Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  “So that didn’t go as planned,” Carter continues.

  “Carter, be serious for a minute. That guy’s going to be on you the entire vacation if you don’t convince him you truly had no designs on his girlfriend.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did, and he’s looking for a reason to make you pay for it.”

  “And what do you suppose I do about that?”

  I’m going to regret this. It’s a bad idea, yes, but I don’t want the remaining two days of my supposedly stress-free vacation to be affected by the Hulk. And I don’t want Carter’s mug pulverized. It’s a nice face, and it’s growing on me. “Kiss me.”

  Carter shakes his head as though the idea is ludicrous. “What?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Kiss me, Carter.” I jab my finger into his chest. “And make it look like you can’t get enough of me. Our audience is watching.”

  Carter’s gaze darts to my mouth, and then he peers at me as he bites his bottom lip. After he puffs out a harsh breath, he asks, “You sure about this?”

  “Just do it already,” I say through clenched teeth.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Carter springs into action, closing the space between us and sliding his hand around my waist so that we’re chest to chest. He reaches under my hair and cups my neck, his fingers gently coaxing me to tilt my head upward. The tenderness with which he’s approaching this charade roots me to the spot. My brain, on the other hand, is running like a turbocharged engine. Will a single peck be enough? Should I touch him? If I moan, will Greg and his girlfriend hear me?

  None of this contemplation matters, though, because I float away into a dream state when Carter presses his lips to mine. Oh, they’re so soft. And warm. Oh God, they’re fuzzy-socks-on-a-frigid-day warm. And I’ve never kissed a man with a beard. The brush of it against my cheek makes me think of frantic sex, the kind where neither person takes the time to remove their clothes completely. I gasp against his mouth, and he slips his tongue inside, the contact that much more startling because he’s simultaneously drawing small circles against the nape of my neck with a single finger. A random thought penetrates the haze: Greg can’t see Carter’s finger. Oh, but I can feel it, so it must be just for me.

  My arms hang at my sides. I make several attempts to place my hands somewhere on Carter’s body as he presses butterfly kisses against my lips and jawline, but nothing feels right. “Did you know the average person will spend more than twenty thousand minutes kissing during their life?” I squeeze my eyes shut after I share that fun fact. Dammit, when did I become this awkward?

  Carter smiles against my neck. “That’s a lot of kissing.”

  I scan the area around us. We’re in a dark corner, a few feet shy of the bar, but people are milling around everywhere. And we must be attracting attention, so I should stop him, right? But then the pads of his thumbs land on the sensitive spots behind my ears, and oh, that’s nice. Really nice.

  Carter nudges my chin up and dips his face into the crook of my neck. “Stop thinking so much, Tori.” His voice rumbles against my throat, and I raise my face to the sky in answer. “Just enjoy this for what it is.” He takes my hands in his and guides them to his waist. When I take hold of his sides, he releases me with a squeeze and slides his hands under my hair, bringing his mouth to mine again.

  Just enjoy this? What is this, exactly? Oh, I know. It’s too much, too soon, and for the wrong reason. Still, I can sense a good kiss when I experience one, and this one rivals all the kisses before it. Except I’m not an active participant, not in the way I’d like to be, and I want so much to correct that.

  I lift my hand from his waist and thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Carter smiles against my lips, and a burst of electricity slams against my belly, as if someone lit a sparkler inside my stomach. He widens his stance, pulling me deeper into his space, making it ours, and I collapse into him. With his lips still close, and his breath floating over my face, he asks, “Was that enough?”

  I drop my head to avoid his questioning gaze. “Can’t really say,” I mumble at his chest. “Maybe a little more to be sure?”

  “Yeah,” Carter breathes. “That’s a good plan.”

  Desperate to get his mouth back on mine, I take the lead this time, drawing up on my toes and pulling him down to me. Carter groans his approval. Another man might have been inclined to whisper dirty thoughts in my ear, but the guttural sound of Carter’s desire is significantly more effective.

