Free The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull

do anything but wiggle my arse on camera.”
    I covered my mouth to disguise my smile. “My mother probably wouldn’t let them put my bare ass on camera. ‘Are you sure you want to do that, Samantha? Think of how many glorious heinies have been filmed. Yours can’t even crack the top thousand, I’m sure. Never mind your face!’”
    His guffaw held the stench of pity. “Ouch. My mum has come round—now she brags about her son when I bring her to award ceremonies.”
    “Aw, I’m glad for that.”
    “Me, too. Odd how becoming rich makes your choices seem smarter.”
    “Amen, my friend. Amen.”
    Oh, but I was having entirely too lovely a time right now. Two martinis in my tummy and no dinner. There must be something about the cloudy British air that turned me alcoholic. “I should go.” I set my drink on the table and gathered my purse to me while trying to ignore the disappointed fall of his shoulders. And ignore the thrill that came with it. “I have to try and pretend that I’m not an idiot at stunt rehearsal tomorrow.”
    “How many days do you have?”
    “Just the one. I have to jump off a height, and punch a couple people. You have so much more than I do.”
    “Yeah.” He scratched his chin and gestured for the waiter to settle the bill. “They’re fun for me—the stunts. I’ve rebelled against doing any martial arts, but just plain kicking arse is thrilling. As far as the production insurance will let me.” He barely glanced at the tab, doubled it by way of a tip and handed it back to our obsequious server. When we were again alone, he said, “May I take you home? Rather, not take you home , but walk you, or…”
    A flush crept up his face, and I knew I had to say, “No, thank you. I had a late night, and I’ll probably just cab it.”
    Deep breath in, deep breath out. Oh, but I was an evil woman. What sort of lady wanted to jump a new dude right after maybe breaking up with another? I told myself that inner existential turmoil often led to confusion in the clitoral area. Especially when you met a super-hot fellow who was so kind, and human, and normal —and performed a job you could tell your mother about. “Thank you for this. It makes me feel less nervous about the whole film to have got to know you a little.”
    “Me, too.”
    “What? How can you be nervous? You’re Daniel Zhang .” I said it as if reading off a marquee forty feet high.
    We wound our way out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk. “I’m not Daniel Zhang . I’m Daniel Zhang. I get zits.” He pointed to his cheek, but I damn sure couldn’t find a flaw.
    I stood on my tip-toes and pressed my lips to the imagined blemish.
    Oh, I shouldn’t have done that.
    My regret punched me in the gut with a fist the size of Texas. He smelt like sexy, woodsy cologne, with a vague undertone of man.
    Oh, I shouldn’t have smelt that.
    My mouth dry, I rocked onto my heels and smiled to cover my mortification.
    He bent the long, long way to my face. His lips parted softly, and I meant to back away, I really did, and I put my hand to his chest to keep him at a distance. His pecs were hard and warm and oh, no, why was I kneading my hand there ? Mayday, mayday !
    He kissed me, gently, firmly and with just enough pressure to make my blood zing and cry more, more, more! My body from the waist down had somehow melted into amoral slush. Pulling back, he smiled, hopeful and sweet.
    Oh, good Lord, baby Jesus and all the saints. My insides flailed and I tried to form actual words with my mouth, which was paid to make words and say things, but nothing spluttered out. I waved my hand goodbye like a toddler and bolted to the cab stand. Yup, running away with great, clomping steps was the only thing to do when kissed by a movie star.
    I waved again from the window as we pulled away. He returned it, his entire demeanour relaxed and easy and sexier than a sexy man who sexes and oh, shit fuck what have I done?
    * * * *
    As per usual, I discussed my