by Alyse Miller
Andie lowered her eyes, forbidding herself to get stuck in the ring of honey around his pupils. She tried to concentrate on the molten slate gray of his suit instead, or the stripes on his shirt—basically any parts of him that she could separate from the man whose heart beat behind threads of cotton and wool. Even that left her little breathing room. She could still smell the faint musk of his leather jacket clinging to his skin, the warm scent now laced with creamy tones of dried rose petals and fresh milk—sandalwood, she thought. He smelt liked sandalwood.
If heaven had a smell, it would smell like Guy Wilder. It would definitely smell like Guy Wilder.
Out of the corner of her eye, Andie watched Guy’s hand hover millimeters away from the prickled flesh of her bare arm. For a heartbeat, his hand simply stayed there. Then, finally, he pulled his hand away and slid it back inside his jacket pocket. That was the second time he’d stopped himself from touching her. Why was he stopping? Not that she wanted him to touch her—or rather, that she didn’t want him to touch her. But, she wanted him to want to touch her, or at least she thought she did. Andie had no idea what she wanted. It was infuriating as hell.
The air between them was thick and seemed to sizzle. Guy cleared his throat, and the sound snapped in the silence.
“So. You look”—his lips moved as he struggled for the word he wanted—“amazing, Miss….Dr.…Foxglove.”
Without look up Andie could feel his eyes wandering over her. She inhaled deeply and took a step backward, putting a hand’s length worth of distance between them. Keeping that much electricity pinned between them seemed like a fire hazard. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She dared herself to look up and was surprised to find that his eyes weren’t wandering at all. He was staring at her in the same curious way that he had done before, when they’d talked about French wine and love spells, which was somehow worse. Wandering eyes, she could deal with, but this look of such intensity was a whole different thing entirely. She took another step backward—two hands now—and felt for the edge of the couch behind her. She’d better hold on to it before she swooned beneath that intense look of his. The last thing she wanted—or the thing she wanted most but wouldn’t allow herself to want—was to find herself caught in Guy’s arms.
Guy’s face shifted. It didn’t sharpen exactly, nor did it soften. It just...shifted. Andie’s eyes were locked so tightly inside his steel blue gaze that at first it didn’t register that he’d taken a step forward. Then another, those magnetic blue eyes becoming larger in the limited scope of her tunneled vision. He stepped toward her wordlessly, resolutely, and closed the space between them until he was so close that she could feel his heat pushing against her dress.
Andie’s thoughts scrambled in her head. She should say something, shouldn’t she? It seemed like she had barely said anything since she’d been rushed in through the door. But, what was there to say? Instead, she took another step backward, trying like hell to look confident (which was basically impossible) as she sidestepped the couch. She backed away from Guy one step at a time, attempting to widen the space between them, until her back pressed against the cold glass of the windows overlooking downtown.
But for each step she took backward, Guy took another forward. He kept walking toward her, looking like a man on a mission with lightning-bolt eyes fixed straight on her. Now she had her back up against the wall—or window—trapped between a mix of gorgeous devil and hungry predator…but in a good way.
“So, what’s the plan then?” Her voice sounded like someone had stepped on a mouse.
“The plan?” Guy stopped moving forward and cocked his head curiously at her.
“Yeah, the plan. Dinner, a movie—where are we going? We are going somewhere, yes?”
A blink transformed Guy from confident to uncertain. Then, he paused and seemed to reevaluate something as he considered her position squished against the glass. A coy smile spread across his face. “Well, if you keep walking backward we’re going to be base jumping off the Ritz without a parachute. That might put a damper on dinner.”
