One Night with the Sexiest Man Alive (The One Book 1)

by Ainslie Paton

  She leaned against him, not eager to move too far. Everything she’d read about Haydn suggested he was a nice guy. Not even the scattering of ex-girlfriends dished evil on him. She’d assumed it was down to good management, a well-crafted and rigorously maintained public image that had yet to hit a truly rough patch. And those lawyers.

  Whether he was true to form wasn’t a question she’d considered during her research or when she took that first elevator ride with him, because it didn’t matter to her. Haydn Delany existed on a different plane, and it was only a fluke they’d come into contact that was more than a handshake and a smile. Now she wondered if the public image and the private one were that far apart.

  “Evie is my best friend, I trust her completely, but I’m not sharing you with her.”

  That won her a smile, the kind that could power a small village. Vietnamese takeaway four suburbs away got a little colder while they shared lazy, slightly oily kisses.

  Back in the toweling robe and phone in hand, Teela called Evie with a favor in mind. What were best friends for if you couldn’t dump on them and ask them to do something for you all at the same time? She wondered if Haydn had someone he didn’t pay who he could dump on.

  Evie picked up. “If you’re calling to tell me you’re working back, I am going to hide this food in your place and it’ll go off and you’ll never get the smell out.”

  “Eat your portion first.”

  “Tee, are you truly not coming home?” Ooo, Evie’s pissed-off voice. “It had better be a goddamn national emergency and since you’re a conference planner that seems bloody unlikely.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m currently walking all over your new couch in my ugly old boots.”

  “Yes, that’s why I gave you a key, so you could trash my furniture.” A realistic threat. Definitely pissed off. Teela put the call on speaker and nudged Haydn. She needed the big guns.

  He raised an eyebrow and she gave him an encouraging smile before he said, “Evie, it’s Haydn Delany.” The man knew a cue when he saw one.

  “Oh fuck me,” said Evie.

  Haydn laughed. “The plan is to do that to Teela this weekend, but she needs a few things from her place.”

  There was a delay before Evie answered but they could hear her moving about. “Is that why there is a very handsome dude in a uniform standing outside the door?”

  “That would be Hassan,” Haydn said.

  They heard Evie say, “Do you eat Vietnamese?” and a rumble that was Hassan’s response, then Evie was back. “He can stay.”

  “Evie, Hassan has a list of things I need,” Teela said. “Clothes, shoes, stuff from the bathroom.” Haydn had said he’d buy what she needed but she was his guest, not his special project. It was enough he’d feed, house and entertain her.

  “And I guess I’m checking it twice. You owe me, Tee. You still there, Sexiest Man Alive?”

  Haydn winced. “I really hate that,” he said to Teela. To Evie, he said, “Who, me?”

  “Teela is the fourth best thing in my life.”

  “Fourth best,” Teela muttered. “Fourth!”

  “You need to be nice to her,” Evie said. “No making her feel bad when you go back to the big time after slumming it in Sydney. No promises you won’t keep. No messing with her head. No shitty don’t let the door hit you on your way out flippin’ kiss-off cards.”

  “She can be a little ferocious,” Teela whispered, biting back her laughter at the shocked look on Haydn’s face.

  “What’s the first best thing in your life, Evie?” he said. “I hate to think—”

  “None of your business and I am not kidding around.”

  “Okay, okay.” He looked straight at Teela, cupping her face. “I will be respectful. I promise. I learned my lesson.”

  What was left of her bones dissolved.

  “That you write shitty cards,” Evie snarked.

  “That Teela is not one size fits all.”

  “She’s not one and done either.”

  “Step in here anytime, Teela,” Haydn said, knocking his forehead to hers. “Very much not one and done.”

  “You’re not to make her fall in love with you and then break her heart.”

  “Are you a cop, a school teacher, a lawyer who’s had a hard time with actors before?”

  “None of the above. Don’t do that actorly thing and change the subject.”

  “Actorly thing?” he said, amused.

