Chapter 3 Emmy
Chapter 3
Maybe that’s part of the medical emergency I’m experiencing.
Emmy
AS SOON AS his name leaves my lips, my face explodes into a flush of heat, and I have to look away. Oh to the crap. I did it.
“It’s Jason Connor!” Terica throws her hands up in the air in excitement. “Congratulations, Jason!”
The screen behind us transforms into a vanity shot of Jason in his Hadron costume. He stands up and trades a variety of handshakes with his colleagues. Then he’s coming toward me, and the background blurs as I home in on all the little details I missed before—how tall and thick chested he is in real life, the sexy dusting of stubble on his cheeks and chin, the little curls peeking out behind his ears.
My internal organs do a Klingon fire drill, jumping out of the airlocks, zipping around, and reboarding in all the wrong places, all the while shouting and cursing in a very throaty language. When he reaches for my hand, it’s in slow motion, or maybe that’s part of the medical emergency I’m experiencing. I don’t know if I stand up or if he pulls me out of the chair, because all my senses have shut down and my brain is like a scratched record, repeating, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God . He folds me into a hug, and I’m pretty sure I gasp and just stand there in freak-out mode with Jason Connor’s arms around me, all my dashboard lights exploding with sparks and tiny fires, and the AI screaming like a cybernetic teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert.
It takes a few seconds to settle into it, just as I predicted. My body relaxes, and I press my hands into his back, forcing myself not to trace the muscles there with my fingers. My nose fills with his scent of citrus and musk, and I probably sigh before realizing that the standard elapsed time of a normal human hug is ending right about now, and, tragically, I’ll miss 90 percent of this one, just as I’d feared.
But he doesn’t let go. Instead, he continues to hold me tight, my cheek against his chest while the audience loses their freaking minds and Terica is saying, “Wow, wow, wow,” and the entire front of me is steadily growing warmer with our trapped body heat.
Jason Connor is giving me the long hug I asked for! He’s not being a jerk. He’s being… amazing.
God, this makes me feel even worse about putting his personal life in my book. It was just one tiny scene, but it’s way too much like the small-town Ohio police record that somehow never drew the eye of Celebrity Sauron. I tried not to use it. I really did. But when my love interest needed a painful and reputation-ruining moment for the plot’s sake, it was perfect. After I read the police report, I couldn’t think of anything else.
But why am I letting this moment get ruined? He probably doesn’t even care about that stupid incident. It’s years in the past, and he’s a super-successful movie star. And he’s hugging me! Right now! If there was ever an argument for living in the moment, this is it.
The dashboard alarms silence themselves as I surrender to his embrace. I let myself feel all the feels, let all the straining parts of me go slack. That’s what fantasies are for, right? I melt against him. He senses it and adjusts, pulling me in even tighter. It’s freaking paradise. I don’t even care if I look like a dope on TV.
Then he chuckles.
It’s so slight it doesn’t even make a sound. Instead, I feel it in his body, a jerking movement of laughter, as if he’s just heard the punch line to an inappropriate joke. Is he making fun of me?
He pulls away, arms still around me, and I find myself looking straight into those eyes, deep and blue as a summer sky. A playful smile dances on his face. I know that smile. I’ve seen it a hundred times on screens and in memes. He murmurs, “You okay?” and when I hear the little crack in his voice, I understand what’s happening. He’s not making fun of me. He’s saying, Terica is right. I’m bulletproof. But what about you? Can we have some fun? Can we put on a show? Can we give the audience what they want?
My heart is all kinds of all over the place. I think it’s the only organ that hasn’t given up on me completely. But I need to keep it in check. This isn’t real—it’s Hollywood. I can’t forget that. I’m onstage on The Terica Show wrapped in Jason Connor’s embrace, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s all about the ooh s and the aah s from the audience. It’s about millions of women living vicariously through me. My best strategy is clear. Play along. Go with the swoony celebrity crush thing. And never forget, we both have an agenda—I’m selling a book, and he’s selling an image.
But Jason Connor is looking into my eyes, deeply, and I’m not sure I can handle any of this.
Emmy, this is your chance. This is the wormhole to the Hollywood universe, and Jason Connor is holding it open. Close your eyes. Hold your breath. Jump in.
I’m pretty sure my smile is as sloppy as a 2:00 a.m. taco run. My voice is raspy and not my own. “I’m bulletproof, too,” I whisper. “Do your worst.”
The smile widens. He sweeps me off my feet and into his arms.