by M. S. Force
“Is the part about how you were so burned by your first marriage that you’d never marry again true?”
The question registers a direct hit to the gut, and I fight the need to squirm under her sharp gaze. “That part might be true.”
“So then there really is no point at all to us spending more time together, because if you’re like most men, and I suspect you are, the dating ritual is undertaken with one goal in mind—to get your flavor of the week into bed. Since I have not and will not sleep with anyone I’m not married to, and you have no intention of ever marrying again, I’d say we’re at an impasse.”
“So wait, you haven’t… That’s to say…”
“You heard me correctly.”
For the third time, she has knocked the air out of my lungs. “Well…”
“Let’s skip this whole thing, shall we? Would you mind taking me home?”
“I…” Suddenly, I’m panic-stricken at the thought of her escaping before I have the chance to know her. I realize I’m in deep, deep trouble when it occurs to me that it doesn’t matter if she won’t sleep with me. What I want from her, what I need from her, goes far beyond sex. “Please.” My voice has been reduced to a mere whisper. “Give me tonight. If after that you don’t want to see me again, I’ll respect your wishes.” I reach for her hand and bring it to my mouth, brushing my lips lightly over her knuckles.
She draws in a sharp breath that tells me she’s not immune to me. Not at all. But as always, I have no idea if she’s reacting to me or to the fact that a movie star kissed her hand. I’d like the opportunity to find out.
“Please.”
She looks at me for the longest time, and I have the oddest feeling that my entire life and any chance I have to be truly happy depends on what she says next. It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before, and it shocks the living shit out of me.
“Okay,” she says softly, making me feel as if she’s given me a priceless gift.
Maybe she has. She’s given me the pleasure of her company, which is suddenly the most important thing to me.
I turn the car toward our destination, and we drive uptown in silence. I’m not sure who’s more nervous about how this night will go—me or her.
I’m frightened by the attraction I feel for him. I’ve never felt such a strong pull toward another human being, and I don’t know if I’m attracted to the man or the celebrity. Wouldn’t any woman with a pulse feel tingly and breathless sitting next to the specimen known as Flynn Godfrey? Or does what I’m feeling have nothing to do with who he is to the rest of the world and everything to do with who he could be to me? How will I know?
We drive farther uptown, the cross-street numbers increasing with every block. Traffic slows us down in the theater district, where the bright lights of Broadway dazzle me. I haven’t spent much time up here, haven’t ventured beyond Times Square or the designer boutiques on Fifth Avenue. I’ve been where the tourists go. He’s taking me somewhere else entirely.
“Have you been to any Broadway shows yet?” he asks.
“Not yet. The tickets are a little steep.”
“Yes, I suppose they are.”
He probably gets in for free, which is ironic. Those who can most afford admission don’t have to pay.
“Which show would you like to see?” he asks.
“Either ‘Book of Mormon’ or ‘Wicked’.”
“They’re both amazing.”
“Of course you’ve probably seen everything.”
“Not everything, but I try to catch a couple of shows whenever I spend time in New York. I love live theater.”
“Have you performed in the theater?”
“A very long time ago. Back when I was just getting into the business. It’s something I’d like to do again someday.”
A few minutes later, we pull into an underground garage, and my nerves come back with a vengeance. I feel like I’m being taken into the bowels of Manhattan, and I may or may not ever be seen or heard from again. I share this thought with Flynn, who finds it hilarious.
“You have one hell of an imagination, Natalie Bryant.”
My new name sounds right coming from him. It sounds like me—the new me. I like the new me. She’s brave and bold and mostly fearless. That is until the biggest movie star on the planet decides he wants to spend time with her. Then she becomes nervous and fearful and riddled with the anxiety that nearly debilitated her in the past.
I don’t want to be her anymore. I worked so hard to escape those shackles, to find my way out of the nightmare of my past into a future bright with promise. I can’t let one night with an enigmatic man undo all that hard-won progress. I won’t let that happen.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says as the car descends ever deeper into the garage.
“How can you hear someone thinking?”
“Your thoughts are so loud they permeate the silence.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What am I thinking?”
“Wait. You bite? Really?”
I roll my eyes at his shameless flirtation. He’s incredibly gifted in that regard. A master, if you will. I am woefully out of my element, and we both know it.
He pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine. “You’re thinking this is the craziest, most impulsive, most ridiculously unsafe thing you’ve ever done in your life and…” He tips his head and studies me in that intent, knowing way that has become familiar to me in the short time we’ve spent together. “You’re wishing you were home sharing Chinese takeout with Fluff rather than wasting your time with a man who wants things you aren’t interested in.”
I’m stunned, shredded, exposed and reminded of how broken I truly am. I have no business being interested in him or wondering what it would have been like to meet him as a whole and healthy woman who could give him what he wants.
“How close was I?”
“Startlingly.”
