Not in the Script (23 page)

A few minutes later, Rachel likes me again, and we say good-bye.

I throw the back door open. “Ever heard of Windex, buddy?” I ask Jake. “ 'Cause you're about to wipe off every one of those blowfishes you just put on my window.”

“You're the one who left me standing out there,” he says. “For like, twenty minutes.”

I laugh at his pouting. “Five. I was talking to Rachel. And if you can put the water on the table without making another mess, you can clean the window later.”

Jake heads over to my fridge, sets his small carton of ice cream in my freezer, then takes out some bottled water. He juggles the bottles in the air a few times before sliding them across my small round table, narrowly missing the salad I already placed there.

He's in a plain white T-shirt. Yummy.

Food, Emma. Focus on the food
.

I return to stirring the sauce, but he's suddenly right behind me. “What's next?”

“Can you grab the garlic bread out of the oven?”

“Garlic?” he asks. “So much for that
something else
I thought of.”

“Exactly why I made it,” I say, but have to tell my imagination to stop drawing that picture for me. Erase it.
Now
. “You're here because we need to talk about a business proposition and tweet—nothing more. Well, maybe one or two things more, but not … that.”

Jake peeks over my shoulder, and I can feel his warm breath on
the back of my neck. Why is he teasing me like this? “Dang,” he says. “I even brushed my teeth.”

I push him toward my oven mitts. “Are you ready to hear my idea?”

“Yep, shoot.”

I've been excited out of my mind to talk to him about this. “Do you remember our first day on set, when I awkwardly announced that I was starting a charity foundation?”

“Yeah, I do.” He slides the garlic bread onto a plate. “What's it for?”

“Well, it's taken a while to figure that out,” I reply, “but your mom was the one who put me on the trail of a solid idea. And you were a lot of help too.”

Jake raises his brows. “Interesting. So … you're setting up a support group for friends and family of chronically arrogant boys?”

“No, you dork! Though that isn't a bad idea either.” I hand him the bowl of spaghetti and shoo him toward the table. “Okay, now sit down and act like a guest.”

He relaxes into a chair and, in a formal tone, says, “Jake Elliott will now be playing the role of the guest, which he's very happy about since takeout is getting old.”

Wanting to get settled before I dive into the foundation, I hurry and place everything else on the table and sit across from him. I scoop a mountain of pasta onto his plate, but he sneaks even more when I turn away for the sauce.

“Back to the foundation,” I say when our plates are full. “I hope this isn't too nosy, but suppose you didn't have the money to pay for your mom's medical care and rehabilitation. Would her insurance and other benefits be enough to cover the expenses?”

Jake leans back in his chair. “Not even close. She was self-employed before her stroke, so her insurance was minimal. And government programs never provide as much as you think.”

“So without the job you have, how do you think things would be for you guys?”

He considers this. “Well, I'd still be working just as hard somewhere else, but for a lot less money. There's no way I could've bought her a new house. And her home care and rehab bills alone are in the thousands every month. So if I couldn't pay for all that, things would be
very
different. Especially for her.”

“That's what I figured,” I say, “which is why I'm starting a foundation that will not only offer financial aid to the physically disabled, but social support as well.” Jake's eyes are wide open now. “It will provide funds for motorized wheelchairs, prosthetics, physical therapy, home health care—things like that. And I'm also hoping to organize a network of volunteers who are willing to help these people learn new hobbies, or continue old ones if they can't do them on their own anymore. Like quilting or painting, or whatever.”

I've been doing tons of research on this and even used it for a sociology paper.

Jake doesn't say anything. He just smiles and moves a hand across the table … then slowly lifts my own hand and slips his fingers under my palm. A shower of chills races through my body. We're both quiet.

“You blow me away sometimes,” he finally says, and lets go. He'd only held my hand for about five seconds, so maybe he didn't mean to hold it at all. Maybe it was just meant to be a long sort of touch. Or maybe a nudge? Like when you're telling a friend she did a good job, and you nudge her. But with your hand?

No, that's stupid.
He held my hand
.

There's a slight possibility that I might have a goofy grin on my face. “Well, as I said, you and your mom were the ones who gave me the idea. And I know the foundation can't help
everyone
, but I hope it can at least do some good.”

Jake takes another slice of garlic bread. “It sounds great. But you'll eventually need more money than your own for this, right?”

“Right. That's where you come in,” I say. “Once the foundation is up and running, I'd love it if you could help me get a good start on the donations, because you like the business side of things. I figure that between the two of us, we know a lot of deep pockets with big hearts.”

“Yeah. I'd like that,” he says.

“Thanks!” Gosh, I'm smiling a lot. I take a bite of spaghetti.

“Just let me know when you're ready.” Jake leans back in his chair again, his hands behind his head. “
Emmalicious
.”

“Ugh. You read that?”

“Just trying to keep up like everyone else.”

I pluck an olive out of my salad and throw it at him. “You're officially banned from reading tabloids, paper or otherwise. That crap was only posted online a few hours ago.”

