by Sierra Rose
This was how Nick lived his life? It felt like...this?
“How the hell did they even know we were coming?”
“I may have made a few calls,” Nick answered mischievously, so used to this level of invasive harassment that he was completely immune. My mouth fell open in shock, and he chuckled under his breath. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”
He certainly did. Everyone was here. The Times. The Harold. Associated presses from up and down the east coast. Even the San Francisco Chronicle had sent a representative. I didn’t think there was anyone he had missed.
“I can’t...” I caught my breath and quickly changed the end of that sentence. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
All at once, the weight of my innocent Barcelona decision settled hard upon my shoulders. This wasn’t some frivolous agreement, made outside an ice-cream parlor. It was dedicating myself to an entire way of life for the next three months.
The pros...and the cons.
“Well, you’re stepping into my world,” Nick’s arm tightened around me, and he looked out over the hordes of press with a measured smile, “I thought it was only fair that I take a few pages out of yours...”
I tried to nod, but it felt like my head wasn’t working. With so many pairs of eyes upon me, I suddenly felt as though I couldn’t do anything. Nothing felt natural. Everything felt staged.
Was this how I usually stood? With my feet angled like that? What about my hands—so clunky and in the way. Where the hell was I supposed to put my hands?!
“Hey.”
A gentle voice cut through my panic, heading it off before it could begin. I lifted my eyes to see Nick staring down at me, those blue eyes twinkling back into mine.
“Are you okay?”
All at once, I felt a sudden rush of confidence. Maybe it was the new clothes. Maybe it was the private jet. Maybe it was the fact that not only was I snuggled up in the arms of one of the most desirable men on the planet, but he was a man that I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I could absolutely trust.
No matter what the reason, I lifted my chin and gazed boldly out across the hangar.
“Yeah—I’m fine.” My blood rose with the challenge. “Let’s do this.”
And that...was when everything fell apart.
I didn’t take one step—not one step—before the world around me lit up with blue. But not just any sort of blue. Not the kind that you could see through, or was, god-forbid, even remotely intermittent. No—this kind of blue pierced through your eyes even when they were closed, burning the retinas while effectively eliminating everything else around it. And it didn’t come and go. I realized this even as I caught my breath, waiting for some kind of relief. Nope, once it started, this kind of blue was here to stay.
I was blind. Absolutely, inescapably, blind.
“Nick—”
“I know,” he said softly, finishing my thought before I had to do it myself.
It was in this moment that I realized something: while all of this was terrifying and new to me, it was as normal to him as his morning run. As his two dozen cups of afternoon coffee. (of course I’m exaggerating about his coffee, but it was a lot!)
This whole time, the last two years, we’d been living in two completely different worlds.
Me—safe on my side of the camera lens.
Him—trapped on the other.
There was a shifting beside me, and I felt the tickle of warm breath as he leaned down to whisper in my ear. “It’s okay...I’ve got you.”
A second later, the ground beneath me disappeared.
I stifled a shriek as a pair of warm arms circled around me, lifting me off my feet as if I weighed nothing more than a doll. A cloud of familiar cologne misted over me, and I turned my head instinctively into Nick’s chest as he carried me effortlessly down the stairs—no doubt flashing his perfect smile the whole time.
I measured the time in terms of his heart beats—steady, despite the madness closing in on every side. One second...two seconds...three...
Every silent marker was punctuated with a million screaming cries, firing at us from every direction.
“NICK—who’s the new girl?!”
“NICK—what happened to Ella?!”
“NICK—will you sign my baby’s face?!”
...a baby’s face?!
Was that one normal? Had I always just tuned that one out before?
I cringed farther into him, and his chest shook slightly, as if he was trying not to laugh. I supposed, from a client’s perspective, this had to be the ultimate revenge.
Finally, the publicist learned how it felt on the wrong side of the camera. Finally, the publicist knew how hard it was to do what they asked their clients to do on a daily basis.
Just a few more steps to the car, just a few more steps to the car...
I chanted it over and over in my mind. But Nick had rather different plans.
When we got to the bottom of the stairs, there was a slight hitch in his breathing. He lifted me higher still, so that he could whisper again in my ear.
“Little detour...do you trust me?”
“What?” I lifted my head, but was blinded again by the lights. “Nick—no!”
I might as well have saved my breath. With a grand flourish worthy of princes of old, Nick lifted his head to address the crowd, cradling me delicately all the while.
“This is Abigail Wilder.”
His hands tightened protectively around me, and my breath caught in my chest. There was something strange about hearing him say my name. He’d said it a million times, of course, but for some reason, it never sounded like how it did today.
It was...possessive, somehow. Said not as a call for attention...but as a caress.
“What happened to Ella?” a brave reporter near the front ventured.
Nick’s body tensed for a moment, and his voice was sharp.
“We don’t say that name, anymore.”
Then, as quickly as it had flared up, his temper cooled. Softened. Giving way to something both gentle, but exciting all at the same time.
