She shook her head. "I didn't notice." She paid more attention as she drove him to the dentist. And she supposed if sitting in uncomfortable silence equaled being nice for him, then yeah, he was nice. But an hour later on the way home from the dentist, he totally blew it with his horrid backseat driving again. Oddly enough, she found it more relaxing than his efforts to be nice.

"The light's about to turn red."

"It's still yellow," she pointed out as she sped through the intersection. "I thought you were going to be nice."

"I can't when I'm worried about getting killed. Are you sure you have a valid driver's license?"

"Yes. Issued by the state of California."

"Well, that explains it."

Behind her sungla.s.ses she rolled her eyes and changed the conversation. "Did you have cavities?"

"It wasn't that kind of appointment. He just wanted to check my implants to make sure they are still okay."

Chelsea knew about dental implants. She had a friend who'd knocked out her front teeth in a surfing accident. The dentist had drilled screws into her upper jaw, then stuck porcelain crowns on the spikes. If a person hadn't known she'd had her teeth knocked out, you wouldn't be able to tell. "How many do you have?"

"Three implants and four crowns." He pointed to the top left side of his mouth. "I'm lucky."

She wondered what he considered unlucky.

Tuesday afternoon she took her portfolio to the talent agency in downtown Seattle. She met with the owner, Alanna Bell, who reminded Chelsea a little of Janeane Garafalo. But the Janeane of ten years ago, before the actress had turned all bitter about life.

"What's your real hair color?" Alanna asked as she riffled through a file folder.

"The last I checked, it was brown."

"I could find more work for you if your hair isn't two colors. Would you be willing to dye it if I asked you?"

She looked at all the posters and signed photographs on the wall of Alan-na's office. The vibe in the agency felt good. Right, and she should know. She'd met her fair share of sleazy agents. "I'd consider it, yes."

"I see you've studied at the Theater of Arts."

"Yes. As well as a few years at UCLA."

Alanna handed her a monolog from White Oleander. Chelsea wasn't a huge fan of cold readings, but it was part of the business. She took a deep breath, cleared her head of everything but the words in front of her, and read: "The Santa Anas blew in hot..." When she was through, she set the paper on the desk and waited as she had countless times before. But this time there was something different. Strangely enough, sitting in the agent's office a thousand miles from Hollywood, cold reading, she felt the teasing nibble of the acting bug. Only it was calmer than it had been in years. She didn't have to prove anything to anyone here in Seattle. Least of all herself. There was no pressure to meet the right people or compete for the right part that would launch her career. Here she could just act. She could relax and have fun with it. Something she hadn't done in a while.

"I might have some background work for you this weekend." She glanced down at Chelsea's resume. "HBO is sending up a crew to shoot around the Seattle Music Experience."

Chelsea groaned inside. She wasn't a fan of standing around in the back-ground for hours, but it was a start and wouldn't interfere with her real job. "Sounds great."

"I a.s.sume you have a union card?"

Chelsea dug it out of her wallet and slid it across the desk. After several more moments, she shook Alanna's hand and drove to Medina. Keeping her head in acting and exercising her craft before she returned to L.A. was a good idea. She'd heard of well-known actors and actresses who, after a few big movies, had left the spotlight to act in off-Broadway shows, only to return rejuvenated and with a clearer head. She'd never understood it before, but now she did. Her own head felt clearer. Chasing the dream for ten years had robbed her of the joy of acting. The fun of getting to play someone else for a while.

She drove down Mark's street and pulled up next to the curb. It was a little after two, and Mark stood in the middle of his long driveway, one hand on his cane, the other on his hip. Instead of his regular uniform of white T-shirt and jogging pants, he wore a dark green polo and jeans. A beige ball cap shaded his eyes and cast a shadow across the lower half of his face. Derek stood several feet away, hockey stick in his hands, pushing a puck from side to side. Chelsea parked on the street to give them plenty of room. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and the bottom of her Burberry kilt skirt as she walked toward him. A pair of dark gla.s.ses shaded her eyes from the sun.

"How long do I have to do this?" the boy asked.

"Until you can do it and keep your head up," Mark answered, looking so big and imposing next to such a skinny kid.

Chelsea stopped in front of him and pushed her sungla.s.ses to the top of her head. "Do you guys need anything?"

He looked at her, and the shadow from his hat slid down his nose to the bow of his top lip. "Like what?"

"Water? Gatorade?"

Slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted. "No. That isn't what I need."

"Then what do you need?"

From within the shadow of his brim, his gaze lowered from her eyes to her mouth, down her chin and throat to the front of her white blouse. His attention felt almost like a physical caress. Her stomach got all light and her breath got stuck in her lungs as his gaze paused mid-chest before sliding to her skirt and bare thighs. Within the shadow of his hat she felt the heat of his brown eyes, and she half expected him to say that what he needed was her.

"How was your meeting?" he asked.

"What meeting?"

"With the talent agent." He turned to watch Derek and she could breathe again. "Isn't that where you went?"

Oh, that meeting. "It was good. She wants me to do background work at that Seattle Music Experience by the s.p.a.ce Needle."

"What's background work?" he asked without taking his attention from Derek.

"It's just like it sounds. It means I stand in the background looking like I'm doing something important." She pushed her hair from her face. "She asked me to dye my hair one color."

"Head up and roll your wrists," he called out to Derek. "Did you tell her no?"

She glanced up at him and her mouth parted in surprise. "You hate my hair."

"I don't hate it."

"You said I looked like a Russian just off the boat."

"I was talking more about your clothes." He looked down at her, and once again the shadow of his hat slid to the bow of his top lip. "Your hair's not so bad. I've gotten used to it."

"Is this you trying to be nice again?"

"No. If I was trying to be nice, I'd tell you that you look good."

