London, Can You Wait?

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “It’s like you only get to borrow him for a little while and then have to give him back whenever showbiz calls.”

  “He says yes to everyone but me, Lucy. I’m starting to feel like I’m wasting my time, living like this, with him half in, half out. I’m not happy.”

  The white 16 turned around. Mark rushed through the sliding door, a toothy grin growing brighter with each step closer. Alex’s stomach rolled. This conversation had to end—stat.

  Lucy shrugged. “Maybe you should tell Mar—”

  “Tell Mark what?” He playfully cocked his head. “Mouse, take your parka off—stay a while.” He whisked her coat from her bowed shoulders and hung it on the back of a chair. Alex tugged on the hem of her blouse where it stuck out from underneath her sweater.

  Lucy jumped in—rescuing her friends this holiday season had become her new M.O. “I was saying to Lex that she should tell you how much she loves her new dress. All she can talk about is that scooter charm. It’s lovely.” Lucy winked. “Most blokes are clueless, but you know her so well.”

  Alex nodded, the desire to give Lucy a huge kiss, top of mind.

  “Well, I thought I did,” said Mark with a sly smile. “Recently, I’ve been having doubts.”

  Doubts? Alex swallowed.

  Mark curled his arm around her waist. “Living together, I’ve realized there’s a ton of stuff I don’t know about her. Every once in a while, something sneaks out.”

  “Oh, I could add to this list…” Lucy played along.

  “There’s a list?” Alex raised her eyebrows.

  Lucy winked. “You are a freak, seriously.”

  “I’m a freak?” The knots in Alex’s shoulders began to loosen.

  Mark leaned into Lucy. “You know her Paddington Bear? She doesn’t just hug him, she sniffs him—deeply. He smells like morning breath.”

  Alex frowned in protest. “He doesn’t. He smells like home.”

  “If home is a dumpster.”

  “Well, sometimes I think you grew up in a barn, Keegan. You wear your boots around the flat, never wash out your mug, and…you eat and shower at the same time.”

  Lucy’s eyes bulged. “How?”

  He shrugged. “Only on weekends.”

  Alex jutted out a hip. “He goes for a long shower with a plate of toast and raspberry jam. Gets crumbs all over my loofa. Weirdo. And he has freaky nightmares sometimes. He jolts up in bed, mumbling about football. Oh, and he’s scared of flowers! If he buys me snapdragons, they have to be covered in cellophane. He can’t bear to touch them.”

  “Lex hates Thai food. How can anyone hate the happiness that is a pad thai takeaway? And she has an unhealthy infatuation with Tower Bridge.” Mark scratched his stubble.

  “That I do know,” said Lucy.

  “What’s not to like?” Alex shrugged. “It opens its arms to welcome big boats…”

  “And how have you not watched the entire run of Friends?” The actor waved his hands defiantly in the air. “Could that show be any more awesome?”

  Lucy burst out laughing.

  “The last scene in the finale gets him…every…time.” Alex brushed her bangs from her forehead. “You know, the one where they leave the keys behind? Cries like a baby.”

  He tickled Alex’s waist. “Yeah, well, you’re a sleep farter.”

  “Mark!” Alex squealed with a half-laugh, shimmying out of his grasp.

  “Well! You’ve exposed all my secrets.” Mark laughed. “Fair is fair.”

  “All of them? Yeah, right. I bet there are some skeletons in your closet I’ve heard nothing about, mister!”

  Mark adopted a look of angelic innocence as a roar went up behind him from the Old Trafford faithful. “Come on, it’s about to kick off.”

  Fourteen

  Dublin, New Year’s Eve

  Walking into Mark’s Dublin hotel suite, Alex gave her boyfriend a flirty smile over her shoulder. “Wow, this room’s gorgeous! Happy anniversary, babe.”

  He grinned and walked past, wheeling her small carry-on along the carpet. “Not splitting hairs, Lex, but our anniversary is actually tomorrow…” He turned around and started to unbutton his coat.

  “I know, but it doesn’t mean we can’t start celebrating early!” She removed her parka and hung it up in the closet.

  Mark’s eyes drifted. “If I’m honest, I’ve never liked New Year’s Eve. It’s so overrated.” He took off his scarf and coat, tossing them onto a clothes-covered chair. “You don’t fancy staying in, do ya? We could order room service, watch a film, toast the new year in, just the two of us?”

