by Stacy Travis
His lips were on mine, sweet and warm and strong, as he slid back into the seat and pulled me closer. He ran one finger along my cheek and traced the contour of my jaw. His other hand tangled in my hair while he deepened the kiss, taking me with him again on the ecstatic freight train I’d been riding for the past two weeks. For a moment, I thought about the driver and wondered if he could see us. And I thought about how Chris hadn’t put his seatbelt back on. But to hell with the seatbelt, because it felt too good to have him pressed against me.
By the time we got on the freeway heading northbound toward Santa Monica, I was a dizzy mess of tangled hair, bruised lips, and an insatiable need to get out of my clothes. And I felt unfathomably happy.
So I gave in, tilting my head back as Chris placed a new row of soft, wet kisses along the column of my throat. Then I felt his breath on the part of my neck that gave me chills, and I gave in. I let go of the fears about our future. I let go completely.
Chapter Two
Santa Monica
Chris
I couldn’t blame Nikki for being weirded out by strangers asking for selfies, all of it right as I was trying to assuage her fears about the paternity-allegation bombshell. Some women might find it exciting and cool to have a ringside seat to scandal and celebrity, but Nikki would rather run, not walk, in the opposite direction.
Understandable. It was part of what I found lovely and compelling about her—she saw me as a person, not a celebrity. But I hoped her dislike for limelight wouldn’t consume her, because I couldn’t possibly shield her from all of it.
If we were out together in a public place, people were going to gawk. Maybe that had to mean we didn’t go out much. I could handle that. For a while.
Nikki lived six miles from the airport, and it took forty-five minutes to get back to her condo. The traffic was hellish. It was also forty-five glorious, hot minutes in the back of the town car with the privacy screen all the way up. There was no reason to begrudge the benefits of a roomy back seat.
God, I was crazy about this woman. I actually found myself sneaking sideways glances because I still couldn’t believe I’d jumped on a plane and chased her to California. But I had no doubt it was the right decision. My life moved too fast for me to spend time second-guessing my choices.
There would be some juggling, to be sure, but once I got my manager and my assistant onboard with the move to LA, things would fall into place. They always did.
As we got closer to her neighborhood, I wanted to look around and get my bearings. I hadn’t spent much time in LA, and when I had, it had been for press events and talk shows.
In and out. No time for sightseeing, and frankly, I wasn’t all that interested. I could admit to being a slightly arrogant New Yorker who thought that most other cities paled by comparison.
So I hugged her tightly but vowed to keep my hands off the rest of her until we were out of the car. I cracked the window and inhaled the dry, coastal California air. Leaving a city where all of humanity lived on top of each other—in other words, the most dynamic, interesting city on the planet—wouldn’t be the worst thing if it meant living by the beach.
“How close do you live to the beach?”
“Six blocks.”
“Seriously? I see a walk in our future this afternoon.”
“We can do that. It’ll help with the jetlag to be outside.”
“Oh, I’ll want some inside time too, don’t you worry.”
“I will strive to find a healthy balance.”
Once we’d exited the freeway at Fourth Street, I opened the window more and let in a little bit of the breezy ocean smell. Since I didn’t know LA well, I was pretty fired up about sightseeing. “What’s that?” I pointed at a mammoth, block-wide structure with some sort of metal art piece decorating the side.
“It’s a mall. I mean, it’s a nice mall, with lots of pretty stores, but still… mall.”
“And if a person wanted to buy another person a sexy dress that couldn’t possibly be worn with a bra, might that mall be a good place to find such an item?” I knew she wasn’t entirely comfortable with me picking out clothes for her, but I felt certain I could find her something she would never buy for herself that would look incredible on her, and I wasn’t above pushing her out of her comfort zone.
Her cheeks turned the color of raspberry jam. “I wouldn’t know.”
I saw an opening in her denial. “No? Something tells me you’re downplaying your interest in said mall. You’re a secret shopaholic, aren’t you?”
“Okay, fine. Not for the sexy dresses. But you might as well know… I do like my shoes.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Is it possible that some of your shoes might benefit from the company of a sexy dress?”
“I’ll let you be the judge. I have a Technicolor rainbow of wedge heels and stilettos in my closet, and I’m not apologizing for them. I have a weakness for pretty shoes.”
“Then I think we’ll get along perfectly. Because I have a weakness for you.”
She reached for my hand and turned her face toward the window, but I could see she was smiling. I vowed to eventually make her more comfortable with compliments.
“Okay, we’re here. I live on the third floor,” she said as the car pulled up in front of her building.
I looked up at the building, which rose about six stories from the sidewalk. It was an older-looking, Spanish-influenced structure. Knowing how captivated she was with the art and architecture in France, it didn’t surprise me that she lived in a place with character. She caught me looking, and I guess she felt the need to explain. “I looked forever until I found a unit in this building.”
“Why this particular one?”
