Free Pool Man by Sabrina York Page B

margarita—several, in fact—and watched her float in the pool while I thought it over.
    And I decided to keep her.
    She didn’t seem like a typical groupie. As far as that goes, I was convinced she didn’t even know who I was. I have no idea why that bothered me. There were probably lots of people who’d never heard of me. Somewhere.
    Not that I was a slave to my ego. I was just used to being recognized. Which was why, when I went on vacation, I opted for the most remote spot I could find. A spot where it was highly unlikely that a groupie would waltz into my foyer and strip naked.
    As a groupie, she was a dismal failure.
    She hadn’t even asked me to sign her boob.
    She hadn’t asked anything of me…except me.
    Maybe that was why I was still fascinated with her, now, weeks later.
    I stabbed at my frittata. That was a lie and I knew it. There were many other reasons why I was fascinated with her. Her ignorance of my name was not one of them.
    I should have called her on it the first time she called me Jimmy. I should have said something— um, I’m not Jimmy , perhaps—but that would have ended it right then and there. And she was too amusing. Too alluring. Too damn much fun. And fuck, I’d wanted her.
    Maybe I should have said something the fourth or the fifth time she called me Jimmy. Or all the times she’d warbled his name when I was buried deep inside her. But I didn’t. Because by then it was too late. By then I couldn’t bear for it to end.
    And then one day I woke up and she was gone. Everything was gone. Every vestige of her existence had disappeared.
    As though she’d never been there at all. As though I’d imagined everything.
    I sure as fuck hadn’t.
    It was etched on my brain. Every minute. Every word. Every touch.
    But she was gone and all I knew about her was that she was a publicist here in LA.
    Hell, I didn’t even know her name.
    She’d tossed it out breezily that first day, but I’d been so preoccupied by the sight of her in that itsy-bitsy excuse of a bikini, I’d missed it. And I thought it might make things awkward if I asked her later.
    Excuse me, miss, I know we just fucked brilliantly and unforgettably in my bed, but what was your name again?
    Yeah. Awkward.
    Now I wished to God I’d asked.
    Now I had nothing to go on except for her offhand comments about work, and I desperately wanted to find her, touch her, hold her again.
    Hell. There were a million publicists in LA. Maybe more.
    After she’d left, inspired, I’d spent the rest of my month-long hiatus working on a book of my own. Sizzling Recipes for Seduction . My hope was she would discover the book someday in a bookstore. Flip it over. See my face. My hope was she’d read it. Recognize herself in the words and contact me. It was a thin hope, but it was something.
    And hell, I needed something .
    The acrid odor of scorched sulfur wafted to my nostrils and I glanced down at my pan and winced.
    Shit. I’d done it again. I’d been burning food a lot lately.
    “Cut!” Sergio’s bellow rocked through the studio. I shot an apologetic look around the room. The crew was glaring at me and grumbling.
    They did that sometimes. More so, lately.
    Ethan, my manager, scuttled over, looking out of place in an Armani suit. The crew was dressed in casual grunge and I wore my typical uniform for a taping—jeans and a tee shirt complete with my Stud Chef apron. But Ethan almost always wore a suit. I think he thought it gave him some sort of managerial élan. It might have, had it fit him. Slender and slight, he looked like a boy trying on his father’s clothes.
    “Danny, what the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed.
    “Wrong with me?” Nothing was wrong with me that finding a certain blue-eyed vixen couldn’t cure.
    “You keep zoning out right in the middle of a dish. Staring off into space.” Ethan put his fists on his hips and shot me a reproving glance. It came off as a prickly pout. “You haven’t been the same since you