  I like this man’s hands on me. I like the way he swirls his tongue with mine, a light touch that gives me the confidence to take him deeper into my mouth. He slides his hands down my back and caresses my ass, pulling me flush against him, and oh my, he’s so happy to see me he’s damn near delirious. I like that the most.

  After our mouths separate, he cups my face and swipes a thumb across my tender lips. “Was that okay?” His voice, sure and inviting, massages me like strong hands kneading sore muscles. I want to groan in relief, but I manage to hold myself together while I consider what just happened between us.

  Okay? That was way more than okay. So okay that I want to burrow into him while I catch my breath and then continue the kiss in private. You know what? An island fling might not be such a bad idea after all. Carter would—

  Somewhere behind the bar counter a glass shatters, serving as the proverbial sound of sense being beaten into me.

  Mason.

  I haven’t even talked to Mason.

  And I’m kissing a man I met just two days ago.

  I pull back and search Carter’s face, noting his dilated pupils and labored breathing. He’s as dazed as I am.

  Afraid to acknowledge the explosive nature of the kiss, I downplay its significance instead. “Wow, Carter. That was an Academy Award–winning performance.” I clap enthusiastically. “Bravo.”

  Carter’s face pales as he rubs his lips with two fingers. Is he still thinking about the kiss? Regretting it? Wanting more?

  Remembering the reason for the kiss, I step around him and search for our audience. I spot the couple walking by the other end of the bar, leaving for parts unknown. And when I turn to tell Carter the good news, I see nothing but his retreating form—because he’s leaving, too.

  Chapter Nine

  Carter

  I’M HIDING IN the shadows of the hotel’s courtyard, unsure what to do next and trying to understand Tori’s appeal.

  I’ve done some stupid shit in my life.

  Kissing Tori was not one of them.

  Not telling her who I am before I kissed her, however? Dumbest shit yet.

  Let me explain.

  When I was twelve, I told my parents I wanted to be an actor. They smiled and shipped me off to a summer talent camp in Upstate New York, figuring the combination of being away from home for six weeks and attending nothing but acting workshops would cure me of my pie-in-the-sky dreams. Contrary to their plan, I returned from camp with a four-year action plan for achieving my career goal.

  One of the workshops at the camp focused on emotions and how to make them believable in a scene. The teacher’s point was simple: If a scene calls for a specific emotion, the actor should draw on personal experiences to bring that emotion to life. It’s a fundamental technique for people who practice method acting, and those who apply it well are said to have “emotional range.”

  Years later, I auditioned for a made-for-television movie pitched as a dark and sexy thriller about a rookie detective whose objectivity is compromised by his growing obsession with a key witness. Unfortunately, my audition, like my parents’ plan to steer me away from acting, was a bust. The actress and I had zero chemistry, and I couldn’t conjure a single emotion to mimic the state of being consumed by someone. At the time, not even acting had consumed me in the way the role demanded. I simply had no frame of reference.

  Well, I have one now—after the kiss.

  Don’t misunderstand me, I’m no stranger to lust, but what ju
st happened between Tori and me falls outside my range of experience. The minute her lips touched mine, I wanted from her what I’d never wanted from anyone else: anything and everything she was willing to give me. And it’s freaking me the fuck out.

  I’ve been in the business since I was sixteen. Aside from my family, most of the people I interact with daily know me only as actor Carter Stone. I have plenty of acquaintances but few friends—by design.

  Julian’s my best friend for many reasons, but chief among them is that I trust my relationship with him isn’t about what I can do for him. He knew me well before I became Carter Stone, and although he does a kick-ass job as my agent, he does it grudgingly, not because he hates it but precisely because he doesn’t want to blur the lines.

  And now there’s Tori. She has no agenda. Yes, it’s because she doesn’t know who I am, but the effect is still the same. For the first time in my adult life, a woman I’m attracted to wants to hang out simply because she enjoys being with me.

  It’s a heady experience, and I want more of it. But I can’t explore my feelings for Tori if she doesn’t know I’m Carter Stone. See? I’m screwed.