“Abigail used to be my publicist. But when we were on holiday in Spain, the relationship blossomed into...other things.”
It was impossible to miss the giant sexual implication in his voice. Even though my eyes were temporarily lit up with stars, I could imagine the exact, devilish smile.
“So what are you two doing now?” someone else shouted near the back.
“...now?”
For the first time, my vision cleared. The blue clouds in front of my eyes dimmed just long enough for me to see Nick staring down at me. A single eyebrow was lifted, and even standing beneath the darkened sky, it was impossible to miss that telltale twinkle in his eyes.
“Now...we’ll just see where the night takes us.”
With that—he swung me down into a cinematic dip. One so low that the tips of my hair brushed the ground. My mouth opened up in a silent scream, but there wasn’t time.
The next thing I knew, he was kissing me.
Really kissing me.
A brand new host of lights and stars erupted behind my eyes, but for whatever reason, this time, they didn’t scare me. In fact, they hardly even registered. My body was frozen, and my eyes were closed. My every thought was focused on this one thing.
Nick was kissing me.
I was kissing Nick.
...where the hell did we go from here?
Chapter 4
Sleep.
It was the only thing I required after a day like this. The only thing that would keep me sane. As my world was spinning out of control around me, as the forces that had governed me gave way to different, more whimsical things...sleep was the answer.
Sleep would keep me whole. Would allow me to see reason. Would provide me a simple anchor amidst these chaotic, confounding seas.
Unfortunately...sleep never exactly came.
“For fuck’s sake...”
I turned over again and a
gain, creating an Armageddon-worthy crater in the middle of my mattress. A cocoon of sheets in which I was the unwilling center.
It should have been easy. I should have been able to see the situation for what it was, compartmentalize it into the ‘things done for the company’ folder of my life, then move on with some sort of sense of purpose.
But that didn’t happen either. If anything, the longer I lay there—chasing the ever-elusive respite of sleep—the more I was thoroughly undone by my present situation.
Nick KISSED me.
The man who had been my client for a little over two years. The man whose exploits I had endeavored to paint more favorably to the press. The same man who I had recently set up on a date with the worst of the worst just to appease his father’s board and company.
That was the man who had kissed me. That was the man who was keeping me from sleep that night. The man whose perfect, addictive face I couldn’t seem to get out of my head.
...with good fucking reason.
The kiss itself left me speechless. The kiss itself left me completely undone.
Nick kissed the same way he did everything.
With reckless abandon. With his whole heart. Without any kind of restraint.
It caught me off guard, I’m not going to lie. No matter how I’d been bracing for it. No matter how many times I’d seen him do it to someone else. On the cover of tabloids and more legitimate magazines. At awards shows and late-night dinner dates. From princesses to super models. The passion was the same.
There was simply no way not to be overwhelmed by it.
Possibly it was the combination.
It was strong, yet vulnerable. Laying himself bare, while sweeping me away with a feeling of utter helplessness at the same time. He took complete control, but also left room for active participation. The whole thing felt like an invitation. A precursor for even more delightful things yet to come. The whole time, I held my breath.
Hoping it would last another second, another minute.
Another lifetime.
But truth be told, that’s not what kept me awake that night. What kept me awake was a repeating question, as simple as it was utterly outrageous. Alone in my bedroom, without even a house plant to witness, it still somehow managed to make me blush.
If that was how Nick kissed...
I bit my lip.
...how did Nick fuck?
“Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.”
I actually leapt awake, landing somewhere in the center of the bed—pulling the lilac sheets up around me. I had no idea when, in the last hour and a half, I had actually managed to close my eyes. But at the moment, that was the very least of my problems.
Just a few feet away, Nick himself was perched on the edge of the mattress, holding out a steaming cup of coffee, identical to the one he was holding against his chest.
“What—what are you doing here?!”
I strung all the words together, unable to separate them. Unable to stop the guilty blush that had sprung up the second it seemed as though he was answering my embarrassing sexual question. Guessing at the guilty little speculation that had been running around my brain.
“This bed,” Nick replied, completely ignoring my exclamation in light of what he’d deemed a weightier issue, “this is the most uncomfortable bed I have ever come across. And for the record, I used to sleep with an understudy in Miss Saigon—their standards aren’t very high.”
I stared at him for an incredulous second, before trilling out in a high pitched voice:
“What the hell are you doing in my room?!”
He stared back down at me, completely unconcerned, as the words bounced back and forth within the four tiny walls.
“What am I doing in my girlfriend’s room?” he repeated sarcastically. “In the naughty hours before the sun comes up?”
I held my breath as his lips curled up in a devilish, wicked smile. But as quickly as they did, his entire face washed clean with the sort of wide-eyed innocence you only saw on nuns and other people who had preemptively devoted their entire lives to the convent.
“I’m bringing you coffee, of course.”
He held it out with that same blameless smile—purposely wafting the steam my way in the hopes that I would smell it and start to wake up.
