I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO be here.
I had things to do. Words to write. Dishes to wash. A cat who was probably wondering where the hell I was and why I wasn’t around to pay complete and total attention to him, to the exclusion of all else.
As we got closer to the front of the line, Marsha grabbed my arm. Much more of that, and I wouldn’t be able to do any of the aforementioned things.
“Oh, my god, this is so exciting!”
I winced. I loved Marsha, but my arm was seriously going to fall off if she didn’t release her death grip. I tried to pry her fingers away, without success.
“Yeah, thrilling,” I said, staring pointedly at her hands as they tightened around my arm. “Did you learn that from Darth Vader?”
“Huh? Oh!” She let go of my arm and I massaged the blood back into it. “Sorry, Ash. I’m just so excited!”
I nodded. “I can tell.” A blind man would be able to tell. I looked over my shoulder. The line of people behind us stretched around the block.
‘People’? No. It was probably ninety-nine percent women.
“Why am I here again?” I asked, for what seemed to be the hundredth time.
Marsha rolled her eyes. “Because omigod, it’s Corey Knox!”
As if that answered my question. I didn’t even know who Corey Knox was.
“Explain it to me again, Marshmallow,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “And use small words, because I think my brain is fried from standing in this line for the last three hours.” Had it really been three hours? I checked my watch. It felt more like three hundred. Or maybe three thousand. How had I let her rope me into this?
“He’s only the hottest actor since Chris Hemsworth,” Marsha gushed. She actually wiped a bit of drool from the side of her mouth. “I still can’t believe you’ve never seen one of his films.”
I sighed again. I was doing that a lot today. “Yes,” I said. “I remember you telling me that he was hot.” How could I not? She’d only said it a billion times in the last two weeks. “And I have far better things to do than watch movies.”
Marsha raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have Netflix, anyway?”
I coughed. “Bustopher Jones likes to watch Big Cat Diary.” Marsha stared at me. “What? Like you don’t watch TV with your dog?”
“Sassy is a dog, Ash. Buster is a cat. Cats don’t watch television.”
“You’d be surprised what my cat likes to watch,” I muttered. The line edged forward. We were only one sexily-dressed twenty-something away from whatever it was this was supposed to be.
Marsha stared at the woman in front of us, then adjusted her shirt so that her cleavage was more clearly visible. “I wish I’d done wings today,” she said, turning to me. “I should totally have done wings today, right?” I shrugged helplessly. “Does my make-up look okay?”
I scanned her face. Marsha was blessed with the most amazing, chocolate-brown skin and full lips, and her huge eyes looked almost like they belonged on an anime character. As always, her make-up was perfect: just the right amount of burgundy lipstick, mascara that clung to her long eyelashes, and tinted eyeliner that brought out the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
I felt like a toad next to her. I hadn’t spent any quality time with make-up since I was six, when I accidentally-on-purpose ate my mother’s favourite strawberry-red lipstick.
Disappointingly, it had tasted nothing like strawberries.
“Your make-up is perfect,” I said, unable to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. Marsha patted my shoulder, and I smiled weakly. “I’m sure he’ll think you’re gorgeous.”
That got her going again. “Omigod, do you really think so?” she squealed. Her hands returned to my arm, and I was reminded that her New Year’s resolution to work out more had lasted longer than mine, to drink less caffeine.
In fact, right now, I could really go for a coffee. With a shit-ton of sugar.
The woman ahead of us – a slender blonde, with smoky eyes and devastatingly perfect tits – was escorted into the annex that had been set up outside the former TSX building. I looked up at the Art Deco façade and thought longingly of my little apartment, with its Salvador Dali print and its demanding, furry occupant. Buster would be furious with me if I missed his dinner. I glanced at my watch again. The blonde bombshell had gone into the annex thirty seconds ago. This was turning into the slowest afternoon in the history of slow afternoons.
“So, what exactly are you supposed to do when you get in there?” I asked, eyeing the temporary setup. There must have been a second door, because the women who went in didn’t come out. Either that, or this Knox guy was actually a giant tentacle beast, and he was eating them. It certainly would explain the ridiculous publicity stunt. Maybe it was to promote a film called I HUNGER FOR WOMANFLESH.
Marsha bounced up and down. Seriously. She literally bounced. I was getting dizzy just watching her.
“Well, you get five minutes to say, you know. Whatever. Do whatever.”
I raised both my eyebrows. “Bullshit.”
She shook her head. “Nope! I mean, almost whatever.” She smoothed her already pin-straight hair, and I sighed enviously. My current hairstyle was an impossibly curly, just-got-out-of-bed look, made famous by nerds everywhere. “You can’t, like, kick the shit out of him, or try to fuck him or anything.” She looked thoughtfully into space for a minute before shaking her head. “Anyway, there are probably cameras in there, in case someone tries something stupid.”