  So I’m going to be smart about this and tell her who I am. That’s what I should have done from the beginning. I’ll explain that I was wary of introducing myself as Carter Stone because I’m supposed to be incognito for the duration of this trip. I’ll explain that I hadn’t anticipated going any further than enjoying her company while I was here. I’ll explain that I want to explore our friendship and figure out if we could have more.

  Still, I suspect I’m going to need a shitload of luck to get her to understand why I concealed such an important aspect of my life.

  I plod back to the restaurant bar and survey the area. My heart slows when I realize Tori’s no longer there. But then a flash of yellow whirs past a few tables, and I spot Tori ducking into the ladies’ room. I relax my tense shoulders and claim a stool at the bar, angling my body in the direction of the restroom entrance.

  A middle-aged man wearing a navy blazer and jeans drops into the stool next to mine, blocking the view of Tori I’d hoped to have when she reappears.

  He greets me with a nod and raises his finger to get the bartender’s attention.

  Damon ambles over. “Hey, Carter. Need anything?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  While the man orders, my phone pings, alerting me to a text. It’s from Jewel.

  Hey, Carter. Received a strange call today. I accidentally mentioned you’re still in Aruba. Maybe it’s nothing but . . . give me a ring when you’re free.

  I’ll call her in the morning. Right now, my mind is focused on making things right with Tori.

  Damon sets a beer bottle in front of the guy.

  “This is a great place, isn’t it?” the man beside me asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “You here for some R & R?”

  I turn and give him a once-over. “Yeah, something like that.”

  I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone except Tori, but this guy doesn’t appear to be going anywhere soon.

  He eyes me over the rim of his bottle. “That’s quite a beard you’ve got there.”

  I laugh at his observation. It’s a pain in the ass, and I want it gone yesterday. “That’s putting it kindly, I’d say.”

  He leans into me, and I rear back. Is this guy making a move on me?

  “You don’t like it?” he asks as he wiggles his brows.

  “I like it fine. It just takes a little getting used to.” My monotone voice should give him an indication that I don’t want to be bothered, but he continues to stare at me. He reminds me of Skeevy. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m waiting for someone, and I don’t want to be distracted by”—I point a finger between us—“whatever this is.”

  He takes a swig of his beer and sets the bottle on the counter. He again leans in close. “I’m going to be up-front with you. I know you’re Carter Stone.”

  Shit. My jaw clenches. What the hell is the point of the beard if it doesn’t keep a slimeball like this one away from me? “Listen, I’m not sure who you think I am, but I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m no one.”

  “No ones don’t have someone else change their hotel reservations at a moment’s notice.”

  Well, there’s no big mystery there: My freaking driver ratted me out. And Jewel mistakenly confirmed I was here.

  “We can make this easy,” the guy continues. “Or you can make this hard. I’m just trying to make a little money for my family, okay? Just one pic and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re harassing me.”

  A pop of yellow registers in my peripheral vision, alerting me that Tori’s headed over. My stomach knots, and I blow out a few breaths to calm my nerves. Do not hit the guy, Carter. Do not hit the guy. “C’mon, man, give me a break here. How about you come back another day? This shit isn’t cool.”

  “Have it your way,” the guy says.

  Then he pulls out a professional camera and snaps a photo, but I cover my face to mar his shot.

  “Give me one shot, Mr. Stone, and I’ll be out of your hair. What’s the harm?”

  Dammit, I can’t think straight, but I know I don’t want Tori to find out about me like this. Unfortunately, this is an instance when I’m not going to get what I want.

  Chapter Ten

  Tori

  THE MIRROR NEVER lies: Carter slayed me with that kiss.

  But my glossy eyes and flushed cheeks tell only part of the story. I’m light-headed, and my nipples tingle every time the fabric of my romper shifts against them. If I wasn’t in the resort restroom, I’d slip my fingers in my panties and take care of the ache between my legs. Instead, I dampen a paper towel and swipe it across my forehead. It’s not an adequate substitute—at all.

