Finding Chris Evans: The Hollywood Edition (5 page)

Chris wasn’t like those college guys. He was older, for one thing. Not that he looked it, but he had the sort of self-possession that only came with time. His hair was thick and sandy blond, his eyes hard to gauge in the low light, but his grin was
insane
. Seriously, that thing should require FDA approval.

He was dressed nicely, but not fancily. New, perfectly fitting dark jeans, crisp, clean white button-down that showed off the breadth of his shoulders. His hands were large and when he’d shaken hers she’d felt the distinct abrasion of callouses, so obviously he knew how to use them—but he hadn’t hesitated to order the top shelf liquor. And it hadn’t seemed like he was doing it just to impress her.

A man used to the finer things with calloused hands and a lopsided grin? He was a conundrum.

“What do you do, Chris?”

“I’m a contractor,” he said after a slight hesitation. “Home renovations. That kind of thing. You?”

“Student.”

“Ah.” He nodded to the phone she’d set on the bar—never more than two inches from where she rested her hand. “You seem awfully organized. Taking a summer vacation to Chi-town before you start school again?”

It was quieter here, on the far side of the club from the stage, but she still had to raise her voice a little to be heard over the rocking seduction of the music. “Actually, I’m local. Or I’m about to be,” honesty forced her to clarify. “I just moved here for medical school.”

“Congratulations. That’s big.”

“Thank you.” She pressed her lips together on a smile, that dizzy excitement bubbling up inside her again. It was real. Medical School. “It’s my first night in town and I wanted to do something to celebrate.”

Their drinks arrived then and Chris took his, lifting it in a toast. “Then allow me to help. Here’s to medical school.”

She grinned, clinking her martini glass gently against his tumbler and taking a sip. The smooth, liquid sweetness of the cocktail coated her tongue and she hummed with pleasure, letting her eyes fall closed.

When she opened them again, Chris’s eyes were locked on her, his throat working as he stared at her lips. She flushed and ducked her head, taking another drink without the choco-gasm.

“Have you always been a planner?” he asked after she swallowed, his attention back on his own drink as if he’d never given her that searing, heart-pounding gaze. “Or is it a coping mechanism to get you through medical school?”

“Always. What can I say? I love it when a plan comes together.”

He snorted, sloshing his scotch. “Did you just quote the A Team at me?”

She blushed—unsure whether she was embarrassed or happy to have made him laugh. “My mom had a thing for Bradley Cooper.”

He paused, studying her with his scotch half-raised. “Had?”

Dang it. She hadn’t meant to drop that into the conversation.
Very sexy, Trina. Tell him all about your dead mom
. “Cancer,” she admitted. “Two years ago.”

Chris shifted on his chair and for a second she thought he was actually going to get up and walk away, but then he pulled something out of his back pocket—his wallet—and flipped it open to show her the photo there. A much younger Chris smiled back at her, sandwiched between two people with such a strong physical resemblance to him they could only be his parents.

“Car accident,” he said. “I was nineteen. Today’s her birthday.”

And her heart broke.

It had been unimaginably horrible losing her mother, losing her best friend and the one person who had always been her anchor, but at least she’d been able to say goodbye. Cancer had been a shit show and a half, but at least it had given them warning. A car accident was so sudden. So final.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry about your mom.” He shrugged, putting away his wallet, but tightness lingered around his eyes. “Life’s a bitch sometimes.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

His glass clinked against hers again and they fell silent for a few minutes, letting the blues wash over them. The current song was slower, aching. Somehow it fit her mood perfectly and she could feel him beside her, caught in the same moment—and for once she didn’t second guess, she didn’t evaluate whether or not what she was about to say would make the other person uncomfortable by confronting them with her personal drama, she just spoke.

“I dropped out of school when my mom got sick. We didn’t have anyone else and I wanted to take care of her. We thought she was going to kick it. A few months of chemo and I’d go back the next semester—but they’d caught it too late. She fought it for two years before I lost her. I went back to school right away—but I’d dropped out in the middle of a semester and I had to retake a bunch of courses. I’m going to be the oldest medical student they have.”

“Trust me. No one is going to look at you and think old.”

Something in his voice made her blush again—and pulled her out of the glue of the past.

He cleared his throat, polishing off his drink and she realized she’d finished hers as well. “So, my little planner, what else did you have on your agenda for the evening?”

“Just this.”

He tapped a finger against the side of her glass. “Another?”

She shouldn’t. She’d never been much of a drinker and she could already feel the swirl of chocolate and vodka making her blood hum warmly—or maybe that was him.

She wasn’t reckless. She wasn’t a risk taker. She didn’t like surprises. But he was smiling at her—that crooked smile—and lifting his eyebrow in question and she heard herself saying, “Why not?”

Chapter Four

The thrill that she had no idea who he was had lingered through the first few sips of scotch, but by the time they ordered their second round the novelty of that had faded into a sharp awareness of Trina and the simple pleasure at her company.

The way she wrinkled her rose when he coaxed her into trying his scotch—then went back for a second sip as the taste lingered on her tongue. The way she perched on the edge of her seat—so prim and contained even while wicked humor glinted in her eyes.

Over and over, he found himself smiling without knowing why, without his cheek muscles pulling with the strain of holding the expression. He didn’t know if it was her or the relief of being with someone who was only judging him for what he was in this moment, rather than the idea of him she’d formed from watching him on television for years.