“Stupid, eh?” I echoed. “Like talking to a celebrity?”
Marsha giggled. “I know, right?” she said, completely misunderstanding me. “I’ll probably be totally tongue-tied!”
I readjusted my messenger bag. I’d brought my Chromebook in case I’d had a chance to sit and get some writing in, but that had been a bust. For such a tiny thing, it was getting awfully heavy.
“Well, you have fun, Marshmallow,” I said, turning to leave. My arm was still caught in her hands, and she was looking guiltily at the sidewalk. “Um.” I looked down. “You can let go now.”
“Ashlyn Sinclair?”
An impeccably-dressed mountain of a man stepped towards us. The clipboard he held was dwarfed by his enormous hands.
“Right here.” Marsha pushed me forward. “I kinda wrote your name down,” she said to me, grinning sheepishly.
I stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me.” She shook her head and shrugged. “Jesus Murphy, Marsh, I don’t even know who the hell this guy is!”
“This way, Ms Sinclair.”
“Miss.” It was an automatic response, and I mentally kicked myself for it.
Mr Brick-Wall-in-a-bespoke-suit lifted one eyebrow before motioned towards the annex, and I felt my legs go weak. Part of me – the sensible part – was screaming: Run! Flee! Escape! Unfortunately, the sensible part was being steamrolled by the rest of my body, which had somehow kicked into autopilot. Before I could process what was happening, I was being herded through a heavy, metal door, like a sheep led to slaughter.
The door to the annex closed behind me with a faint snick, and I winced. You know that feeling you get when your apartment door auto-locks, and you realise you’ve left your keys on the dresser?
Yeah, that feeling. Multiplied by a thousand.
I turned back to the door, my hand reaching for the latch, when a voice like melted butter interrupted me.
“You can’t get out that way, angel. It’s locked.”
I spun on my heel and stared at the man behind the table. He looked like Brick Wall’s younger brother: broad shouldered and square-jawed, with sea-green eyes and a wry smile that made my heart pound in my chest. His tousled brown hair was long enough that it brushed the collar of his shirt, and a few strands fell into his eyes, giving him a cocky, boyish look.
Rakes and rogues, as my mother would have said. Only rakes and rogues let their hair grow that long.
I was having trouble breathing, or maybe I’d just forgotten how. The man behind the table seemed to have sucked all the air out of the room. Maybe that happens when you’re drop-dead gorgeous. Not that I would know. The nicest thing anyone had ever said about me was that I was cute.
‘Cute’ was the Tinder code word for ‘overweight’.
He stood up and gestured to a chair on my side of the table. “Have a seat.” His smile widened. “What’s your name?”
He was clearly trying to put me at ease, but my brain had decided to go on holiday somewhere in the Bahamas, or maybe cruising the Caribbean. I numbly shook my head, my cheeks burning. “I’m not supposed to be here.” I looked around wildly. There was a door at the other end of the annex, with a large, glowing EXIT sign fixed above the frame. Thank god. A way out.
He looked thoughtful. “Huh,” he said, rubbing his chin. There was a day’s worth of stubble there, and I had an insane urge to run my nails over it. “Definitely the weirdest name I’ve heard all day.”
“It’s not even noon,” I said, without thinking. “I’m sure you’ll hear worse.”
His smile became a cocky grin. “Do you have a first name, Ms I’m-Not-Supposed-To-Be-Here?”
“Miss,” I said. My brain bid me bon voyage! as it sailed out of the harbour. “Ashlyn,” I added, thankful that I could at least remember my own name. “Ashlyn Sinclair.”
He held out an enormous hand. “Corey Knox. But I guess you already know that.”
My body must have been running on adrenaline and caffeine, because – I swear on my mother’s long-anticipated grave – I felt a shock run through me when we shook hands. I smiled as best I could, falling back on honesty being the best policy. Because there was no way that could ever backfire, right?
“Actually,” I said brightly, “I’ve never heard of you.”
His expression hovered somewhere between astonished and grateful, before settling on curious.
“Then why are you here?” He came around the table and sat on the front corner. It creaked under his weight.
I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, I’ve been asking myself that same question for the last three hours.” He chuckled softly, and I coughed. “My girlfriend dragg– sorry, invited me to keep her company.”
His grin broadened, became almost wolfish. “Your girlfriend, huh?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Uh, not that kind of girlfriend,” I said. “We grew up together.”
“Huh.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “Too bad.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
He winked. “I was kind of enjoying that mental image.”
If I’d been blushing before, I probably looked like a fire hydrant, now.
He chuckled, his eyes never leaving my face. His tanned skin fairly glowed against his white dress shirt. Was that silk? I thought stupidly. It must be a bitch to clean. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had tattoos scrawled across his powerful forearms. I went a little weak. I’m a sucker for ink. And strong arms.
