He knocked again, this time doubling his chances by ringing the bell, too. It was still another three or four minutes before he could see a form behind the frosted glass panels. The door finally opened and Vinnie, who’d had a smile plastered on his face and a practiced introduction on the tip of his tongue, could only stare.
James A. Spencer, Hollywood’s favorite son of the moment, stood on the threshold with nothing more than a towel wrapped around his hips, beads of water rolling on his torso, and soaked, bright turquoise hair plastered on his head.
“Hi.” His smile was as dazzling in person as on the cover of magazines. “Vincent, right?”
He held his hand out. Vinnie shook it, and shook himself out of his daze — although he’d have had a hard time saying what had startled him most: the color of James’ hair or his glistening abs, even more entrancing in real life than on a movie screen.
“Vinnie,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
James wasn’t letting go of his hand, so Vinnie gave it another small shake, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. No, he wasn’t staring at James Spencer’s chest from two feet away. He absolutely wasn’t. Nor was he noticing how close to falling down James’ towel was. And to prove it he said, “Nice hair.”
With a self-conscious smile, James finally pulled his hand back, only to pass it through his hair, making the wet strands spike up.
“New role,” was all he said, and then finally seemed to realize they were standing on the threshold. And that he was close to giving a full frontal photo-op to any paparazzi that might be perched in trees somewhere nearby. “Come in.”
… continued in Blue Hair and 7 PAs