“It’s all because of your appearance on If The Shoe Fits,” Marlys replied. “The shot of you kissing that man after he knocked out some creep out is going viral. You’re the hottest girl in New York right now.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, suddenly wishing I’d never kissed Sam at the gallery. “Actually, the kiss happened before he hit Ben,” I mumbled.
“Even better,” Marlys said. “I’ll compile a list of the best offers, and email them over to you as soon as I can. Will you get back to me by Tuesday morning?”
“Sure thing,” I said, then I asked, “Um, Marlys, why is everyone calling me hottie?”
A pause. “You really don’t know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“When you get a chance, Google yourself. You’re being called the hottest of the hotties, worth getting knocked out for.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m going to need an aspirin.”
“Think of all the free publicity you’re getting,” Marlys said. “This is a good thing, Britt, honey.”
“Yeah, a wicked good thing,” I mumbled, then I ended the call. I looked around the set; most everyone was looking from their phone or tablet to me, then whispering to each other. So, this was what being famous felt like, everyone staring at you and gossiping behind your back. If this was the sort of life those fame-mongers wanted, they could have it.
And if I ever saw Ben again, I’d punch him myself.
***
The catalog shoot wrapped early, and the production manager had been so impressed with my work he let me keep the clothes I’d worn that day, and had let me pick out some other items from the wardrobe; I guess that was their way of showing me that they really really wanted me for that lingerie shoot. I accepted a few sweaters and those chocolate brown boots, but left all the too-short pants behind.
I arrived at Nash’s studio just before five and let myself into the studio proper, taking a seat alongside the sound stage. Sam was doing something across the room; I caught his gaze and he flashed me a quick smile. Maybe being infamous wouldn’t be so bad as long as Sam could be infamous with me.
“Hey, Britt,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and saw my friend Jillene. We had met a few weeks ago at the museum, where she also sat for the occasional art class.
“Hey, Jill,” I said, wondering if I should warn her about Ben. I’d never seen her sitting for any of his classes, but the guy was a creep, you know? “You have a gig here?”
“I know, can you believe it?” she gushed. “Out of nowhere, Nash Williams called me for a shoot. I said yes before I even knew what it was about.”
“But you know now, right?” I demanded.
“Miss Sullivan,” came a voice from my left. I turned and saw Nash Williams himself striding toward me. “Jillene, they need you in makeup.”
“Of course,” Jillene replied, scuttling away toward the dressing rooms. Nash watched her leave, then he said, “Nice to see you again, Miss Sullivan. Are you here to meet Sam?”
“I am,” I replied. “I hope that’s all right?”
“Of course it is,” Nash replied with a genial smile. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with you again soon. Sands Romance, the publisher for the cover shoot we did last week, loved the images. Since that book is the first in a series, they were hoping you’d be available for the rest of the covers.”
“I suppose I am,” I said, remembering the three hundred dollar fee. “How many covers are there?”
“Ten altogether, and they want to have the next nine wrapped up within the month.”
Wow. That was a lot of work I could add to my portfolio, and a lot of money for me. And I’d have the added benefit of working with Sam. “Sounds good,” I said. “Can you get the contracts over to my agent, Marlys Eaton?”
“I’ll have them there by the beginning of next week,” Nash said.
“Have what where?” Sam asked, as he came up beside me. “Hey, darlin’.”
“Hey, cowboy.” I wanted to kiss him hello, but since I didn’t know how Sam’s coworkers would react to that I settled for slipping my hand inside his. “Nash told me that the romance publisher wants me on more of their covers.”
He gave me that lopsided smile that always melted my heart. “Ironic, since you hate romances so much.”
“Shh. That’s our secret.”
Nash cleared his throat, and said, “Sam, we’re about done here. Why don’t you two take off?” Nash glanced pointedly from our entwined hands to my bag. I guess we were being a bit obvious.
“Thanks, boss,” Sam said. “See you bright and early on Wednesday.”