Andie looked at him stupidly and wondered what the hell he was talking about. Then, the realization hit her. She wasn’t against the glass of the window, but of a glass door to a small deck outside. It had never occurred to Andie that there would be a balcony on the edge of this glass mountain, but of course there would be. This was the penthouse at the Ritz, not the Holiday Inn, and they were in Denver, Colorado—not Las Vegas. She laughed under her breath, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and did her best to make it look like she totally meant to be leaning against the door by leaning more heavily on her back. It was a cold night. Not cool. The glass felt like a slab of ice against her skin, and then—
It was too predictable. The door fell open behind her and she stumbled backward in her heels, losing her footing as she grasped for something solid in the empty air behind her. Her back hit the balcony gate and her body tipped, her hands trying and failing to make purchase on the railing. She was falling, a breath away from plummeting over the edge. So this is how it ends, she had time to think. Instead of “Local Professor Gets De-Kidneyed in Celebrity Bathtub,” the headline would recount her last moments much more pathetically, “Local Professor Ends Date with Gorgeous Celebrity by Throwing Herself off Balcony.” In one movement, Guy’s hand was around her back, pulling her safely away from certain death. His arm curled around her back as he brought her into him and clasped her firmly against his chest. It was a rush. Adrenaline raced through Andie’s body and she fell forward into him. He caught her easily, his arms tangled around her back, hers around his neck. The four inches of stiletto and pair of bare feet mixed together, making finding safe footing impossible. Ultimately, the inertia barreled them, wound together, into a heap on the same fluffy white couch Andie had previously been cowering behind. Oh, wasn’t that ironic. Now the couch was helpful.
From his impromptu resting place underneath her on the couch, Guy’s face looked up at Andie. She probably had the same expression stamped on her face—eyes big, breath ragged, and all emotion smeared away by a general “what-the-hell-just-happened” sort of look. Vertigo overcame her, and Andie felt like she was falling again, but this time it wasn’t into danger, it was straight into every perfect dip and angle of Guy’s face, into eyes the color of a sky just broken by the morning sun, into lips pink and pale and bathed in stubble shadow. Before she could talk herself out of it she was leaning down, letting her body melt into Guy’s arms and chest and legs still tangled around hers. His eyes stayed locked on her as she came toward him, one of his hands sliding in a warm plane up her back to curve against her neck. His hand was hot, vibrating heat on her skin where he held her. She closed her eyes.
A gentle press of his palm on her shoulder stopped her. The world stopped spinning.
“We should—” Guy’s awkward movement underneath her broke the melting spell. She scrambled to the cushion beside him and he stood stiffly, his back to her. The cloth of his suit made smoothing sounds as straightened his tie, adjusted his jacket. He was still fidgeting with his clothes when Andie’s senses finally returned to her. What in the world had just happened? It was all a blur. First he was standing next to her in the mirror, then coming toward her, then she was falling, and before anything made sense she was looking down at him, breathless, and, and… moving to kiss him? Oh shit. She was too stunned to be embarrassed. No wonder the poor guy was fumbling, trying to get himself back together. Even she couldn’t decode the mixed signals she had to be sending. He’d saved her from flinging herself off the balcony, not scooped her up into her arms and carried her over the threshold.
Andie righted herself on the couch, and decided to let Guy make the next move.
Guy turned back toward her, a practiced, confident, and completely rehearsed smile stamped on his face. “We should order dinner.”
Order dinner? Andie was confused. “Order dinner?”
Guy nodded, pursed his lips together. He seemed
to be steadying his breathing. “Yes, the restaurant in the hotel is fantastic. I thought we’d order food up, and just…talk.”
Andie blinked up at him and lowered her eyes, frantically trying to read between the lines in his words. He’d been in jeans in a t-shirt when she got there, but then changed into a suit—that meant that he wanted to be dressed similar to her to go out, right? Why else would he change? He wouldn’t get so dolled up to stay in, right? But now he was talking about having food delivered in. It didn’t jive. Something was up.
She didn’t know how to respond. Nothing she would say was going to come out right.
“Okay. Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”
“You don’t sound so sure.” That head cock again.
“No. I mean—yes—yes, I’m sure. I just, I don’t know, I expected to go out.”
Guy’s eyes darted to the open glass door of the balcony—the one she’d stumbled through—and back to her. “I just think it’s safer if we stay in, you know. We can get to know each other better—talk, ask questions, that kind of thing. Without having to worry about anything else.”
