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handed Patrice in. When he was behind the wheel and had relocked the doors, he turned to her and asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”
    â€œLunch?” asked Patrice, sounding startled by his question.
    He laughed softly. “Yes, the meal that comes a few hours after breakfast, which I skipped this morning except for a cup of coffee and a swallow of orange juice. Have you been to The Grill? They make great food, really fresh. Good fish if you’re not a red-meat eater. Vegetarian dishes, too.”
    â€œNo, I’ve never been there,” Patrice told him. She breathed deeply and slowly released her breath. “Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere else?”
    â€œNah, I’m on vacation until we start filming.” He started the SUV, and soon they were turning onto the street and heading toward the San Diego Freeway where he would exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard. From there, it was only three miles to Beverly Hills.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said suddenly as he wound his waythrough traffic. “I didn’t even ask if you were free. If you have plans for the afternoon, I can take you directly home.”
    â€œI’m free,” Patrice assured him. She had decided to go with the flow.
    He turned and smiled at her before returning his attention to the road. “Good.”
    Patrice relaxed against the car’s seat. “You said your parents live in Beverly Hills?”
    He must have been fond of his parents because his eyes lit up at the mention of them. “Yes, I finally talked them into moving here about five years ago. We’re from Brooklyn.
    â€œMy parents have deep roots there. Both were born there. Both were teachers for nearly thirty years. Most of their friends and family still live in Brooklyn.”
    â€œWhat did you say to convince them to move here?” she asked, very curious. She couldn’t imagine her parents living in Beverly Hills. It would be a worse situation than that old sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies. Her folks were ranchers, through and through.
    â€œI told them that I didn’t care when the desire to go back to Brooklyn hit them. I would make sure they got on the next plane flying in that direction,” he said with a laugh.
    â€œYou’re a good son,” Patrice complimented him.
    â€œI try to be,” T.K. said sincerely.

Chapter 3
    A t The Grill on the Alley, commonly called The Grill, T.K. gave his key to the valet and then helped Patrice out of the car. He enjoyed the sight of her long, shapely legs but was careful not to ogle. Patrice noticed anyway and felt a tingle of excitement.
    Inside, they were immediately shown to a secluded table in the back of the packed dining room. T.K. didn’t let the maître d’ have the pleasure of pulling Patrice’s chair out for her. He did it himself and then sat down across from her.
    The maître d’ snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “See to Mr. McKenna at once.”
    He smiled at T.K. and Patrice in turn. “Please call on me if I can be of any further service.”
    When he had gone, T.K. laughed softly. “Every timeI see him I’m reminded of the butler in that remake of Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. ”
    â€œHe does look like John Turturro. He’s one of my favorite actors,” Patrice said enthusiastically. “In everything I’ve ever seen him in, he’s done a good job.”
    T.K. nodded in agreement. “He’s a fine character actor.” He looked at her intently. “What did you think of the remake?”
    â€œAdam Sandler makes me laugh, and it had some touching moments, but to be honest, I don’t believe any remake can compare with the Frank Capra original. The script’s fabulous, and Gary Cooper is wonderful as Mr. Deeds. Good try to Adam Sandler, though.”
    T.K. smiled at her assessment. He liked the original a lot better than the remake, too.
    â€œYou like Capra,