He sticks out his lip in a pout that is naturally adorable coming from him. “I’ve never been so jealous of a twenty-pound ball of fur in my life. I bet she even gets to sleep snuggled up to you, right?”
“Of course she does.”
“What about the goose-down bed that was listed among her assets earlier?”
“It’s all for show. We don’t want people talking about us sleeping together.”
The pout morphs into a smile so potent, my panties feel too tight all of a sudden. I’m constricted and tingling in places I’ve never tingled before. It is the smile that has landed him twice on People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive cover. It’s the smile that opens movies and makes women do crazy things like climb the security fence at his home and send him photos in the mail that no one but their husbands should ever see. Yes, I’ve read every word that’s ever been printed about him, so I have an unfair advantage.
I know everything about him. He knows nothing about me, and if I have my way, he never will.
I want to know everything about her—if she requires coffee to function in the morning, what her favorite song is, her favorite color, what she likes to sleep in. The possibility that she prefers to sleep in nothing at all is one I can’t afford to entertain at the moment. Not when I’m trying to keep her from running away. She’s like a skittish colt being introduced to a saddle—always ready to bolt. I’ve known her less than twelve hours, and I already understand that if I let her run, if I let her get away, the memory of her will haunt me forever.
“What kind of car is this? It’s nice.”
Yes, it’s nice and worth more than one-point-five million dollars, not that I’d ever tell her that. “It’s a Bugatti Veyron.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“Cars are one of my vices.” I gesture to the white Range Rover SUV and the red Ducati motorcycle, which is my preferred means of transport in the city. I decided earlier that the Range Rover is too pedestrian for such an important evening, and the Ducati would scare her away for sure. I’ll save that for the second date, if I get that lu
cky.
The thought gives me pause as I get out of the car and go around to help her. It’s not often that I worry about getting a second date. I’ve become complacent where women are concerned. It’s been a long-ass time since anyone made me work for a second date the way I already know I’ll have to with Natalie.
She takes the hand I offer to help her out of the car, and the impact of her skin brushing against mine travels through my body like a live wire. When she glances up at me, eyes wide and lips parted, I know for certain my touch had the same effect on her.
I watch as her sleek legs propel her up and out of the car, my mouth going dry at the thought of touching those well-defined muscles.
When she runs a hand over her skirt, I discover I’m staring and force myself to look at her face and not at the rest of her. I close the door and lock the car out of habit, not out of fear of it being stolen from a garage only I have access to. As I lead her to the elevator, I continue to hold her hand and consider it a small victory that she doesn’t pull away from me.
In the elevator, I insert the keycard that takes us to the top floor. She’s quiet on the short ride, but observant, her gaze darting around to take in the details of the well-appointed elevator but steering clear of me. For some reason, I find her reaction to me amusing and endearing and more than a little refreshing. Women tend to be silly around me. They talk constantly. They fill every silence with chatter, as if they fear I’ll lose interest if they aren’t endlessly entertaining and charming.
Natalie fills the silence with more silence, and I find myself desperately trying to think of something to say that will engage her and keep her interested in me. I’m humbled to admit I’m way out of my league with this woman, which only makes me more determined to know her.
Before I can be charming or witty, the elevator dings, and we arrive at my top-floor apartment. The doors open, and I lead Natalie into the foyer.
“Can I take your coat?”
“Sure, thanks.”
I release her hand to help with her coat.
“May I?” She gestures to the rooms beyond the foyer.
“Of course. Make yourself at home.”
She wanders into the living room and gravitates toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park and Fifth Avenue. “This view is incredible. You can see the skating rink and the boathouse.”
“The view sold me on the place.”
She turns away from the window to take a look at the rest of the apartment, which consists of a spacious living room, a kitchen I rarely use, an office where I spend most of my time when I’m in New York, and the bedroom and master bathroom.
“Want to see the rest?”
“I’d love to.”
I take her into my office, where she spends a few minutes looking at the photos of family and friends I’ve put up on the wall over my desk, which is covered with scripts that threaten to avalanche onto my laptop. I need to clean this place up one of these days.
When she’s looked her fill, we cross the hall to the bedroom, and she surprises me when she steps inside for a better look at my king-size bed and the photos of my nieces and nephews on the bedside table. “Bathroom is in there.”
As she opens the door to take a peek, I’m grateful I took the time this afternoon to make the bed and pick up the towels from the floor.
“I love your tub,” she says when she rejoins me in the bedroom. “If I had a tub like that, I’d take bubble baths every night.”
The image of her in my tub surrounded by bubbles has me swallowing hard and forcing thoughts of anything other than her naked body into my mind, so I don’t embarrass myself—and her—with a predictable reaction. “Feel free to come over and take a soak any time you want to.”
“Sure,” she says with a laugh. “I’ll just pop over for a bubble bath.”
“My tub is your tub.”
“Be careful making promises you have no intention of keeping.”
I’m surprisingly wounded by her certainty that I’m being insincere. I cross the room to my dresser and return to her with a keycard that I hand to her. “Any time you want.”