The last time he’d felt like a woman was really trying to get to know him rather than squeeze him into the box she’d already built in her mind for him was Daniella—and that hadn’t turned out like he thought it would. She’d wanted him as an accessory to her fame, and he had taken far longer than he cared to recall to figure that out.

Now it seemed like every woman he met wanted to cure him of the heartache Daniella had inflicted on him—when the truth was he’d felt like a fool when she’d broken up with him the first time on the show and
twice
as foolish when he’d realized she was only using him to make herself more popular after the show aired and Alan left her. Foolish. Never heartbroken.

He didn’t want a relationship founded on fantasy or pity or some idea she’d gotten of him based on a television show—but Trina didn’t know about any of that bullshit. She just thought he was a nice guy in a bar who could make her laugh.

And damn, he loved making her laugh.

By the time they made it through their second drink, neither of them were paying any attention to the music they’d come here for. He had his arm along the back of the high chair where she sat and she leaned against him, her eyes glittering tipsily at him. “Let’s have another.”

He caught her hand when she would have lifted it to signal the bartender, running his thumb across the back of her fingers to distract her. “Why don’t we get some food? I think you might need some ballast.”

She shook her head, swaying, and wagged a finger on her free hand at him. “
That
wasn’t part of the plan, Mister… Mister… What’s your last name?”

He hesitated, but if she hadn’t recognized his face, she wasn’t likely to recognize the name. “Evans.”

She didn’t blink, smiling tipsily. “Not part of the plan, Mister
Evans
.”

“Don’t you know the best things in life can’t be planned? They happen when you least expect them.”

A shadow flickered in her eyes. “So do the bad things.”

“You can plan every second of every day. It’s not going to keep the bad things from happening. The trick is to have fun in spite of them.” His thumb smoothed over the soft skin on her knuckles. “Come on. Live a little. Throw out the schedule and have a completely unplanned night.”

She shook her head a little. “That isn’t me.”

“Says who? Why do we have to be who people expect us to be all the time?”

“Who do people expect you to be, Chris?” she asked, drunkenly astute.

“Always calm. Always capable. Always confident.”

“Are you those things?”

“Usually,” he admitted. “But it’s nice to think that maybe I don’t always have to be.”

The cameras weren’t rolling tonight. It was just the two of them. The freedom of that was heady stuff.

The bartender slid over his credit card slip and he filled in the tip, signing it and pocketing his card. “So what do you say? I can put you in a cab and we can go our separate ways, or we can see where a completely unplanned night takes us.”

She hesitated, her teeth tugging at her lower lip in a way that tugged at his heart. He felt that same tension he’d felt at the street door—the held-breath nervousness making her decision seem inexplicably significant.

“All right,” she said finally. “One completely unplanned night.”

“Excellent.” He stood up, catching her hand and helping her off the stool. “Let’s start with food.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, her hand snug in his as they moved down the stairs toward the outer door.

“Uhn-uh. No plans.”

“So we’re just going to wander until we find food?”

“I won’t let you starve. Have a little faith in me.”

“I do. I don’t have completely unplanned nights with just anyone, you know.”

He looked back over his shoulder, grinning at her as they exited into the alley. “Good.”

Looking back on it later, Trina should have known he was more than he seemed as soon as they tripped laughingly into his hotel suite three hours later. She’d long since sobered up from the effects of the chocolate martinis, but she felt like she was still buzzing on him. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to become a Chris Evans addict.

They’d found a pretzel cart—which actually took credit—and took their picnic of giant, soft pretzels to Grant Park. They’d wandered through the park, talking, laughing, until she’d told him the Buckingham fountain looked refreshing and he’d lifted her out of her heels and over the low barrier to dip her feet in it.

She’d thought he would kiss her then, with the water in the fountain lit up in bright colors around them, but something had seemed to stop him and he’d tucked a stray curl behind her ear, before lifting her out of the fountain.

They selfied goofily in front of the lions at the Art Institute and wandered hand in hand up the Magnificent Mile—talking about anything and everything. Since it was Chicago, the conversation naturally turned to
Ferris Beuller’s Day Off
. Then
The Blues Brothers
. Other iconic Chicago movies. Music. Even politics and religion. Everything was so easy with him. Even when they disagreed, it was comfortable.

The only thing they both carefully avoided talking about was any mention of tomorrow.

She knew he wasn’t local, that he was only in town for a short while for business, but she was about to start medical school anyway. She didn’t have time to fall in love…even if her heart might have different ideas.

Eventually they found themselves strolling along the Riverwalk. The area was still well lit—even though it was well after midnight and both of them were starting to have trouble ignoring the fact that their unplanned night might be coming to an end. A barge chugged slowly up the river and Chris stopped, turning her into his arms.

She’d known he was going to kiss her—he’d given her enough time to stop him if she wanted to, plenty of opportunity to pull away as he slowly lifted one hand to cup her jaw, his forefinger brushing her temple as he lowered his head. He moved so slowly she’d fisted her hands in his shirt and tugged him that last inch, the first contact searing through her.

Damn
, the man could kiss.

He’d explored her mouth, igniting her senses, until the low blast of a boat horn on the river broke them apart. He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard, and whispered, “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

She smiled up at him through her lashes. “What took you so long?”

“Fear of Romy kicking my ass, for one thing.”

She giggled as he stepped back and took her hand, walking on.

She was a pragmatist. She didn’t believe in magic or fate. But the way this felt—champagne bubbles and static electricity and goosebumps all rolled into one—how could it be anything else?