  “And I’m only fourth best,” Teela said, rubbing her cheek on Haydn’s shoulder.

  He hugged her a little closer. “Teela is too smart to fall for me, Evie. She knows about the fillers and the false teeth.”

  “You have false teeth?” Evie pretty much cackled at that.

  “Plus terrible bad breath. I’m a total toe-jam factory and I’m only an inch when erect.”

  “You’re slipping, Tee,” Evie said. “Sure you’re okay with Mr. Sexy One Inch?”

  “He’ll do for a weekend,” Teela said.

  Haydn buried his face in her neck and whimpered, “I feel horribly objectified.”

  “You’re interesting, I can say that for you,” Evie said. “And most famous people bore me rigid.”

  “Please send Hassan back in one piece. I’m only borrowing him,” Haydn said.

  Just like he was only borrowing Teela.

  Hassan said something that was indistinct, and Evie laughed again. “No promises.”

  EIGHT

  There were promises and promises. Haydn could safely promise Teela good food, a big comfortable bed, a chance to relax away her post-show blues and a bunch of excellent mind-clearing orgasms without needing any more condoms for fear of pregnancy or STDs.

  He could also promise he wouldn’t wreck her life by outing her as his mystery woman, though it did mean when they were out in public spaces Rick couldn’t control, like the park, he had to use disguises.

  As promises go, that wasn’t bad for a weekend.

  She thought sex without needing further protection was a great idea and the disguise was hysterical. She wasn’t wrong on either count.

  What he couldn’t promise was that she wouldn’t fall a little in love with him.

  Which is what made turning one night into a weekend an excellent idea wrapped carefully and tied prettily in a truly bad one.

  Because he might fall a little in love with her.

  He was a sucker for connections when they felt safe, and he was comfortable with Teela from the instant he realized she didn’t want anything from him on that balcony. He even trusted her rottweiler of a friend, Evie, and her office admin so-so-Sophie not to go selling the story of his one inch to the tabloids. They were obviously loyal to Teela and that’s not something easily traded.

  Not that he couldn’t survive the worst press if it happened. Tell-all players usually came off as sleazy opportunists without any push from him, and if his reputation was threatened, he had no problem meeting fire with fire. But after the unplanned wetsuit-wearing footage had surfaced, his agent was keen for him to lay low in advance of his Oscar campaign tour. And a gossipy sex story wasn’t what he needed to appear when he was already failing to make any headway in his new starring role as global statesman.

  He sucked in that role.

  Rotten Tomatoes rottenest rating.

  Not getting that promised phone call took him back to his days as a masseur, shoe-fitting shop assistant, sometime waiter and stagehand. He felt powerless. It was humbling, which was probably good for his ego. It was also frustrating and perplexing. He had no idea where he’d gone wrong or how to fix it.

  Sometimes, out running with Rick, he’d have an epiphany. Be able to see more clearly the decisions he should make. This wasn’t one of those times and Rick was showing no mercy with the pace around the park.

  “Back it off a bit,” he said.

  Rick cast a quick look his way, did nothing to slow his roll. Bastard didn’t even raise a sweat. “Sixty-two days till
you start shooting Skin in the Game.”

  Haydn was playing a search and rescue mission leader caught up in a deadly kidnapping. His character was an ex-marine who related better to animals than people. He could sympathize. His love interest was the kidnap victim. They had to go on the run together. They had to have naked, waiver protected, waterfall sex. He had to present like the kind of guy who could be an ex-marine, could go thrashing through the jungle, taking on bad guys and look good wet.

  He’d almost lost this part to Rum of all people, because the director thought a younger man would have a better screen presence. He had a share of the profits instead of a fee and it was all going to buy satellite time to track aid pirates.

  There’d be no backing off.

  And since no epiphanies presented themselves, he distracted himself from the muscle grind with a roll call of highlights from last night.

  The cutest part was that he’d made Teela nervous. She’d shown very little hesitancy outside of her initial discomfort about him buying her clothes on Friday night. And she’d been edgy and a little mean to him at her office. Not that it wasn’t deserved.