With that, Sam grabbed his jacket and we headed toward the elevator, with every single one of his coworkers watching us. No, make that staring; seriously, it was only a picture of a single kiss on the website, and they were acting like our nonexistent sex tape had been leaked. “I take it they’ve all seen the website,” I said.
“Websites,” Sam corrected. “Your cute butt is plastered all over the Internet, baby.”
“Great. Even my mom’s seen them.” I glanced at him. “Has yours?”
“She hasn’t mentioned it, so I’m going with no,” he replied. He hit the elevator call button, and we stood there waiting for the ancient machine while at least a dozen sets of eyes bored into the back of our skulls.
“It’s like they’re waiting for us to do a trick or something,” I muttered.
Sam rubbed his thumb across my knuckles. “Want to?”
That and his lopsided smile were all I needed. I tilted my face up toward Sam’s, but he had more than a quick peck in mind. In the spirit of our kiss at the gallery, Sam grabbed me under my thighs and lifted me against him while I wrapped my legs around his waist. When the elevator arrived he walked us inside, never breaking the kiss. I peeked around Sam’s head at his coworkers; to call then slack-jawed would have been an understatement.
“Satisfied?” Sam called over his shoulder. The elevator door wobbled shut as we burst into laughter.
“They looked like they were having a collective stroke,” I wheezed.
“It was pretty awesome,” he said. “Want to grab dinner?”
“Can I drop my bag off first?” I asked. “With me dragging this around it looks like we’re having a booty call.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at my phrasing, then he hefted my bag onto his shoulder. “Good lord, woman, did you pack your entire apartment?”
“Just a few essentials,” I said. “Change of clothes, some shoes, hair straightener, hot rollers, makeup, art supplies—”
“Art supplies?” he repeated. “Are you going to paint the bride’s portrait?”
“No,” I mumbled, suddenly shy. The elevator door creaked open, and I plunged out of the building and into the late afternoon light. “I thought maybe you’d let me draw you.”
Sam touched my chin, raising my face toward his. “You’d like to draw me?”
“Yeah.” I met those blue eyes of his. “I would.”
“I’d be honored,” Sam said, then he touched his mouth to mine in one of those butterfly-light kisses of his that somehow got me more worked up than when I had his tongue halfway down my throat. Just like with his photography, in real life Sam did sensual exceptionally well.
“So, are we going out or ordering in tonight?” Sam asked.
“Depends. Are you ordering Thai?”
He smiled ruefully. “You really didn’t like the Thai food, did you?”
“I really did not.” He opened his mouth, and I just knew he was going to make another comment about how I’d eaten all that seafood, except that creepy octopus, and his stupid roast duck, but turned my nose up at all those weird spices. “I also don’t care for beets or coconut, just so you know.”
“Very well, then no piña coladas or rustic salads tonight,” Sam said with a smile. “What would my Britannica Lynn like for dinner?”
I thought for a moment. “What about pizza?”
“Pizza?”
“It’s got a
ll the food groups,” I explained. “Cheese, bread, and beer.”
“I did not know you could put beer on pizza,” Sam said. “And aren’t you watching your weight? That was your original excuse for not eating the Thai food.”
“You can’t have pizza without beer,” I said, ignoring his comment about watching my weight. I’d been blessed with a high metabolism that let me indulge in bread and cheese whenever I wanted, but I wasn’t telling him that. I did not need to give Sam reasons to spring more weird food on me. “And I thought I might start running with you. If that’s okay,” I added in a rush.
“I’d like that,” Sam said as he draped an arm around my shoulders. We picked up some beer along the way to his apartment, and Sam ordered two pizzas—one with extra cheese, and one with everything—from his favorite local delivery place. The pizzas were delivered a few minutes after we got to the apartment, and we spent our Friday night sitting on the leather couch, stuffing our faces and watching bad horror movies. It was the best date I’d had in longer than I cared to think about.