“It’s classic. Old California architecture. There are really two original styles, Craftsman and Spanish. I couldn’t live in some modern monolith or cheesy fifties box.”
“I like it. Everything’s nice and spread out here.”
“Different from New York, huh? Do you think you’ll miss it?” she asked.
The driver opened the door, and I felt the warm Pacific air and realized how much I already missed being on vacation. There was something steady and calm about the breezy beach climate, and the smell immediately took me back to our time in the South of France.
I shrugged and put an arm around her while the driver lugged our bags from the trunk to the elevator in the building. “Change is good.”
“It’s okay to say you’ll miss it.”
“New York has its plusses, but I’ve been there long enough… and yeah, I’ll probably miss it a little.”
There wasn’t room in the elevator for us, the driver, and our luggage, so we left the luggage behind, raced up the three flights of stairs, and beat the driver to her front door. He rolled our bags down the hallway a minute later. Nikki thanked him profusely for the help, and I shook his hand. I knew a generous tip would be added to the bill by my business manager.
When Nikki opened the door, I was immediately struck by the light scent of plumeria and honey that I’d come to associate with her. Walking in the door was like being enveloped in her, and I gratefully inhaled. She lived in a small but homey condo, and I could see how much effort she’d put into making it uniquely hers. Art was everywhere—paintings, sculptures, even a couple of hanging mobiles that made me think of a Calder exhibit I’d once seen at MOMA.
She kicked the door closed and grabbed for my hand, pulling me toward her. As much as my attention was focused on Nikki and relieving some of the pent-up angst I’d been feeling on the plane, I had to take in our surroundings for just a moment.
On the wall facing the front door, there was a set of six framed mixed-media collages that reminded me of a group of California artists that made lithographs in that style. They were large, each one two by three feet. And they were arresting in their color and composition. She had incredible taste in art. On her reclaimed-wood coffee table in front of the couch, I saw three small sculptures, each worked
from different cuts of stone, each one equally striking.
There was more—abstract watercolor paintings on a wall leading to the kitchen, the paint mixed with sand to give it a blotchy, inky look, and black-and-white drawings on a different wall. And that was just what I could see from the room where we stood. She’d surrounded herself with creativity and beauty and I could do nothing but stare in admiration. “You have an incredible art collection,” I said, deciding whether I was more impressed with her artistic eye or her bold decision to collect art when most people our age spent money on cars or expensive dinners.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.
When I turned toward her, curious why her voice was so quiet, she tried again to pull me toward her, away from where I stood, distracted by the art. That only made me more curious. “How long have you been at this?” I asked, wondering how long it took to amass this collection. I wanted to follow where she was leading, especially if it took us to the bedroom, but I was captivated. And interested.
She sighed, seeming surprised that I wanted to talk about the art before I wanted to peel her clothes off and lick her skin. I was surprised, too, but what I was looking at was that beautiful. I couldn’t not comment on it. I couldn’t not know about it. I would explain later, after I’d peeled her clothes off. For the time being, I looked to her to answer my question.
“I took a painting class in college. A couple painting classes. Then I just kind of got hooked.”
My brain was churning, trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Wait, you made all of this? This is your art?”
She nodded, and I’m pretty sure she even shrugged. She wasn’t shy about it, not modest, not anything. It was as if we were discussing a cookie recipe she’d made from the back of a box.
“You made… all of this?”
She nodded again, looking at me like I was being dense. “I had a lot of bare walls. It was a fun side project.”
I shook my head, not understanding how she didn’t see what I did. “This is… isn’t some paint-by-numbers side project. I’m blown away. You’re really talented. Extremely talented.”
She stared at me, her eyes curious and calm, as though she was looking at someone who was possibly mentally unstable. “Okay. Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
“I… we’re going to have to discuss this later in more detail.”
“Later sounds good. I have a ton of art supplies. We can paint if you think it would be fun,” she said, still calmer than I’d seen her most of the time we’d been together. It was as though the art on her walls and the environment she’d created gave her a sense of security and well-being that she didn’t have while she was away. She was home, where she felt comfortable being herself.
I understood suddenly why she kept talking about my world as being someplace different, someplace where she might not fit in. Her apartment was her world, and it was magical. “I think… sure. We can paint. Although my idea of fine art is finger painting you with chocolate syrup and licking it off.”
She smiled. “We can do that too. Later. Right now, I want—no, I need—to have you take your shirt off. I’ve been sitting next to you for half a day and thinking almost exclusively about that.”
I didn’t need an engraved invitation. I pulled my T-shirt over my head and immediately felt her nails drag across my chest and down my abs. I felt my muscles jump at her touch. Jesus, it never got old. “I’ve been craving you since our last night together in France,” I said, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and kissing her along her jawline. When I got to the neckline of her shirt, I grabbed it in my teeth and tugged, helping it over her head with my other hand from the bottom. “I’ve been picturing you like this.”