  Squaring my shoulders, I give myself a mental pep talk: Yes, you’re attracted to Carter. No, you didn’t expect to do anything about it. But hiding in the restroom isn’t a mature response to those facts. Get out there and talk to him.

  After exiting the bathroom, I spot Carter at the bar.

  Except he’s not alone.

  Instead, he’s engaged in a heated discussion with the man next to him, and judging by the glare Carter’s directing the man’s way, they’re not talking about the weather. I march down the lit path toward them, ready to intercede if necessary, my heart pounding against my chest. As I get closer, the man pulls out a large black camera and tries to snap Carter’s photo.

  “C’mon, Mr. Stone. Give me one shot, and I’ll be out of your hair. What’s the harm?”

  Carter blocks his face from view and jumps up from his stool while Damon and a resort security guard descend on the man. I slow my steps as I try to comprehend what’s unfolding. A few guests gawk at the commotion and gasp in surprise.

  The man yelps when Damon twists his hand behind his back.

  “You’re trespassing,” Damon says against the man’s ears. “You can’t come here and harass our guests.”

  “C’mon, Mr. Stone’s used to this. Smiling for the camera is his job.” The man throws his body forward, trying to escape Damon’s hold, and yells at the guard, “If you break my equipment, I’ll break your neck.”

  Smiling for cameras is his job? Mr. Stone?

  The guard ignores the man while he and Damon switch places, and then the guard pushes him toward the walkway leading to the hotel lobby.

  Carter has his back to me as he paces and rubs his neck. When he turns around, his eyes plead with me to understand. And I do. Oh yes, I really do.

  Carter Williamson is Carter Stone.

  Carter Stone is Carter Williamson.

  My stomach quivers, and my chest tightens. He’s an actor. A well-known actor. And for the past three days, I’ve made an ass of myself as he pretended to be a regular guy who . . . how did he describe it? Oh, right, a guy who works on studio sets.

  I can’t even
begin to process all of this, but I do know that I can’t stay here any longer. I turn and sprint through the courtyard, refusing to acknowledge Carter’s choked voice as he shouts my name.

  Within seconds of entering my hotel room, I have my phone at my ear, and I’m waiting to speak with an airline customer service representative, because this vacation sucks, and I want it to end.

  Puñeta.

  I ESCAPE ARUBA on the first flight back to Philadelphia the next morning. The guy in the seat next to me attempts to manspread, but I shut it down with a pointed look and a shake of my head. He wisely snaps his knees together.

  I’m extra pissy because I had to pay a flight-change fee, making this already expensive trip more unaffordable. I can hear my credit card crying now. Not good circumstances under which to process, but process I shall.

  I dissect every conversation for clues to Carter’s identity. How much did he hide? Or had I just been obtuse? He told me he was a Hollywood insider who worked on studio sets. I’m guessing from his perspective, that’s technically true. In my mind, he was being annoyingly and purposefully vague. And did I really ask him to share gossip about Hollywood celebrities? Shit. My face flames when I recall that exchange.

  A flight attendant taking drink orders hovers in the vicinity. I pull down my tray table and ask him for a cup of coffee. When he’s gone, disparate thoughts crash into my head like a tsunami. I got Carter drunk. I goaded him into a situation that could have resulted in serious bodily harm. The dogs. Okay, the dogs were hilarious. But wait a minute. He let me buy him drinks, the bastard. The least he could have done was offer to pay for his own damn liquor.

  The main takeaway? He’s a celebrity, whose company I enjoyed under false pretenses, and we shared one of the best kisses of my life. Sadly, I’ll compare any future kiss to that one.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. No, don’t do this to yourself, Tori. You know from experience that overthinking a bad situation only worsens it.

  After taking a sip of the terrible coffee, I throw on my headphones and listen to my favorite playlist for times like these. I tap my thighs as I listen to Destiny Child’s “Survivor.” The lyrics remind me that I’m being overdramatic about the situation.