“Well, that one was terrible,” I said after the third movie. “Could killer bees even invade a sewer system?”
“I have no idea, darlin’, but I sure hope not.” He gathered up our empty beer bottles and brought them into the kitchen. “Up for one more?” he called.
“Sure,” I replied. Sam appeared a moment later with fresh beers. We clinked bottles, and I asked, “Want to watch another movie?”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I can handle another of those,” Sam said as he turned off the television. “We should probably go to bed soon. Don’t want to be late to your favorite cousin’s wedding.”
I snorted. “Melody isn’t anyone’s favorite anything.”
“Not even to her soon-to-be-husband?”
I snorted again. Beer definitely brought out the lady in me. “Let me tell you about…” I searched my memory for his name. “Darryl. Let me tell you about Darryl. He’s a junior member of my stepfather’s firm, and he’s almost ten years older than Melody. She’s marrying him for his money, nothing else.”
“Been happening for years,” Sam said, tipping back his bottle. “Money’s important. A body needs to feel secure, that the roof over its head won’t be going anywhere.”
“Then she should get a job,” I declared. “Marrying someone for nothing but their paycheck is just wrong.”
Sam leaned over and stroked my cheek with his knuckles. “Why do you think people should get married?”
“Love, what other reason is there?” I paused to drink more beer, then added, “I wouldn’t even consider marrying someone unless I was head over heels in love with him.”
Sam moved closer, his knuckles gliding down the side of my neck. “Ever feel that way about anyone?”
“I think so, once.” I glanced at him, and asked, “You?”
“Like you, once.”
“How did it work out with her? Him?”
“It’s still working out.” Sam took the beer from my hand and set it on the coffee table. “Come on, darlin’, it’s past time for you to be in bed.”
“But I’m not tired,” I whined.
“Yeah, but you are a bit inebriated, aren’t you?” I giggled, thus proving him correct. When my giggling became rampant laughter, Sam hoisted me in his arms.
“I like it when you carry me to bed,” I said, kissing his neck. “You have a nice neck. And you smell good. I don’t think the average neck smells this good.”
“Why, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my neck,” Sam said, then he set me on his bed. “Want help with your skirt?”
I batted my eyelashes. “Undress me, cowboy.”
“Fresh,” he admonished. He fumbled at my waist, so I reached back and unzipped my skirt. Once Sam had it off me, he folded it and placed it on the top of his dresser.
“Do your bra out the sleeve thing,” he said.
“My what?”
“You know,” he said, gesturing toward my chest. “It’s a known fact that all girls can take their bra off while keeping their shirt on.”
“Thought you liked me better with my shirt off,” I said as I removed the undergarment in question.
“You’re keeping yourself covered tonight,” Sam said, dropping my bra on top of my skirt before he pulled off his tee shirt—today’s was yellow, in case you were wondering—and jeans. “How did you get so drunk off four beers?”
“Just lucky?”
Sam smiled at that, then he turned off the light and got into bed beside me. He tried spooning me, but I wasn’t having any of that. I rolled over and put my cheek just where I wanted it, right in the middle of his chest.
“I can hear your heart,” I said against his skin.
“Glad to know it’s still working.”
“And you call me fresh.” Suddenly sober, I propped myself up on an elbow and looked down at Sam. “If you have the nightmare, I want you to wake me up.”
“I will, angel,” he said, smoothing back my hair, “I promise you I will.”
Chapter Fourteen
Britt
I woke up with a pounding headache and the feeling that I’d said some profoundly embarrassing things the night before. I debated sticking my head under the pillow and hiding, but the scent of coffee drew me out of bed and into the kitchen.
“Morning, darlin’,” Sam greeted, shoving a cup of coffee under my nose.
“Morning,” I croaked, then I took a sip of coffee and scowled. “I never taught you the coffee trick, did I?”
“You did not.” He pulled out a chair for me, and I wondered if it was the one I’d posed with a few nights ago. “What would you like for breakfast? I make a mean bowl of cereal.”