She was gorgeous. Her breasts spilled over the tops of her bra cups, and I bent my head to taste her delicious skin. I used the back of my hand to graze the tops of her breasts before reaching around, unclasping it, and letting it fall to the floor.
“Now, your pants,” she said.
“People admiring your art makes you kinda bossy,” I said.
“You make me kinda everything.” She sounded a little breathless. “Sitting next to you on the plane was torture.”
“I’d have done this with you on the plane.” I wasn’t going to lie. If she’d have just said the word, I’d have inducted her into the mile-high club. But I was trying to make our time together more meaningful than what I’d given to past relationships. I didn’t think a quick fuck in an airplane bathroom after telling her about my ex’s possible pregnancy would accomplish that.
“Ha. You have no shame.”
“Nope.”
She ran her nails along the waistband of my pants, just teasing the skin. I felt my dick immediately jump to attention as she popped the button and slid the zipper down. I wasn’t thinking about art at all anymore.
She licked a trail down my abs, sending a thrill of sensation through every part of me.
I wanted to take my time. Hell, I also wanted to pin her against a wall. I chose to start slow, but she shook her head. “Not after teasing me in the car for three hours. I need you now.”
“It wasn’t three hours, but I see your point.” I kissed her neck, tasting the skin of her shoulder before giving it a little nip.
“Stop. Talking,” she said, pulling me closer and backing up until both of us landed on the couch with me on top of her.
She didn’t have to tell me twice.
Chapter Three
Nikki
Chris didn’t have much time to think about missing New York before it beckoned with an urgent plea. He got a call an hour after I showed him the rest of my one-bedroom condo—the walk-in closet, the tiny bonus room I used as a home office, and the kitchen—and learned that production on a film that he’d tried to push back to November couldn’t be changed. In fact, it was starting ahead of schedule, and he had to go back to New York immediately for three weeks of prep, after which he would fly to Ireland for a two-month shoot.
His agent wanted to know if he was available.
The way he’d planned it out, he’d be in LA with me for two weeks, and he’d start looking for a place to rent while he was here. Then he’d go back to New York to pack up and fulfill a few commitments there. But with the movie filming locally, he’d be in LA for the majority of the next six months. He told me multiple times that he really wanted to make the move and that I should not feel guilty about whatever legwork that required.
“Are you available?” I asked wryly, expecting him to say no. He’d already spent part of the plane ride communicating with his manager to finesse the start dates of that very project, and he’d committed to a different movie because it would be shooting on location in LA in four months.
He didn’t answer right away, and I could tell that everything had suddenly shifted. Gone were the sweet whispers of an hour before, when Chris told me he wanted to stay inside me forever. Reality had quashed any plans except those relating to his job. I felt a pit settle into my stomach. Here it goes.
“Yes. I mean no. I can always say no.” He smiled as if he could treat his career with the cavalier tone he was using, but we both knew the truth.
“You don’t have to say no. If it’s something you want to do, you should do it.” I felt strongly about that. I never wanted him to turn down something he wanted to do, especially out of consideration for me.
He looked torn. “I kind of want to do it.”
I nodded. It would be fine, I told myself.
“But if you tell me not to do it, I won’t.”
“Oh no, that’s not how this is going to work. If we have a chance at all of being together, you need to work and be happy. I have a job. It’s not like I’ll be sitting here all day, waiting for you in an apron and bunny slippers. I’ve got a career to manage too.” I was in a bit of denial that I’d be going back to work, but there was no escaping it.
I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, like he felt guilty.
“Please. Let’s get this right at the outset,” I told him. “Go to work. Be your best self. And when you’re not at work, come be with me.”
Chris sat on my blue denim couch and put his head in his hands. “Ugh, I hate this. You know I want to be here, right?”
“Yes. Chris, I know.”
“I could say I’m not available until the November date. They work around my schedule.”
“If they could do that, wouldn’t they have kept the original date?” I still didn’t know enough about how the movie business worked to understand why they moved things around, but I knew there had to be a reason.
“Right. It’s a costar issue. She can’t do November, and if we don’t shoot now, we wait a year, and by then, everything could change.”
“Sounds like you have your answer if you want to do this movie.”
“But all the things I said… I still mean them. I really do want to be here. I just… can’t.”
“I appreciate that. I want you to be here too. But we have to start things off right, or we’re doomed. Let’s make it simple. You were planning on taking this role when it was shooting in November. And you don’t have anything—other than me—to keep you from doing it now.”
“What if I’d rather hang here with you?”
I sat down next to him. He really seemed distraught over his choices. “Then you’re making the wrong decision. Chris, that’s a lovely thing to say, and I know you mean it. But I’m not gonna let you start turning down jobs for me.”
“So I should go to New York.” He didn’t sound at all convinced.
“You should.”
“Will you come out?”
“Sure. At some point.”
“How about next week?”
“I mean… how? I have to work. I just took two weeks off.”
“So come for a weekend. I can get you on whatever flights you need, so you can time it with your hours at work.”