“I was joking,” she says as a flush of color overtakes her cheeks.
“I wasn’t.” Nothing about the way I feel when she’s in the room is a joke to me. I’ve lived long enough, dated enough women, slept with more of them than I probably should have, to know when something is different, special and unique. Natalie is all those things.
She tries to give the key back to me. “You shouldn’t give someone you barely know a key to your home. Don’t you have security people to tell you things like that?”
Her indignant reply makes me laugh, which seems to annoy her. “Are you telling me you can’t be trusted with my key?”
“I’m telling you that you shouldn’t be so cavalier with your security. How do you know I’m not a crazy stalker fan girl?”
“Are you?” I ask with mock concern. Somehow I already know I can trust this woman with everything I have.
“No, but you have no way to know whether I’m lying to you.”
“Do you believe in instinct? Gut checks?”
“I guess. Sort of.”
“My instincts are telling me you can be trusted with that key. My gut is telling me I won’t regret sharing my bathtub with you, since I never use it, and it’s a shame to let it go to waste if it could bring you pleasure.”
Once again her cheeks flush, this time at the word “pleasure.”
“You never use that tub? Seriously?”
“I’m ashamed to confess I’ve never used it.”
“And how long have you owned this place?”
I have to think about that for a second. “It’ll be ten years in March.”
“That’s tragic.”
“What can I say? I’m a shower kind of guy.”
All at once, she seems to realize we’re having a somewhat intimate conversation within the confines of my bedroom. “Does this place have a kitchen?”
“Right this way.”
I turn on the lights in the kitchen as a smile stretches across her face. “Wow. Now I have kitchen envy, too.”
“You have the key. Feel free to use it. This is another room that gets very little attention from me, other than the fridge where you can always find a cold beer.”
“Such a guy.”
“Guilty as charged. Speaking of my utter inability to cook, I thought about hiring a woman I know who cooks for our production team whenever we’re in town to come over and make something for us tonight, but that seemed too pretentious.” I open a drawer, withdraw a stack of takeout menus and lay them out on the counter before her.
She presses two fingers to her lips, seeming to suppress a laugh.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask her, mocking outrage.
Pinching her index finger and thumb together, she says, “Just a little.”
“That’s not very nice of you. Here I am, laying myself bare, admitting my failings, and you’re laughing at me.” I shake my head, delighted when a gurgle of laughter erupts from her, making me feel like I’ve won something precious. My stomach lets out a loud growl, which only makes her laugh harder. “Yes, I’m starving, so if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you’d like to eat, I’ll make the call.”
She rolls her lips adorably and studies the menus with the same intensity I suspect she gives everything. It’s a little unsettling to admit how much I want to be on the receiving end of that intensity.
“This,” she says, handing over the menu for a nearby Italian place that delivers.
“My favorite. What’s your pleasure?”
“Chicken piccata and a Caesar salad, please.”
I stare at her for a brief moment. “You won’t believe me when I tell you this, but that’s my regular order.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
Shaking my head in amusement, I withdraw my phone from my pocket and dial the number from memory. “This is Flynn G
odfrey. Two of my regular, please.” I smile at her as I place the order. “Thanks.”
“That doesn’t prove anything, you know,” she says after I end the call.
“Yes, because I really could’ve set that up in advance.” She laughs, and I’m captivated all over again. She’s adorable and sassy and funny and easy to be with. I’m Flynn Godfrey, regular Joe, with her, and I like how that feels. I get so fucking tired of being Flynn Godfrey, Movie Star, with other women.
“You surprise me,” she says.
I’d been reaching for wineglasses, but I stop to turn to her. She’s taken a seat at the bar that separates the living area from the kitchen. “How so?”
“I figured you’d have… people. Driving you, cooking for you, tending to you.”
“Are you disappointed that I don’t?”
“To the contrary. I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“You can’t believe everything you read, you know.” I hold up a bottle of pinot noir and another of chardonnay.
She points to the white, and I get busy uncorking it.
“I can believe some of it, though, right?”
“Very little. Most of it is utter bullshit.”
“If they print lies, why don’t you sue them?”
Shrugging, I tell her, “Because I have better uses for my time and money. If I sued over every lie they publish, that’s all I’d do.”
“But if you sue every time they lie, maybe they’d stop lying.”
“As long as their lies sell papers and magazines and bring people to their websites and TV shows, they’ll keep doing it.”
“I can’t imagine what that must be like, to constantly have to read lies about yourself in the media.” She takes a sip of the wine and makes a satisfied noise that has everything male in me standing up to take notice. “Wow, that’s good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I don’t mention that my partners and I own the vineyard. It had better be good. “And as for the lies, I mostly ignore them. I have lawyers on retainer to keep an eye out for particularly egregious lies, but for the most part, I don’t give them any of my time or energy.”
“What counts as a particularly egregious lie?”