  Alex quickly set her purse down on the edge of the desk. “Babe, you feeling okay?” She narrowed her eyes. He seemed distracted. “It’s not like you to bail on a party. I mean, I’d love to stay in, but we’re in Dublin and…aren’t your castmates expecting you?”

  “Yeah, but…” He fiddled with his wristwatch.

  “It would be kinda rude to bail on them now…don’t you think?” She clasped his hand. “Why don’t we just go for a bit, have a dance…leave right after midnight…?”

  He looked up. “I’m just not feeling in party mode today…”

  “Well, I know what might help!” Alex clutched fistfuls of Mark’s shirt, tugging him into her chest. She returned to his lips, picking up where they had left off when he’d scooped her up at the airport forty minutes earlier.

  Mark tripped over her wheelie carry-on, sending his lips skidding off her mouth and down her chin. “Shit. Cary Grant, I ain’t. Almost went arse over tit there.” He winked lazily and rolled her luggage to the far side of the room, away from distracted feet.

  Alex giggled and turned back to her purse on the desk.

  Intermingling on its surface with opened packages of Jaffa Cakes and the latest novel he was reading, Mark had a collection of framed photos, a portable shrine in his room dedicated to their relationship: beloved shots of Alex with his red Vespa during their first date, Mark laughing at Alex wearing a Venetian mask on their one-year anniversary trip to Venice a year before, and the pair cuddled together for warmth in a soggy Glastonbury Festival tent.

  Alex’s eyes did a second loop, revisiting each photo as Mark opened the minibar and removed two miniature bottles of gin. He cracked one open, then the other, downing both without taking a breath.

  “Whoa, steady tiger—it’s not even four o’clock yet! It’s early…even for a Dubliner!” Alex chuckled. She glanced down at one special memory holding pride of place in a heavy wood frame. She picked it up.

  Wrapped in each other’s arms in front of the Royal Court Theatre, Mark beamed at Alex as THIRTEEN BY ALEXANDRA SINCLAIR sizzled above their heads in red neon. She stared at the image. Mark had chosen to showcase her greatest accomplishment instead of one of his own. “You carted all this stuff over here?”

  He slipped an arm around her waist and grabbed the photo out of her hand, returning it to the desk. “Yeah, I always want you with me…”

  “That can be arranged.” The words barely out of her mouth, Alex met Mark’s lips urgently, the gin still potent as she kissed him hard and fast. Her hands dove into his hair, pulling him closer, his kiss deeper. She had to taste him, own him.

  Mark didn’t back down. Gripping her ass so hard she cried out, he pressed against her with feral intent, blurring the lines of where he ended and she began. His tongue was frantic, devouring her. It had only been two minutes since their last kiss, but to Alex, this one felt different. It was fierce and wild, like Mark’s lips were trying to soothe an insatiable need only her mouth could possibly fulfill.

  Their second anniversary was the next day, but the desire to show their commitment to each other right then was too powerful to resist.

  Mark broke free, breathless. “I want you—so badly.”

  Heart racing, she flung off her sweater and tugged his long-sleeved Henley. “Off, now.”

  Mark obliged and yanked it over his head, chucking it out of the way. His impatient hands skimmed d
own her back and unhooked her bra. Normally, Alex would taunt him a little longer, make him wait, but she had left her patience back in London. She let her bra slip to the floor and pulled him close again, craving bare skin-on-skin contact.

  He kissed and sucked her neck, his mouth and tongue only pausing to release ravenous moans from his lips as his thumb teased her hardening nipple.

  She felt the button undo on her jeans and Mark’s fingers slipping into her cotton panties. Gasps left her lips in quick succession. “Keep…going.” She gripped the back of his neck, her sighs fueling his hunger.

  “Christ, Lex.” He groaned between breaths. “You feel so good.”

  She stared at his lips and lunged, desperate to taste him again. Their kisses grew more eager, more frantic as if their time together was running out and their mouths demanded to profess everything they needed to say before the clock struck midnight.