  That changed once they got back to the suite. It was as if they’d reset the clock on their time together and she needed a minute to adjust. Truth be told, he did too.

  He’d essentially chased her, not far admittedly, not for long, and she didn’t put up an actual fight, because he’d have come to his senses if she had and done what Rick wouldn’t, backed the fuck off the pace. Teela was the first woman he’d wanted to see more of in quite some time and damned if he could remember when he last chased a woman in any way.

  Yeah, that thing about his ego being checked. Necessary. Fark.

  He could’ve emailed her an apology or sent a fresh, more carefully written card that he signed himself. Or phoned her from any other place that wasn’t the corridor outside her office. Instead he’d gone all in, showing up in person, and pursued her like a damn stalker.

  She’d been reluctant, and he’d given her space to throw him out and then he’d wooed her, which was also a novelty. Been a long time since he’d had to exercise wooing techniques.

  Women were seldom reluctant. Usually it was only the ones with husbands they liked.

  All that added a kind of unacknowledged gravity to the situation and they both knew it.

  They didn’t make it all the way through last night’s movie. Which was? Who cares. Not one of his. Teela sitting close wearing her boy-style PJs from home led to casual touches, and then to not so casual ones—those little shorts on those perfect long legs were fucking hot. That all scaled up to full-on making out like bandits. This woman was fun. No pretenses. No mind games. If she was unhappy, he knew it. He didn’t have to guess her motives or guard himself against her ambitions, or assume she was on her best behavior to please him. Part of that was the limited-time deal, separated by oceans thing they were doing. Part of it was who Teela was.

  And it was so refreshing he couldn’t get enough of her.

  She’d been a little jumpy on the massage table, but then he’d been a little uncertain. It’d been a long time since he’d wanted to give anyone a massage and she was obviously tired and ready to drop into that restless adrenaline-crash headspace, and he’d wanted to help her through it.

  A massage wouldn’t be all she’d need but it was a decent start and she was noticeably more at ease now. That would be the sex effect. All hail the power of a good boinking. Did Australians use that word?

  At the point in their lip-lock adventure where she went breathless and her eyes were gimme, gimme, gimme, he’d carried her across to the bed where he had more room to be creative and no disincentive to turn greed into incoherent moans and incoherent moans into desperate shuddering and clutching.

  He got the fingernails in his back he craved and his own quaking release and then jet lag whacked him upside the head and they’d both slept heavily till his alarm rudely got him moving.

  Rick was keeping him moving at a punishing pace around Centennial Park, which was like a mini Central Park in New York, complete with cafés, horse riding, picnic areas, lots of black swans and huge white geese, plus squawking cockatoos, and a view of the city in the distance. Teela waited at a sheltered picnic table where Hassan would bring them breakfast, and all before 8 a.m.

  He loved that she was a morning person. Along with her delighted reaction to his lack of sartorial splendor, she was well worth missing Hemsworth surfing lessons for.

  She’d taken one look at his tragically out-of-fashion baggy shorts, hideous oversized Barney the Dinosaur T-shirt, trucker’s cap with the words Keep Off My Fucking Grass across the front and a row of fake salt and pepper hair at the back, and sunglasses that looked more like goggles, and said, “Evie is right. My standards have slipped. I’m spending the weekend with a bogan. You even have the mullet.”

  He didn’t know what any of that was. It didn’t sound complimentary and she was laughing too much to explain.

  There were enough early birds in the park, including a big peloton of cyclists in the latest high-tech sweat-wicking gear, to have made his uncomfortable disguise necessary and it was better than having to stick to an indoor track. Still, he couldn’t wait to ditch the damn cap. The whole look was evidence that clothes did make the man. And the angry dad bod op-shop chic look won him plenty of personal space.

  When Rick finally let up and they slowed to a walk, he braced for an incoming question.

  “Any changes to Monday’s travel plans?”