“I’ll cook,” I said. Even though the coffee was mediocre at best, it was working overtime to restore my wits. “What have you got?”
Sam listed the contents of his fridge and cabinets, and in less than fifteen minutes we were eating grilled bagels topped with eggs and cheese, with some sliced melon on the side. Sadly, Sam hadn’t replenished his bacon supply after the other morning, and the melon was a poor substitute for the porky goodness. After we’d finished breakfast, I looked at Sam across the table.
“Do we really have to go?” I whined.
“I believe we do, darlin’,” Sam replied. “If I aid and abet you missing this wedding, how will I ever make a good impression on your mother?”
“She’s very forgiving,” I grumbled.
“Of that, I have no doubt. Now, let’s get showered.”
We only spent the bare minimum of time messing around in the shower; we were on a schedule, after all, and my hair was so long it took forever to blow-dry. Once my hair had finally gone from dripping to hardly damp, I wound it up in hot rollers, slipped on Sam’s bathrobe, went into the kitchen, and made more coffee. Thanks to the many models Sam had worked with over the years he didn’t bat an eye at my alien headgear.
“You didn’t wake me last night,” I said, watching the coffee drip into the pot.
“Was I supposed to?” Sam asked.
“You promised you’d wake me when you had a nightmare.”
I heard Sam’s chair move, then he was standing behind me. “I didn’t have one last night,” he said, his hands on my shoulders.
I turned around, and looked up into his bright blue eyes. “I thought you had them every night.”
“I didn’t last night, or that first night in your apartment, and I didn’t that time we slept on the couch after your four a.m. breakfast,” he replied. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re an angel, keeping the bad things at bay.”
“You really didn’t have one?”
“I really did not have one.”
I slid my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek against his chest. “I wonder what it would be like to have wings.”
“Probably get a lot of backaches.” He rubbed my back, then he tilted up my chin and bestowed one of those butterfly kisses on my lips. “
Best get those rollers out, darlin’. We need to leave in an hour or so.”
I smiled at him, then I poured myself a cup of coffee and returned to the bathroom. I was still removing rollers when Sam appeared in the doorway behind me.
“Darlin’, I need to know how you make coffee this good,” he said.
“Then you should have been paying better attention while I was making it.”
Sam moved closer and helped me with the rollers. “Come on, tell me.”
“I’m telling that secret to the man I marry, no one else.”
I’d meant it as a glib comment, but Sam’s blue eyes looked pained. “This man you marry, he’ll be the one you’re head over heels in love with?”
“That’s my one criteria for marriage,” I said softly. “Unconditional love.”
“You and your criteria, Britannica Lynn.” Sam withdrew the last roller from my hair and finger combed my curls. “You really don’t need to do anything else, maybe just clip it back. Your hair is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Sam stepped out of the bathroom, and I went to work on my makeup. I swept on some eye shadow and mascara, but stashed my lip gloss in my purse so I could apply it once we arrived. Despite Sam’s assurances that my hair was fine the way it was, I wound it into a low chignon, leaving a few tendrils free to curl around my cheekbones, and secured the knot at the back of my head with a jeweled barrette. Since I was done from the neck up, I left the bathroom in search of my dress.
“Time to get some clothes on,” I called as I stepped into Sam’s bedroom, only to find him fully dressed and reclining on the rumpled bed. He was wearing black trousers and a pale gray button down shirt that was open at the collar. A navy blue tie, currently untied, was draped around his neck, and instead of his usual Doc Martins Sam was wearing shiny black cowboy boots. He looked so good it took every ounce of my willpower not to jump him right then and there.
“Did Jorge make your clothes too?” I blurted out.
Sam chuckled. “No, he did not. I’ve owned this suit for a while. Told you I clean up well.”
“I guess you do.” My gaze flicked to the garment bag hanging on the closet door. “Is that my dress?”
Changing Teams Page 12
