vivid warnings in my head, and on top of that, it was a really shitty thing to do to Jesse.

I shift my gaze to find Jesse watching uncomfortably from his perch beside me.

Those black eyes burn into me. “I hope you said no.”

“Nope, I said maybe. He thinks you’re a jerk for leaving me alone at a party.”

I wait.

Alan tosses a terse smile at Jesse. “Hi,” he says in a tight, clipped way. Jesse doesn’t bother to respond, he just sits there watching, and then I realize he’s trapped just like me, with Alan’s body between the counter and the door.

“You’re pissed,” Alan accuses.

I look away from him. “I’m not pissed.”

He runs a hand through his hair in a jerky, irritated way. “I’m sorry about the party. Will you leave the kitchen with me now?”

“No. I hate parties. I never go to parties. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to a party tonight. I come back and pouf there’s two hundred people here.”

“This has been on the calendar for weeks. I forgot about it,” he explains in heavy frustration. “This is work. Part of what I do. Everyone important is here, giving me the once-over, making sure I’m worth the investment. It’s part of the business. Seeing if I’m sound before they put up the money.”

I lift a brow. “I understand the business. You don’t have to lecture me on that. I just don’t like parties, OK?”

“Not even with me?” He gives me that smile with the slightly downturned corners of his lips; not happy, not sad, just in-between and endearing.

My eyes round. “No. Especially not with you.”

He nods and is a little more friendly when he looks at Jesse. “You’re right. I am a jerk. I’m lucky she stayed.”

“Very lucky!” Jesse says in that affable way he has.

That annoys Alan. “Very lucky,” he amends.

Alan takes my spoon and scoops out a generous bite of ice cream. “So, how is Jack?”

“I don’t want to talk about Jack.”

“OK.” Alan takes another scoop. “Are you going to stay in the kitchen all night?”

“No. At some point I’ll probably go to bed.”

Alan frowns. “You are not going to bed. There are people out there you really should meet.”