“A restaurant will be fine,” she said quickly. They arrived at her car.

“Good—I’ll set it up,” Jason said. “Where haven’t you been yet?”

Taylor laughed at this. “You’d be much better off asking me where I have been.”

“Okay, where have you been?”

“My office cafeteria.”

When Jason fell silent, Taylor looked over and saw his stunned expression. She straightened up defensively.

“I’ve been busy with work, you know. And I don’t exactly know a lot of people—”

Jason cut her off with a wave. It was something else that had shocked him.

“Is this your car?” He pointed in disbelief at the PT Cruiser.

Taylor waved this off. “Oh no—tonight I figured I’d just take whichever vehicle was closest.”

Jason ignored her sarcasm, unable to tear his horrified eyes away.

“It’s just a car, Jason,” she said, annoyed.

At that, he glanced over at her and grinned.

“You definitely are not from Los Angeles, Taylor Donovan.”

The whole drive home, she tried to figure out whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult.

THE NEXT TWO days flew by quickly with the trial and before Taylor knew it, she was standing in front of her closet on Friday evening. The night was not off to a good start—court had gone on longer than expected, so she was running late for dinner. And now she had the most pressing concern to deal with: what to wear.

Her suits were stylish enough—for suits. But this was Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills, and her first official dinner out in Los Angeles. She didn’t want to look like some jackass from out of town.

On the other hand, she also didn’t want to look like she thought she was on a date. And most important, she didn’t want Jason to think she looked like she thought she was on a date.

Taylor finally settled on jeans, heels, and a white button-down shirt. But even that had its issues: two buttons open, or three? Two or three? She went back and forth in the bathroom mirror at least ten times.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor pulled in front of the restaurant and handed over the keys to the PT Cruiser. The valet gave her the same appalled look that Jason had two nights ago.

Taylor smiled charmingly at him. “You’re going to leave this baby out front, right?”

As the valet stammered some horrified response, Taylor stepped inside the restaurant, where she was greeted by a hostess with an aloof smile.

“Yes, can I help you, miss?”

“I’m meeting someone here,” Taylor said. She paused, suddenly stuck in one of her “realizations.” The whole thing was just so ridiculous. “I’m . . . um . . . meeting a Mr. Andrews here,” she continued, attempting a casual tone. Then she wondered if he used a fake name when making reservations. She’d once heard that Brad Pitt checked into hotels under the pseudonym “Bryce Pilaf.” Cute.

But from the look on the hostess’s face, no secret password or code name was required. The woman straightened up immediately, and her entire demeanor changed.

“Of course,” the hostess said in an awed voice. “You must be Ms. Donovan. It would be my pleasure to show you to your table.” She led Taylor through the restaurant, to a private staircase in back. Upstairs, there were only a few tables. Jason sat at one of them, waiting.

“Sorry I’m late,” Taylor told him when she got to the table.

“Court ran longer than I had expected.”

“It’s fine,” Jason said with an easy smile. “I’m just glad you could make it.”

Taylor watched as his eyes skimmed over her shirt with an appreciative look.

Dammit. She knew she shouldn’t have gone with the three buttons.

TAYLOR SCRUTINIZED THE script that was open on the table in front of her. Now immersed in the project (albeit very reluctantly) she took the job as seriously as any other.

“Then we just need to take out this line here, where you yell at opposing counsel in court . . .” She gave Jason a look, letting him know this was a big lawyer no-no.

The waiter refilled their wineglasses as she continued her lecture. “Remember—you have triangle conversations in court. You speak to the judge, they speak to the judge, but you never speak to each other.”

She turned back to the script and finished reviewing the scene they were working on. After a moment, she pushed the script away, satisfied. “Yep—I think that scene is finished.”

“Do you think it’s good?” Jason asked.

Taylor considered her answer, sensing he wanted more than a meaningless stamp of approval. “I think some of the legal aspects still need to be refined, but it has a good story that should connect with the audience.”

Jason grinned. “You just sounded so Hollywood.”

Taylor smiled guiltily. “I did, didn’t I? See—one evening with you and I’m already corrupted.” She gestured casually to her half-empty glass. “Or maybe the wine’s affecting me.”

“So you approve of my selection?”

“I doubt there’s anyone who wouldn’t,” Taylor quipped. She was hardly about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d somehow managed to pick the one label she’d been wanting to try since getting her first issue of Wine Spectator.

“But your approval is harder to earn and therefore worth more than the others,” Jason returned.

Taylor couldn’t help but smile at that. “Yes, I approve,” she said. “At seven hundred dollars a bottle, I’d better.” She was about to say something else, but decided to bite her tongue.

“Go ahead.” Jason laughed. “I can tell there’s more.”

Taylor grinned. He thought he knew her so well. “I was just thinking that you really do lead a charmed life.”

“Ahhh . . . good, we get it out in the open. My fame and fortune.” Jason leaned in toward her. “Look—I’ll save you the bullshit speech about how I don’t like it, about the lack of privacy, all that. But there are some trade-offs.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ve just accepted those things as part of the package.”

“Trade-offs beyond the lack of privacy?”

Jason waved this off. “That doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.”

“Then what?”

He thought about this. When he finally answered, Taylor thought she heard something in his voice. Something . . . genuine.

“People think they know you because the magazines portray you a certain way, or because you’ve played a particular part in a movie. And most of the people who supposedly are close to you don’t care about who you really are anyway, because to them you’re just a product, a commodity to sell. So it’s not real. None of it’s real.”

He glanced over at Taylor cautiously, as if expecting her to laugh. She didn’t.

“Jeremy seems real,” she said in a gentler voice than usual.

This made Jason smile. “Jeremy and I have been friends a long time. He is as real as they get. Also cocky, condescending, and sarcastic—”

“How do you two ever get along?”

Jason grinned at her sarcasm. He eased back, swirling his wineglass. “You can throw all the little barbs you want, Taylor Donovan. It doesn’t bother me one bit. Because secretly, I think you like spending time with me.” He winked at her. “It’s okay, you can admit it—I already know.”

Taylor rolled her eyes disdainfully. “You’re way too confident.”

“Do you know that the average American woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five has seen each of my movies six times?”

Taylor scoffed at this. “Who told you that bullshit statistic?”

“Okay then, how many times have you thrown down ten dollars to see me on the big screen?”

“Not six.”

“How many times?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, trying to think of a way to lawyer herself out of the question.

Jason’s eyes widened at her gesture. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Donovan, but your answers need to be audible for the court reporter.”