“So, what did you want to do, now that you’re here?” he asked.
“Besides ‘leave’?” I shot back.
He threw his head back and laughed, and my whole body shivered. That laugh. Oh, my god. It was the aural equivalent of tasting the finest bar of dark chocolate, topped with the most expensive salt ever mined by underpaid peasants in the Himalayas. Who the hell was this guy, anyway?
There was a tap at the door. He glanced at it, then back at me. “Two and a half minutes,” he said, and grinned again. “Your time’s half over.”
I looked over at the exit. “I could just go,” I said. “Give you a couple of minutes to yourself. I’m sure you’d appreciate some alone time.” I thought about the line of women waiting outside. “You’re definitely going to want some alone time,” I amended.
He chuckled again. “Oh, come on, Ashlyn,” he said, and I had to press my tongue against the inside of my teeth to suppress a moan. The way he said my name was doing horrible, wonderful things to my stomach. I was pretty sure I’d swallowed a handful of butterflies somewhere between the front of the line and the inside of the annex. “Surely there’s something you’d like to say to me?” His voice dropped a full octave, and I shivered. “Or do to me.”
I stared at him. One corner of his mouth was quirked up in a mischievous smile. My whole life flashed before my eyes, and it amounted to three things: drinking too much coffee, being bossed around by an extremely fat cat, and sitting at a desk in front of a computer as I put words to paper. I took a deep breath and nodded.
“Yeah, there is something,” I said. He lifted an eyebrow. “I would like to apologise.”
He frowned, that handsome forehead crinkling. “Apologise? For what?”
I waved a hand. “Everything.” Could you be a little more vague, Ashlyn? I cleared my throat. “Every woman who’s ever treated you like sex on legs. Every reporter who’s followed you to the toilet when you just wanted to take a piss in private.” Both his eyebrows were raised, now. “Any time you’ve wanted to be alone and couldn’t be, and any time you’ve had to explain to the rabble that you’re a human being, not an object.” I smiled crookedly. “I want to apologise on behalf of the world for all the shit you had to go through to get where you are, and all the shit you’re going to have to wade through to stay there.”
Now it was his turn to stare at me.
I shuffled my feet awkwardly. “This is where you say something,” I pointed out.
He slowly ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes never leaving my face. “I’m...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you, Ashlyn,” he said.
I smiled. “No worries,” I said, and leaned in to drop a kiss on his cheek. Just a friendly, things-are-gonna-be-okay kiss, the kind you get from a distant relative who doesn’t know exactly how you’re related, or a new acquaintance who has no idea what to say after you casually mention that your IUD slipped out of place last week.
Except it didn’t happen quite that way.
I was aiming for his cheek. My eyes were focused on his cheek, and it was clear that I was going for his cheek.
But he turned his head, and my mouth landed on his, and oh god, I nearly fainted.
Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had boyfriends, though none that made me weak at the knees and transformed my stomach into an old-fashioned roller-coaster. And I’ve kissed my fair share of guys, but I’d never locked lips with someone whose kiss turned my whole world upside down.
Until Corey Knox.
It might not have been so bad if it had just been a light peck; a brief, fleeting kiss and then bye, so long, it’s been real, let us never speak of this again. But it didn’t happen that way, either.
His arms went around me, pulling me against his massive, muscular chest, and then I felt one of his hands in my hair and one at my back, and he kissed me. I mean, he really kissed me.
And like an idiot, I let him.
I should have pushed him away. I should have explained that it was Marsha who was into the whole kissing-celebrities thing, that he was her book boyfriend – or rather, movie boyfriend, because I was pretty sure she hadn’t picked up a book since this guy started acting – and that I was only here for moral support.
Instead, my arms went around his neck and I buried my hands in his soft hair and I kissed him back. Like, really kissed him.
When his tongue brushed against my lips, I opened my mouth under his, and then I sucked his head between my jaws and bit down, like a praying mantis, and –
Okay, that’s not quite what happened.
What did happen is that he tasted like oranges and mint and I had a sudden urge to go home and brush my teeth. I had that exact same toothpaste sitting on my bathroom counter.
Kismet, right?
Bah.
There was a knock at the door that brought me to my senses. I pulled away, my eyes wide.
“Oh, my god,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said softly, totally misunderstanding me.
There was a lot of that going around today.
“I have to go.” I picked up my bag – when had I even dropped it? what the hell was this man doing to me? – and hurried across the room.
“Ashlyn?” His warm, deep voice stopped me before I could escape. I glanced over my shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Thank you,” he said, then winked and blew me a kiss as I turned ten shades of red and got the hell out of there.
Worst. Afternoon. Ever.