...it worked.
My fingers closed around it, nervously avoiding his, and I pulled myself up to a tentative sitting position—relieved beyond words that I’d fallen asleep that night wearing an actual shirt.
“Um...thank you, I guess.” I took my first halting sip—locking eyes with him all the while. “You know, you didn’t have to break into my place. We could have met somewhere.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he countered without hesitation. His sparkling blue eyes swept me up and down, before that twinkle translated into a smile. “I deserve at least a few perks of this fake relationship, don’t I? Breaking and entering should be one.”
He stressed the word ‘fake’ in a way that told me he didn’t believe it, and smirked at the words ‘breaking and entering’ in a way that told me he had done them many, many times before.
I tried to come up with something to say, but in the end, settled on silently drinking my espresso—wondering why in the world Nicholas Hunter was standing in my apartment.
“So,” I finally managed, giving him a once-over as well whilst I simultaneously tried to determine what time it was, “this is what it’s like to date you, huh? A continuous, seemingly innocuous stream of light felonies?”
“Oh Abby,” his eyes flashed in the early morning dawn, “I’d be happy to show you what it’s like to date me. But no,” his face resolved all at once, “it usually doesn’t lean so much toward the misdemeanors. I simply didn’t have your key.”
I snorted and began to pull back the covers—only to realize a second later that I wasn’t wearing any pants. The blankets shot right back up in an embarrassing burst of speed, and Nick’s eyes swept innocently from the headboard all the way down—dancing with such an absurd intensity, I could swear the man had x-ray vision.
“What’s wrong?” he asked casually, keeping his voice as innocent as his face.
It was a well-delivered performance, but I had known him too long for that. My eyes narrowed suspiciously as I tucked the comforter firmly around my legs.
“Nothing at all, thank you.”
My voice went up a bit on the ‘you,’ emphasizing it with that girlish petulance that women used to tease and harass their men. It was an accidental gesture, but one that was met with what looked like genuine appreciation from Nick. His lips curled up in yet another smile, as he took a deliberate sip of coffee—changing the conversation in its tracks.
“So, I actually came here because I wanted to apologize...for last night.”
My breath caught in my chest, as I stared in wide-eyed anticipation. In all the million times I had replayed the kiss in the hours since it happened, the one emotion I didn’t feel was regret. It didn’t matter to me if it was courteous or made some kind of logical sense—I didn’t want to hear him apologize. I certainly wasn’t sorry it had happened. Just surprised.
“You do?” Much to my great surprise, a sinking wave of disappointment settled in my stomach. I tried to keep it from my voice. “Well that’s fine, you don’t have to—”
“For the press.”
Our eyes met, and I could have sworn, he was hiding a secret smile. I started nodding quickly, hoping like hell that I looked as casual as him.
“Right—the press. Yeah, that...that caught me a little off guard.”
For the first time, a look of genuine remorse flashed across his face. Followed almost immediately by a sympathetic grimace.
“When I called them, I had completely forgot...” He trailed off, then shook his head. “It does get easier—the cameras. In a few weeks, you’ll hardly notice them. I promise.”
It was a kind thing to say, but we both knew it was a lie.
The constant fury
, attack, and recoil of the paparazzi didn’t fade over time. As long as you were alive and a celebrity, you lived in a constant state of siege. When I was first coming up the ranks in the PR world, there wasn’t a single week that went by, when I didn’t get a screaming client on the phone demanding that I do something about the unrelenting pursuit of the press. Of course, such interventions were damn near impossible, and on most such days, I would simply sit and listen—interjecting at all the appropriate times—until the client had calmed themselves down, or tired themselves out, or simply gotten bored and wanted to move on to something else.
Nick was a lot better than most. It was a rare day indeed when you would see a crack in the perpetual armor. He hid the constant stress and anger beneath a carefully crafted smile, one that he had been perfecting since he was about four years old.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I muttered, remembering my near epileptic break down in the swarm of flashing lights. “I seem to remember a picture of you as a child comforting the Secretary General of NATO when the cameras got too intense.”
By now, in the folklore of our fair city, it was an iconic picture. Like the returning WWII soldier sweeping that woman off her feet. Lennon in his glasses. Things like that.
The two of them were on the steps of the MET. One kneeling down to his knee to be at the same height as the other. Nick, in his miniature tuxedo, giving sage advice to one of the leaders of the free world.
At least, that’s how the picture was captioned in the New York Times.
“Are you kidding?” Nick laughed softly and shook his head. “If anything, that picture proves my point. I was having a full-blown panic attack. Javier Solana took pity on me, knelt there and told me stories until I was able to calm down.”
My jaw dropped open as my messy bed-curls tumbled into my face—completely aghast at the debunking of such a famous pose. It was like hearing that Marilyn Monroe wasn’t really the one in the white dress. That Elizabeth Taylor didn’t really like diamonds.
“Seriously? You’re not just saying that?”
