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She’s standing by the famous art piece that inspired her latest best-seller. The Black Rose is smaller than I’d thought, not much bigger than a piece of printer paper. Maybe I just assumed it was large because of its importance? Together, the sight is a dream come true, and I feel drawn toward it like a tractor beam drawing a cow up into an alien spaceship.
I’m so lost in J.A. Fox being real and right in front of me that I trip over my scrambling feet. The hiss of a giggle behind me slices through my gut, but before I can blush in shame—or hit the ground face first—I hit a hard body and arms wrap tightly around me.
“Oh,” I exclaim too loudly. Another giggle, this time with an accompanying chorus of cleared throats, sounds out behind me. But when I look up into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen attached to a man who’s just as appealing, the symphony of pity from the other authors disappears as I focus on mapping the flecks of brown and gold at the center of these eyes.
It has definitely been too long since I’ve done my own ‘research’ on sex because my body, that wanton, thirsty hussy, perks right up at the feel of his body and his eyes focused on mine. He’s so close I can smell the mint he must’ve eaten earlier, and my ovaries, the dried-up peach pits in my gut, start doing a hokey pokey as they come to life and start turning themselves around.
“Who are you?” I ask breathlessly.
At my girlish question, he chuckles too, and the moment is broken. I belatedly realize what an idiot I look like—tripping over my own feet and falling into some stranger before staring up at him with lustful, worshipful eyes like I’m ready to have his babies right here and now.
I struggle to upright myself, my knees not quite ready and buckling ever so slightly. To my horror, the hot stranger catches me . . . again. “Careful now.”
“Guess she takes ‘head over heels’ a bit literally, huh?” someone stage whispers behind me.
Finally vertical and steady, I clear my throat and try to salvage some dignity. “Sorry. I got a little star struck there.”
“It happens. I sometimes have that effect on women,” he says with a cocky smirk that somehow still looks charming. “Just don’t break anything.”
“No. No, I meant . . . not you . . .” I argue stupidly, going pale. He doesn’t believe my lie, but I stick to my story. “By her. That’s J.A. Fox,” I whisper like he doesn’t know that. If he’s here, he must’ve been invited and know who she is, right? Male romance authors are unusual, and now that my head is on straight, I’m instantly curious who he is. Speaking of straight—oh, God, is my dress okay? I check to be sure it hasn’t crept up my thighs or a boob hasn’t popped out. All good, thankfully.
“Sure. She’s . . . who’d you say?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the Grand Dame who’s thankfully unaware of my misfortunate blunder and greeting other guests warmly.
It’s only then that I realize something. He’s not dressed. Well, I mean, he has clothes on—unfortunately, because I felt those muscles up close and personal—but he’s not dressed up for the dinner. He’s wearing all black . . . like a staff member.
Way to go, Poppy. Not only did you literally fall into someone and make a fool out of yourself, but it’s a staff member who has better things to do than keep you from splatting on the floor. Like . . . his job.
“Oh, fuck. You’re not an author, are you?” I blurt out.
I watch his smile melt and his face turn to stone. It should make him seem cold and lessen his attractiveness, but the clench of his jaw only serves to make him look fierce and hard, something I didn’t know could be so panty-melting.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound rude,” I try to apologize.
But the moment is gone, and without excusing himself, he walks away. I can’t help but keep my eyes glued to him, all confidence and swagger as he moves toward the stage, quietly saying something to another man dressed in all black. Like a good reader, I use my context clues and realize that not only is he not an author, but he’s not staff. He’s security.
And I’m a total dork, and a bitch too.
A woman onstage taps the microphone, the telltale thump garnering everyone’s attention. “Please find your places, and we’ll begin.” I’m thankful to see that there are ivory place cards on each plate so I don’t have to find a place to sit on my own. I see my name and sit down, hanging my bag on the chair behind me. Some of the other authors have set their bags and briefcases down in the workshop area by their nameplates, but I’m too paranoid and can’t let my laptop, my manuscript, my baby, be that far from my reach.
