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‘Definitely.’ He gave the little crowd an eye roll and a smile, squeezing Olivia’s arm and pulling her closer even though everything in him rebelled against this play-acting. ‘Let’s just say sparks flew.’
‘And the whole hotel thing?’ a woman asked, eyebrows raised. Ben tensed, and felt Olivia do the same. Neither of them, he suspected, really wanted to talk about the whole hotel thing. ‘I suppose you have that in common.’
‘Oh.’ Olivia relaxed. ‘Yes, our childhoods were amazingly similar, weren’t they, Ben? Birthday dinners in the hotel dining room...hide-and-seek in the hallways...’ She gave him a soppy smile and he managed some sort of smile back.
‘Yeah. Right.’
Thankfully the conversation moved on to Hollywood, which was a relief, and Ben let the words drift over him as he considered what Olivia had said. Did they have similar childhoods? He’d had a few birthday dinners in The Chatsfield, London. It had meant to be a treat, but it had stopped feeling like one after a while.
He didn’t care about that though. What he’d cared about—what he was bitter about, still—was how the birthday dinners and the hide-and-seek in the hallways and the appearance in front of the hotel’s entrance, waving at the crowds, had all been an illusion. A trick to make everyone believe the Chatsfields were one big happy family. He’d known the truth, had heard it in the arguments his parents had had at home, in the way his father’s mouth had twisted every time he’d looked at Spencer.
And yet still Ben had bought into the illusion, had tried to make it real by pleasing everyone, smoothing over every argument, trying so damn hard. And then his father had told him the truth and he’d realised there had been no point. There had never been any point. And maybe everyone, himself included, would have been better off if he hadn’t been such a damn Boy Scout and tried to make everyone happy.
Ben felt the tension knot in his shoulders as the memories came rushing back, spurred by just a few simple words of Olivia’s. He was tired and hungry—he’d skipped dinner to attend this thing—and he was also fed up with pretending. He was fed up with all the thoughts that raced through his head, emotions that churned in his gut. Coming back to The Chatsfield was hard—and pretending to be Olivia Harrington’s boyfriend wasn’t making his life any easier.
When there was a break in the conversation he bent his head to murmur in Olivia’s ear, ‘Shall we go?’
She glanced up at him, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling. She was enjoying this, he realised. This was her crowd, her moment, and while he felt a flicker of remorse for taking her away from it, he still knew he needed to leave.
‘Sure. Of course,’ she said, and then spent another fifteen minutes saying her effusive goodbyes to everyone. Ben waited, his hands jammed in his pockets, the tension inside him coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. He felt as if everything were pressing in on him—the charade with Olivia, the memories of The Chatsfield, Spencer’s expectations. He needed to swim about a million laps.
‘I’m ready,’ Olivia said with a brilliant smile that was definitely not for his benefit, and they headed out into the rainy night.
The paparazzi were still waiting like vultures outside the theatre.
‘Olivia! Ben! How was your date?’
Ben fully intended to shoulder past them, but Olivia hesitated. She probably wanted someone to ask about the film, but of course they weren’t going to. They wanted a money shot, that was all.
‘How about a kiss?’ someone called, and after a tiny pause she turned to Ben, a playful smile curving her lips.
No. No, no, no. He was not going to kiss her in front of all these bozos. He was not going to kiss her just because some annoying reporter asked him to. He wouldn’t be that fake.
No, Ben realised, but she was going to kiss him. With that playful smile still flirting with her mouth she stepped forward and slid her arms around his neck. He felt her breasts press against his chest, and the slippery, silvery fabric of her dress suddenly seemed like very little barrier between them. Out of instinct he steadied her by putting his hands on her hips, and then she reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him.
Her lips brushed against his in a feather-soft kiss, not much of a kiss at all, really, and yet it ignited a firestorm inside Ben so that he tightened his hands on her hips and pulled her against his very noticeable arousal.
Every thought and resolution he’d had flew out of his head as he plundered her mouth, his tongue slipping inside her softness, and he felt the little pulse of shock that went through her.
Felt it in himself. What the hell was he doing?