  He’d had a sixty-minute run to contemplate that. “No reason to stay.” There’d be no documents to sign, no donation to bank, no photograph to pose for with his best statesman-like, wrist brace-free, handshake on display.

  “No reason?”

  “Nope.”

  “None?”

  He stopped walking and Rick had to double back. “What?” Haydn said.

  “You can’t blame me for checking. You’re having fun.”

  He always had fun. He was a fun guy. Mostly. He scratched under the fake hair. “I’ve got stuff to do back home.”

  He had very little to do for the next month other than train, before the Oscar campaign started, except worry about how to get the money and commitment for the satellite project. The dogs would be happy to have him home at least.

  Rick let it go. For now. Had he been that transparently lonely of late? That was something he needed to fix, there was no need for it. But after the movie was in the can. Once he was on set there was no room for distractions.

  Meanwhile distraction waited in a cute sundress, her eyes behind sunglasses down on her phone screen. He had a moment of doubt and his step faltered. People holding phones could be his own personal security threat. He shook it off. Teela wasn’t about to cause him trouble. Also there was that thing about being a bogan, whatever that was.

  She looked up when she heard him approach and her expression went from hello nice to see you to get away from me you great hulking embarrassment, and he regretted the instant of distrust. It was like a reflex, a bad habit he could drop for the next two days.

  “What, am I not improved by a little clean male sweat?” he said holding his arms out and turning in a circle. “A better bogan?” His shirt was saturated and stuck to him in big patches. He’d look like he’d been sleeping under a bridge somewhere dank for a week. He had the urge to wrap his gross self around her and share the love, but she looked cool and fresh so he kept his distance.

  “I’m sure you feel like you’ve improved,” she said.

  He sat opposite her at the picnic table and took his goggles off, wiping his face on a towel. Rick had walked across the park to meet Hassan and bring breakfast over. They had a moment to themselves. “Have to keep my fitness level up. Never know when I might have to bolt from a crowd of admirers.”

  “Does the sound of your tickets flapping in the wind bother you?”

  “Tickets?” He squinted at her.

  “You’ve got tickets on
yourself is something my mother says to me if she thinks I’m getting too big for my boots.”

  “And suddenly we’re not speaking the same language.”

  She laughed. “Too big for your boots means you think your shit doesn’t stink.”

  He shook his head. “That one I can follow. While we’re talking about the local lingo, do you say boinking? As in last night we enjoyed a good boinking. Or do you say shag like the Brits?”

  “We’re more likely to say root.”

  “As in rooting for the Yankees?”

  “As in you’re hot enough to root. How about a root? He was a good root.”

  He looked her right in the eyes. “Root?” The word managed to sound deliciously abrupt and rude as it came out of his mouth.

  “Never let it be said I didn’t help you understand Australia.”

  “Wait, so I’d say, ‘Hey baby, would you like to root?’”

  “You could even say, ‘That chick looks like a good root’. The expected quality of the root is an important qualifier. For instance, right now you look like a terrible root.”

  Rick and Hassan were approaching. There was no one else around. He took his cap off and smoothed his wet hair back and leaned across the table towards her. “Hey baby, you’re a spectacular root and I’m rooting for the moment I can root you again.”

  She put her hand over his face and pushed him away. “Buckley’s chance, you bogan.”

  Turns out Buckley’s was an old department store, called Buckley and Nunn and the saying meant no chance at all, and a bogan was an unsophisticated, ill-informed person who didn’t know how to dress well. He’d had to rely on Hassan for that information.

  “Lucky she didn’t call you a yobbo,” Hassan had said, much to Teela’s amusement.

  He did not feel like a bogan or a yobbo when he was showered, shaved and dressed as himself again, sitting beside Teela in a tiny two-seater seaplane as they flew to a restaurant only accessible by boat or plane hidden in a national park at Berowra Waters. To get there they had to fly over the city with stunning views of the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge and all the astoundingly beautiful white sand beaches that fringed the coast.