You have got to be kidding me. He was trying to save himself the embarrassment of her making a fool out of herself (again) in public, and pass it off as “getting to know” each other. Ordering in was his way of staying a gentleman while subtly letting her off the hook. The fact that she’d stupidly tried to kiss him—after she’d basically run away from him then tried to fling herself off the balcony like some bipolar Rapunzel—made it all even worse. It was a miracle he hadn’t just asked her to leave, but that probably was against some kind of code or something. Bad for publicity. She felt insulted. Well, if he wouldn’t have been coming at her like some kind of hungry animal, she could have stood her ground. She would have stood her ground. It wasn’t like she wanted to fling herself over the balcony or anything.
“You’re afraid to be seen out in public with me.” It was flat—a statement, not a question. Afraid was applied loosely; “don’t want to take the chance” was more like it.
“Of course I’m not.” His eyebrows knit together. At least he was gracious enough to put those acting skills into use to pretend to be confused. How nice of him.
“It’s fine. I don’t want to waste your time.” She didn’t need a mercy date for perfect Mr. Guy Wilder, thankyouverymuch. He was the one who’d asked her out in the first place, and what a horrible idea that had been. Whatever sparks they had between them weren’t the kind that needed to be kindled; they were the kind to run like hell away from. She stood and started to make her way to the door without bothering to look at him again. If she did, her gumption might fail her.
She was surprised when Guy’s hand caught hers. “I’m not afraid to be seen in public with you, Andie. I’m afraid for you to be seen out in public with me!” Guy sounded exasperated. He let her hand go and rubbed his palm across his eyes.
His words didn't register with Andie’s already made up mind. “What?”
“You don’t understand, Andie. Outside of this room, it isn’t just you and me anymore. It’s everyone—it’s the whole world—and every one of them will be looking at us and judging us—you.”
“I’m a big girl, Guy. I think I can handle it.”
“You don’t even know what you’re saying. You have no idea what it’s like to be hounded by fans, chased by the paparazzi, blinded with camera lights. It sucks. I don’t want to put you through that.”
She should have been relieved, but Andie was the type of woman who, when someone lit her fuse, they were better off just letting it burn off than try to snuff it out. All she managed to hear was that she wasn’t someone worth being caught by the paparazzi with—or worse, that he didn’t want to disappoint his female fans by having a less-than-supermodel perfect girl on his arm (okay, that one was probably her own insecurity screaming out).
“If you didn’t want to take me out, then why did you even ask me here? I don’t get it.”
“To get to know you. Isn’t that what you do on a date?”
“To ‘get to know me’ in your hotel room? That sounds a lot like playing a game to get a girl alone in your fancy hotel room and take her to bed. What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“You’re twisting my words around, Andie. I’m trying to protect you.”
Andie couldn’t hide her disdain. She didn’t need or want anyone to protect her, much less some jerk with an overinflated ego. “Sounds like you’re trying to protect yourself.” She made sarcastic air quotes around “protect.” “I didn’t come here to Netflix and chill, Mr. Wilder.”
Guy’s handsome face twisted into a scowl. His fist hit the edge of the couch and he ripped the tie from his neck and whipped it on the couch. He stalked toward her. There was no grace in his walk this time, no hint of seduction. He simply stepped directly in front of her, glaring down. The yellow in his eyes was ignited in fiery ring, his lips pursed and angry. Andie automatically took a step backward, then recanted and stood her ground. Fine, they were both angry. It was better than playing games. Bring it on, vampire boy.
“You don’t know what you’ll be facing out there, Dr. Foxglove.” His words were hot. “You have no idea what those people will do to you. And if I wanted to take you to bed, I would have already taken you to bed. I was trying to do things right. What kind of guy do you think I am? Not all of us are monsters.”
It was funny how a landslide of insecurity coupled with a sudden adrenaline withdrawal following a near-death experience can twist itself into something that felt really close to anger. Andie could feel herself being irrational—she knew it the moment her mouth opened before the first word ever made it out.