“But you see, my friend Sophie reads all that stuff,” Jake explains. “And she called me as soon as my plane landed tonight. She thinks since I know you guys, I should be obsessed with
Bremma
too.”

Sophie?

“When, really, it makes you less interested because you know the truth?”

“Sure. Whatever,” is all he says. He takes a bite of spaghetti
and chews as he smiles. I chuck another olive at him, and he swallows. “You don't have to get violent! I just think you're blind to what's going on: I'm pretty convinced that Brett really likes you.”

I laugh. “No way! Don't tell me you're buying into this too! Brett doesn't like me that way
at all
. In fact, yesterday at the Dodgers game, he wanted my help to hit on one of my friends. And by the end of the game, I was like, ‘Stay the heck away from her!' because he told me all sorts of sick ideas he had to make this good girl turn bad. Does that sound like something a guy would do if he was interested in
me
?”

Jake hesitates before he answers. But why? What is there to hesitate about?

“No. Not usually,” he says. “But that bum just became my worst enemy. Look at this.”

Jake hands me his phone with his Twitter app on the screen. “I thought we were setting up your account
together
,” I say in a teasing tone. But I'm sort of wondering if someone else helped him. Not that he actually needed help. It's just … who is Sophie, anyway?

Jake shrugs. “My flight was delayed today. I was bored.”

I turn my attention back to his phone. “Whoa. You set this up
today
? But you already have over three thousand followers.”

“Yeah. Scroll down and you'll see why. All the way to the beginning.”

It takes me a while to get through hundreds of tweets—99 percent of them from women. I can't help but pause on a few because some are very … suggestive. Then at last, I reach the conversation between Jake and Brett that apparently started this landslide of female
charm
:

Brett Crawford @actorincognito

@onlyhre4thefood #WTH man?! Your profile pic is of the BACK OF YOUR HEAD!

Jake Elliott @onlyhre4thefood

@actorincognito And yet I still look better than you. #gofigure

Brett Crawford @actorincognito

Hey lady friends! Go say hello to my new #CoyoteHills castmate @onlyhre4thefood! He's single! #pleaseretweet

That isn't the worst of it: along with this last tweet, Brett attached Jake's Armani ad with the cowboy chaps, then posted several more of Jake's ads with the same message.

“My, my,” I tell him. “You've got some very aggressive
fangirls
.”

Jake takes his phone away. “I don't think this is what Vicky meant by ‘friendly banter.' ”

“It's exactly what she meant.” I step away from the table to check on the peach cobbler. Jake follows me, and I have this crazy urge to reach back for his hand. But I don't, of course. “Ready for dessert?”

“Yep. It smells delicious.”

That's when I notice the oven clock. “Oops, I forgot! My dad's gonna call you any minute.”

Jake stands perfectly still and silent. Then, “
Huh
?”

“Sorry! I meant to tell you earlier,” I say, and grab Jake by the shoulders. For a beautifully tanned Arizona boy, his face is looking pretty pale right now. “Relax. I told him that you want a business
degree, but have to do most of it distance ed. That's all. So he's just going to give you some ideas on how to juggle the course work.”

“Because he's a dean?” Jake's confused expression is sort of adorable.

“Of the College of Business. At the University of Arkansas.”

He smiles. “You've never mentioned the
business
part of that.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't want to until he agreed to give you some advice.”

Jake's cell rings and the sound startles me like a freight train just blasted through my kitchen. But it's perfect timing because my hands are still on his shoulders, and his own hands have somehow found their way to my waist.

And I want them there.

Only a father with some serious parental instincts could sense when a guy is eyeing his daughter the way I'm looking at Emma, hundreds of miles away from him. Why else would he pick that very second to call? But Mr. Taylor has nothing to worry about. When my cell rings, Emma steps away from me—
fast
. I clear my throat and answer, “Hello, this is Jake.”

“Jake, Bob Taylor. Emma told me you want to be a businessman.”

Brisk and to the point. I straighten up. “Yes, Mr. Taylor. Thanks for calling.”

Emma snickers at my formality, so I lightly step on her foot as I walk off to her living room. For the next fifteen minutes, Mr. Taylor fires questions at me, I try to come up with impressive answers, and then he gives his opinion on what I should focus on first. At the end of the conversation, he says I can call whenever I
need “further assistance.” I thank him for his time, and he tells me, “Happy to help. Good luck.”

And that's it.

I return to the kitchen to find Emma scooping peach cobbler onto some plates. “Your dad had some great advice,” I say. “Thanks for thinking of that. Really.”

Emma hesitates before she replies. “He didn't give you his lecture about acting only being a career for the narcissistic, did he?”

“Well, yeah,” I lie. “But I just said, ‘I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. I was talking to myself.' ”

Emma laughs and hands me a plate of cobbler. The ice cream on the side is already melting from the heat. I mix it all together and shovel a huge spoonful into my mouth. “Dang,” I say after a few seconds in heaven. “Does my mom pay you to be nice to me? Dinner, the call from your dad, and now
this
?”