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“How serious are things?” Jordyn eyes me across the table.
“I feel like we’re moving at warp speed. He already has drawers and closet space. And I even bought him this.” A show of the black diamond band garners enthusiastic oohs and ahhs. “I keep surprising myself. You know me. I’m usually slow and cautious. I debate, think, overanalyze. But a few nights with Mick and I’ve lost all reason.”
“I can see why,” Jordyn remarks with a knowing smile. “The man is fine as wine and looks at you as if you’re the only one in the room.”
“And we weren’t the only ones who noticed,” Lexie says. “My mother assured me that she didn’t call the media. But someone at the party must have. Thank goodness Mick had a bodyguard stationed outside to warn him.”
Her reminder is like being roused from a glorious dream by a bucket of cold water.
“I met the bodyguard. Stiles.” Jordyn licks her lips in an exaggerated motion. “Dark and delicious.”
Lexie rolls her eyes and turns back to me, in full PR mode. “How have you and Mick decided to handle the media?”
“We um…we haven’t talked about it.”
“What?” Her defined eyebrows jerk upward. “Didn’t you see the pictures of Mick coming out of the Lemon Lounge? They were in the Tribune and all over social media.”
I swallow hard and shake my head.
“Really, Lexie.” Jordyn’s tone drips with sarcasm. “I doubt Dee and Mick were keeping up with celebrity gossip this weekend.”
“My point is, Mick’s a gorgeous sports star and well sought-after bachelor,” she tosses back. “A significant woman in his life is going to be big news.”
A big woman in his life will be even bigger news. I reach for a piece of bread.
“Lots of celebrities keep their relationships secret,” Jordyn argues, knowing me well enough to know I wouldn’t welcome the attention.
“That’s true, but Mick and Dee were already seen together by fifty of my guests and wait staff. I know how persistent the media can be. Juicy tidbits of a public figure’s private life are worth mega bucks.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “I don’t want to see you get blindsidedby some money-grubbing photographer or ruthless reporter who sniffs out a story. Mick can get advice from his own public relations people, but my suggestion is to head off the media and tabloids with a press release.”
A press release?This is exactly what I feared, that the black cloud of doom would eventually open up and rain all over my fucking parade.
“You’re freaking her out,” Jordyn accuses.
“No, it’s okay.” I manage to find my voice. “I am freaking out a little. But Lexie’s right, it is something I should talk to Mick about.” The thought of that conversation makes me miserable.
“Sorry, Dee,” Lexie says, her expression rueful. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood or bring you down.”
“You haven’t spoiled anything,” I add with as much of a smile as I can. “I’m out with my girls to have a fun night.”
Both women eye me skeptically. “I’m fine. Really,” I insist, even as the knot in my chest tightens, overcome by the inescapability of Mick’s fame. I’ve always chosen the background, to be as inconspicuous as possible. Now I could be dragged into the spotlight. Me and my big ass body. The damn knot squeezes harder. But I breathe through my smile and reach for another piece of bread.
At ten o’clock, I arrivehome with my emotions still rolling. I try to anchor them with what’s familiar and secure. My bungalow. My quiet street. The brisk wind that skips off the lake. It blows against me and rustles the trees. My nose tickles with the scent of cut grass. Mick had mowed the lawn and raked the leaves. That small bit of normalcy is somehow settling.
I climb the steps to the porch and unlock the door. Mick’s presence surrounds me—the faint smell of cologne, his shoes in the foyer, and his leather jacket on the coat rack.
I shrug out of my trench coat and slip off my heels before following the loud music down the hall to the spare bedroom I use as a home office. Mick is sitting behind the scarred and worn desk I’d bought in law school from a secondhand store. One I’ve been intending to replace. He’d suit something sleek and modern, but regardless of the old piece of furniture, Mick is in his element.
Short, defiant waves swirl around his head. Concentration pleats the space between his eyebrows and his attention is riveted to the screen. Chinese take-out cartons litter the desk. The only light in the otherwise darkened room is the glow from the laptop and shimmer of colorful jewels from my prized Tiffany lamp.
He doesn’t hear me over the pulsing drum beat and sensual riff of a saxophone. I should go, I tell myself. I’m trespassing on the privacy of his work. Yet I can’t tear myself away.
He’d once confided that writing was his escape, his survival. I realize just how true that is in the way it seems to consume all of him. As a teenager, I had the privilege of reading his many stories. Fantastical battles between good and evil that he waged with the vivid stroke of words. Never, though, had I the pleasure of seeing him create.
It’s enthralling. Magnetic. His long, tapered fingers attack the keyboard with such passion I can feel them on my body. His focus is singular and intense like the way he makes love to me. Energy pumps out of him in electric currents, charging the air. I’m entranced by it. Utterly seduced.
I have no concept of how long I’ve been standing there when he stops. He flexes his fingers and looks up, catching me in his hot, dark gaze. My blood burns everywhere at once.
No greeting, no smile, Mick pushes out of the high-back chair and rounds the desk. Dressed in joggers and a black top, all six-feet-five inches of him prowls toward me with the graceful power of a panther. I quiver with each step, longing to be devoured.