  Alex left his lips to catch her breath. One hand slipped downwards, stroking the prominent bulge inside his jeans. “Mark…”

  He moaned and removed his hand from her underwear, yanking her jeans to the floor. With a naughty smile, he pressed his lips against her ear. “Hey, sexy playwright lady, this actor needs some direction.”

  “So eager to please.” Alex pushed him onto the bed and climbed on the duvet, unfastening his jeans. Scooting out of them completely, Mark yanked off his socks and grabbed Alex by the waist, flipping her onto her back.

  She smirked. “I thought you needed direction.”

  “Plot twist…” His tongue fiercely returned to her mouth, dominating, demanding, as his crotch pressed hard against her.

  Alex gasped. “Hello stranger!” She cocked an eyebrow and hooked her fingers into his boxer briefs, pulling them down.

  “Is it obvious?” Alex clasped Mark’s hand and blushed as she dodged between smokers cluttering the sidewalk.

  “Obvious that we had mind-blowing sex or that you’re not wearing any knickers?”

  “Both?”

  “Yep, your cheeky smile gives it all away.” Mark chuckled as he held open the door to the Stag’s Head, a Victorian pub in the centre of Dublin.

  She stopped in the doorway.

  “I’m kidding. Only I know your secrets, and I’m not telling.” Mark waved her through the entrance. “Take off your parka, Lex. You look gorgeous.”

  Alex unzipped her coat and tugged down the creeping hem of her short red dress, her other Christmas gift from Mark. The outfit was a showstopper and unlike anything she had ever worn. The sleeveless dress’s scooped neck, low back, and body-hugging seams guaranteed plenty of male attention, whether Alex wanted it or not. Her eyes flitted through the rowdy crowd of anonymous faces, taking in the pub’s picturesque stained glass windows, carved wood, and wrought-iron chandeliers. Rosy-cheeked males, toting pints and lecherous smirks, stared. She dipped her chin as she pulled the coat closed. “Mark?”

  He held her hand through the dense forest of drinkers. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine.”

  A huge wall of a guy in a button-down shirt, his thick tree trunk neck straining to break free of the tie-less collar, shoved in front of the couple, halting their progress. “Mark, you eejit, you’re late—I had to start without you!” His loud bark of an American accent—California, possibly—grabbed the attention of nearby revellers. He punched the air with two large pint glasses, the creamy foam of Guinness breaching their rims.

  “Christ, they let you in, then?!” Mark fiddled with the collar of his pink dress shirt. “Alex, meet my agent, Coen Winkler. Coen, meet Alex Sinclair, my girlfriend.”

  “Take one of these, buddy.” He stuffed a sloppy pint into Mark’s palm. “Don’t listen to him. Please, call me Wink.” His gaze went to the Vespa charm hanging from Alex’s neck. A hand the size of an extra-large baseball glove then shot towards her to shake.

  “Nice to meet you…Wink.”

  His vice-like grip crushed her hand. She caught her breath, grimacing through the discomfort until his sticky paw released her from its bone-rattling shake. Her elbow actually ached. She glanced at Mark, but his attention jerked elsewhere, hijacked by a chatty young couple and their phone’s camera.

  “I’ve been working with Mark since what…April? It’s about time we met, Sincy.”

  Sincy? Alex hated abbreviating her surname.

  A camera flash and a good-bye nod released Mark back to her side. “Sorry, babe.” He handed back the pint glass. “Wink, how many times have I told you, Guinness isn’t my thing.”

  “Poor excuse for an Irishman, you are.”

  A chuckle left Mark’s lips as he tugged Alex’s parka from her shoulders.

  “Hey, did he tell you why he signed with me? What we have in common?” Wink didn’t wait for Alex to answer. “I’m Irish, too!”

  “You and half of America, mate.” Mark rolled his eyes, folding Alex’s coat over his arm.

  Alex fidgeted with one of the slim straps of her dress while giving Wink a double take. “Your name doesn’t sound Irish.”

  “No, it’s German, but my great-great-great-grandmother on my mother’s side was from Dingle, so I’m part Irish…I’ll leave you to figure out which part!” His booming laugh assaulted Alex’s eardrums. Once he finished laughing at his own joke, he leapt into a jerky knee-raising stomp, slopping waves of murky Guinness onto the mosaic-tiled floor and his designer jeans. Was that supposed to be the Riverdance? Oh, God. It didn’t help that Mark encouraged him by laughing. Did he feel that he had to? Easily six foot four, Wink seemed like the kind of larger-than-life, type-A personality who could make people do whatever they wanted.

