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I stumble forward as my foot settles into my high heel, and he lunges to break my fall. A warm, strong hand wraps around my bicep, and my stomach lurches. Equal parts mortified at my near tumble and puzzled at how he knows my name.
“That’s me.”
Like a shadow, Fallon’s close to him, hands all over him. Undoubtedly staking her claim. “No fair. L, you’ve got Felix. Let me have this one.”
He smirks, unperturbed, possibly even enjoying the attention.
“Who are you?” I pull my arm from his gentle grasp and cross both over my chest.
His gaze dips to my breasts and the not-so-subtle hint of cleavage. Impulsively, I tense and drop my arms to my sides. Heat spreads across my cheeks, and I grit my teeth.
Every once in a while, I enjoy the appreciation of a stranger. Who doesn’t? But I don’t want his attention. Fallon unapologetically ogled him, leaving no doubt to her intentions—she’d screw him in front of me and get off on it. He might too—I want him gone.
This guy doesn’t belong here with us. His blindingly perfect smile, tousled blond surfer hair, and laid-back vibe belongs at Ocean Park, Redondo, or Manhattan Beach.
“Hi, Leighton. I’m Tom Raine.” He extends his hand, and when I don’t move to shake it, he shrugs. “I’m with ACE. Your driver to Toronto.”
My stomach pitches. I should be elated that Lois didn’t cancel the driver and my plans for tomorrow still stand even with my father’s desertion. But for some reason, deep in my bones, I fear nothing good can come of this. As much as I want to get home, I don’t want it to be with this guy.
Hell no.
Something about him rankles me. His shaped torso and biceps appear effortless like he’s never stepped foot in a gym. Everything about him seems too easy…too attractive in a Ryan Reynolds kind of way.
“L, you’re one lucky girl. If I didn’t have the press junket, I’d join you. Think of the fun we’d have.” She laughs and grabs his hand.
His smile remains, though thankfully, the wattage dims. Is he bored or bothered by being treated like a piece of meat?
I straighten my spine. “You don’t look like a driver. Do you have any proof? A work ID or something?”
“Nothing official. Just an email from Gus, um, August Bradshaw, the owner of ACE.” He pulls from Fallon’s grasp. “He asked me to come by tonight and introduce myself, cover the start time and anything else. There was a last-minute change.”
He hands me a generic ACE business card, and next to the main number, scrawled in pen, is a phone number with his name beside it. Eyes back on his phone, he scrolls. “Yeah, it was supposed to be you and, uh, Mr. Rupert Price, but he’s no longer going to be with us, right?” His questioning blue eyes bore into me, and I swallow past the growing lump in my throat.
I nod, unable to form any words. He doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Great. What time did you want to hit the road?”
“I’m not functional before ten so—” My voice sounds stiff, not mine, and Fallon cuts me off. “Let’s talk about this on the way to the party. You’re coming, Tom, right?”
“No.” He flashes her a tight smile, then nothing for me. “I’ll be here at ten.”
Her phone chimes and she pulls it from her wristlet. “Shit. Tristan isn’t coming. Apparently, he’s not up to it.” She mocks a baby voice and rolls her eyes. “L, we don’t have a ride.” Then she turns to Tom. “You have to take us to the party. And who knows, maybe you’ll change your mind and stay.”
I want to object, but we need a ride. The sooner, the better.
He rakes a hand through his golden hair. “Not going to the party and I can’t—”
I cut him off. “Drive us to the party. There’ll be an extra tip in it for you.”
Inwardly, I cringe at how demanding I sound, and clearly, he isn’t impressed either given how he screws up his face. I’ve offended him, and that wasn’t my intention. Even still, I can’t bring myself to say so or at the very least, apologize. My skin heats and twitches in an unsettling way, and all I can attribute it to is this guy. Tom.
He clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll bring the car up front.”
“I insist on tipping you. This isn’t part of the job.” And here I go adding insult to injury. Why can’t I shut up?
His blue eyes, now icy, narrow. “Yes, ma’am.”
I hate that he calls me “ma’am” and something tells me that’s why he did it.
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