Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Read Online Free Page B

curling around his words that had me somewhat mesmerized. I had to force myself not to stare. He wasn’t attractive in the least but I was fascinated anyway. It was kind of like stopping to watch a car wreck.
    I didn’t waste time. “We’re shooting a Waterstone Iced Tea commercial at Venice beach at the end of the month. I’ve heard nothing but raves about your hors d’oeuvres and sandwiches. I just need to know the total price for lunches for a three-day shoot.”
    He stroked his moustache. Did I mention that he had this kind of Fu Manchu thing going? Not quite the real thing, but close enough to send my mind wandering down red-lit hallways decorated with Chinese lanterns. I really try not to mind facial hair but it is such a turnoff. I can dislike a man on sight if he’s bearded. I hate to admit it. I truly do. But it’s one of those things I just can’t seem to get past. Don the Devout had a close-cropped beard, and I kind of associate facial hair with head-bowing over the dinner table amidst murmurs of Jesus and God and all that is holy. Don’s favorite meal was lamb and tiny roasted potatoes with mint jelly and I can’t face a menu with that combination listed without getting all reverent and nostalgic. (Actually, that’s a lie. Don’s devotion to his religion has left me a bit of an atheist, I’m afraid. Except that I believe in God. Sort of. Don certainly does. Many’s the time I remember him screaming, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, oh, my GAWD ...” which was my cue that orgasm was imminent. Kind of like playing the Star Spangled Banner and then hearing, “Play ball!” I still meld the two events upon occasion.)
    “What are the exact dates?” Liam Engleston said stiffly.
    I pulled out my organizer. A Kate Spade rendition. I’ve thought about Palm Pilots or Visors, but hey, one step at a time. E-mail is great, buying airline tickets online even better. The cell phone’s a wonder, but I tread lightly into the full-blown electronic age. I do love my iMac.
    I gave Liam the information and he rubbed his mustache a few more times. I pasted a polite, “I don’t have anywhere to go right now, you just take your time, honey, don’t mind me one little bit” look on my face and tried to imagine him without the scraggly hair around his mouth. Better. Not good enough though. He still possessed the weird lips and overall nebbishness and priggery. He’d sure as hell better be able to whip up something good in the kitchen. And it better not be traditional English food, I concluded with a slight shudder, contemplating boiled cabbage and potatoes. My California work crew would revolt. But, then, they were the ones who’d recommended this guy in the first place, so who was I to argue?
    “What is your job, exactly?” he asked.
    “Mine? I’m the production manager.”
    He waited.
    “My job is getting everything lined up and ready to go,” I added patiently.
    “Do you have—a superior?”
    I stared. “You mean a superior attitude?” I said it with a smile, though, because I wasn’t sure whether to completely piss him off yet.
    He stiffened. “Do you have the authority to make the final decision, Ms. Bluebell?”
    I said evenly, “We’re asking you if you would like to cater the shoot. If it doesn’t work into your plans, or if you don’t think you can meet the budget, I won’t waste any more of your time. I’ve been given a list of names. Yours was at the top.”
    He was mollified by my little flattery. The faintest of smiles touched those snarly lips. He reached up for another petting of the mustache and then muttered something about getting in touch. I gave him my card, half-inclined to tell him where he could stuff his British bangers. I left without knowing whether he intended to do the job, but I doubted it would matter. I could just tell we were going to get stuck on the price. I decided to call my own favorite caterer—Jill—and tell the crew I’d done my best with Liam. Let ’em howl and