  Wink’s Riverdance dried up quickly then Mark slid an arm around Alex’s waist and directed her towards the bar. “Come on, love. Let’s get a bevvy, stash your coat. Then you can meet everyone. I promise, they’re not all mad like this one!”

  “Crazy like a fox, brother.” Wink pivoted to Alex. “Seriously, though, Sincy, I always have his best interests at heart.” He glugged half of the Guinness in his left hand and followed, swaying behind them. Alex wondered how many he’d had already.

  “Vodka and orange, and a Pale Ale, please.” Mark nodded at the bartender and adjusted his black tie. He leaned on the wooden bar and smiled at Alex, but her attention drifted, settling on the majestic stag’s head overlooking the pub. Its glassy eyes gave her the creeps. Two guys on the other side of Mark recognized him and started up a conversation.

  Wink’s massive elbow jabbed Alex’s shoulder.

  “Have you ever seen Mark so happy? He’s in this movie because of me, you know.”

  Alex looked to Mark for confirmation, but he was busy sharing a joke. She turned back to Wink. What the—? His face was now just a few inches away from hers, leaning in conspiratorially. Bleurgh. Sweat mixed with booze and musky cologne oozed from his pores.

  “Mark talks about you all the time.”

  Alex blushed. Aw.

  “At first I thought you were his UK PR rep, his personal manager or something. It was ‘let me check with Alex’ this, or ‘I have to phone Alex’ that!” Wink laughed, releasing Guinness breath. “Then he said you were his girlfriend! I was pretty relieved, let me tell ya! Well, it’s finally nice to put a pretty face to the name. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!” He raised his glass and supped the creamy head of the black beverage.

  Mark handed Alex her glass. “One vodka and orange for my girl.” He raised his pint to clink against his girlfriend’s drink.

  “Cheers.” She smiled and took a dainty sip.

  Mark took a large mouthful. “Let’s find the gang.”

  As they climbed the stairs to the upstairs lounge, the final gasp of Britney Spears’ “Oops, I Did It Again” gave way to the strumming guitar of Ricky Martin’s “She Bangs”. Alex smirked. Old school. These songs used to be played to death on the radio when she was a kid. The other guests didn’t seem to care about the trip down memory lane; they were too busy pounding back pints, shouting over each other or starin
g at her passing ass. Mark, Alex, and Wink had to squeeze through a tight maze of locals in the narrow room until they found the boisterous cast and crew of A Promise Unspoken at the back. Stashing Alex’s parka in the corner booth, Mark held her tight and joined the party.

  A woman, a year or two older than Alex, wearing a makeup counter’s worth of shimmery cosmetics, slipped through the crush towards them, her curvy five-foot-eight figure swathed in a clingy crimson cocktail dress. Its high neck and sleeveless silhouette gave way in the back to a deep V that stopped a half-inch above her bum. Her charisma screamed look at me, and most of the men in the room obeyed: approving stares followed every shift of the precarious V, their eyes leaving her bare skin only to check out the dark-haired guy holding her hand. Alex overheard the words ‘Leinster’ and ‘rugby’ excitedly expressed from a nearby table as the young couple approached. Many of the women did a double take behind their cocktail umbrellas. Where to look, her plunging dress or his muscular physique? Their starstruck reactions didn’t register; the woman’s crooked yet confident smile and large brown eyes sought out one person.

  “Hello gorgeous! You must be Lex. Mark’s told me all about you.” She extended a soft hand and a welcoming grin. “I’m Fallon Delaney, his co-star.” She nodded at the rugby hunk glued to her side. “This is Duff.”

  Alex perked up, relieved to hand over the title of ‘most naked woman in the pub’. She met Fallon’s greeting halfway. “Nice to meet you.”

  Duff placed a hand on Fallon’s butt. Alex wasn’t keen on guys with over-the-top muscles, but even she stared at his pecs straining underneath his skin-tight white shirt, its buttons ready to pop.

  Duff kissed his date’s temple. “Drink, Fal?”