“Go to hell, Guy Wilder.” She snapped her purse from the door-side table and stalked out of the hotel room door.
CHAPTER SIX
The elevator door sprung open immediately when Andie mashed down on the metal button, and she made her escape into its open jaws with movie-perfect precision. Guy never had a chance to catch her before the doors closed and started to carry her down toward the lobby. As far as Andie was concerned, it was good riddance. Just who the hell did he think he was, anyway? The whole thing was a big nonsensical mess and she was not about to waste her time trying to make sense of it all. She stood fuming, tapping the toe of her shoe in angry ticks on the shiny, metallic floor as the elevator dropped down through floors forty to thirty.
By the time the metal box reached the mid-twenties her anger started to crack apart. By the time she was plummeting through the teens, Andie’s heart seemed to be falling in tandem with the elevator. She had possibly overreacted—scratch that—definitely overreacted to Guy’s suggestions. He could have tried to take her to bed if he’d wanted to, which was what most guys Andie had accepted dates with recently seemed to have in mind as their idea of a first date. And when she’d sunk into his arms after he’d saved her ass from falling off the balcony he pushed away rather than take advantage of her momentary bout with Florence Nightingale syndrome. She’d been the one who made assumptions and flipped out. Sure, the way he’d gone from protesting innocence to unleashing a teensy bit of pent up fury was a little bit scary—although also incredibly sexy. There was something about blurring the fine line between passion and danger that made Andie’s toes curl. When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, she could barely see the grand piano and smiling, anonymous faces behind the mahogany concierge desk through the frustrated tears that had started to swell in her eyes. What I have I done?
Andie slammed her palm against the door close button and pinned down the button to Guy’s floor. She kept pushing the lit circle over and over even as the elevator counted up through the floors. She knew, logically, that she could beat that button ‘til the cows came home and it wouldn’t make the elevator move a hair faster, but she jabbed at it nonetheless. It helped to pass the time.
The ride up was painfully slow. The elevator slugged its way upward through each floor—ten…twelve…fifteen. Eighteen…twenty-
one. Andie counted off the floors and tried to figure out what she’d say when—if—Guy opened the door when she knocked on it. He’d probably ignore her, or turn her away like some vacuum-peddling salesman. Worst-case scenario, he’d have her hauled off by hotel security, though that seemed a little extreme and probably worth more bad press than good. Thirty…thirty-one…thirty-five…thirty-nine… That irrational anger and all of its clever feminist rants that had stormed through on her mind on the ride down were gone. Andie couldn’t remember the last time she’d let her emotions get the best of her. Okay, so she had a short fuse, which was true. But usually it wasn’t this bad. If nothing else, she could apologize. Blame it on her period, hormonal instability, or whatever lame excuse girls seemed to get away with to whitewash their crazy behavior as long as it sounded genuinely repentant. The numbers seemed to be crawling upward on the slow lift back to the top. Being on the edge of jumping out of her skin didn’t help. Forty-two…forty-seven….
Andie angled her body sideways and slid through the doors before they had time to open fully. She hiked her skirt up and over her knees and ran toward Guy’s door. She tripped over her heels only once, stopped, and kicked them off. Maybe Bryce Dallas Howard could outrun a Tyrannosaurus Rex in high heels in Jurassic World, but her watercolor peep toes could rot in the hallway forever for all she cared. She wasn’t running from the predator anyway; she was running straight toward him. Better to do it barefoot.
Andie had almost made it to the door when, much to her surprise, it was thrown open from the inside. Guy rushed out into the hallway. He was still in his sleek suit pants and striped shirt—and still barefoot—but his suit jacket was gone. His hair was mussed like he’d been shaking his head furiously, and his expression was intense and determined. One arm was thrust midway down the sleeve of his leather jacket, his other arm bent backward trying to find its way into its sleeve. He charged through the hotel room door without a backward glance and left the hotel room door open on its hinges behind him.