Chelsea glanced down at her white blouse and Burberry kilt. "Because it's more conservative than what I usually wear?"

He chuckled. "Because your skirt's short." He pointed his cane at Derek. "You can stop now. I think you're ready for some pa.s.ses." He walked into the garage, and when he returned, he had a hockey stick in his right hand. He thrust it toward Chelsea. "Derek, you're going to feed pa.s.ses to Chelsea."

"Me?"

"Her? She's a girl."

"That's right," Mark agreed, and she half expected him to say something s.e.xist. "She's little and quick, so you better watch yourself."

She took the stick and pointed to her feet. "I'm in three-inch heels."

"You don't have to move. All you have to do is stop the puck."

"I'm wearing a skirt!"

"Then I guess you're going to have to be really careful not to bend over." Beneath the shadow hitting his top lip, he grinned. "I wouldn't mind, but we have to keep it clean 'cause Derek's a minor and I promised his mom."

"The things I do for this job." She kicked off her shoes and lowered her sungla.s.ses to the bridge of her nose.

Mark walked several feet away and pointed to Derek. "Move down ice. Bring the puck up and just feed it to her."

Derek moved down the driveway, barely able to stay up on his skates. Not only couldn't he skate, but he got tangled up with his stick. A few times he nearly fell, and when he finally did shoot, it went wide and Chelsea had to run after it.

"You're watching the puck," Mark told him. "Keep your head up and your eyes where you want the puck to go." He tried again, and once again he barely stayed on his skates and Chelsea had to run after the puck. After the fourth straight time, she was getting a little irritated.

"I'm tired of running after your pucks," she complained as she brought the puck to the middle of the driveway.

"Derek, what is the first rule of hockey?"

"No whining, Coach."

Chelsea frowned and looked from Derek's flushed face to Mark. "Is that in the official rule book?"

"Yes. Along with the importance of trash talk." Keeping his right leg straight, Mark bent down and picked up the puck. "So let's hear some chatter," he said as he handed it to the kid.

"Okay, Coach." This time as Derek skated toward her, he said, "Your hair is stupid and you have a stink eye." He shot, and the puck hit Chelsea's stick and bounced off.

"I have a what?"

"Stink eye."

She raised a hand to the lenses of her gla.s.ses. "I do?"

Derek laughed and Mark shook his head. "No. Trash talk doesn't have to be true. It just has to be distracting." He picked up the puck and tossed it to Derek. "That was a good one. You do better when you're not trying so hard."

This time when he skated toward Chelsea, she was ready for him with something she figured was age-and Derek-appropriate. "You're so skinny, you can hula hoop with a Cheerio," she said, thinking she was pretty clever.

Derek shot. It went a little wide but she was able to stop it without have to run too far. He shook his head. "That was stupid."

This from the kid who said she had a stink eye? She looked at Mark and he shrugged. "Maybe you should work on your trash talk."

She wasn't the only one. Other than stink eye, Derek didn't have any other insults in his repertoire, and after he'd called her that three more times, she was ready to whack him with her stick. So when he got tangled up in his skates and fell, she wasn't exactly feeling bad for him.

"Ouch." He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked as he walked toward the kid.

"The stick hit my nuts."

"Ohh." Mark sucked in a breath through his teeth. "That sucks. Ringing the berries is the worst thing about hockey."

The boy didn't look too hurt. He wasn't writhing in pain or anything, and Chelsea could think of a few things worse than berry-ringing pain. Like the puck hitting your face and getting your teeth knocked out.

"It really hurts."

"I thought there was no whining in hockey," she reminded them.

Mark scowled as if she'd said something really insensitive. "You can whine about a smashed nut."

"Is that an actual clause in the rule book?"

"If it isn't, it should be. Everyone knows that." He got down on one knee beside the kid. "Are you going to be okay?"

Derek nodded. "I think so." He sat up, and Chelsea was pretty sure if she hadn't been standing there, the kid would have cupped himself.

"Then let's call it a day," Mark suggested, and helped Derek stand up.

Chelsea was certainly ready to quit. She walked back to where she'd left her shoes and dusted off the bottoms of her feet. She leaned on the stick as she slipped her feet inside her pumps.

Derek changed out of his skates and shoved them into his backpack. He handed Mark his stick and carefully climbed onto his bike. "Are you going to be okay to ride home? Do you need a ride?" Mark asked, and Derek shook his head.

"I'm all right, Coach."

She guessed it was okay to make him ride his bike if he was exhausted. Just not with a "smashed nut."

As Derek rode away, Mark moved toward the garage doors. "What do you have planned for the rest of the day?" he asked her.

"Answering your fan e-mails." She followed him, letting her gaze travel from the back of his hat, down his neck and wide shoulders, to his tapered waist and hard b.u.t.t. The man made everything look good. "Why?"

"Some of the guys are coming over to play poker tomorrow night. I thought if I wrote you out a list, you could go to the store and pick up some beer and snacks."

"Now?"

"Yeah." He took her stick and placed it on a shelf in front of a big gym bag. "I'll give you some cash." He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and opened it. "Well, that sucks. I only have a five," he said, and returned his wallet. "I guess that means we both go."

She lifted a brow. "You shop? For your own groceries? Aren't you too big a star?"

"You have me confused with one of your celebrities." He moved to the back door and reached inside the house. He came back with a set of keys and tossed them to her. "There's a Whole Foods down the street."

"Are you going to backseat drive?"

"No."

She stood her ground and refused to get into the car. "Promise?"

He raised his right hand and looked like he was flipping her off more than swearing an oath. "Not even if you sideswipe a tree and kill me."

"Don't tempt me." She opened the door and slid inside. The seat was so far back, she couldn't reach the steering wheel, let alone the pedals. "Have you been driving?"