2. Aurora
2
AURORA
"There you are! I've been looking for you everywhere." Hannah's bright voice cuts through the gentle murmur of the production party as I slip back inside.
Her eyes immediately drop to the pages clutched against my chest. "I should've known. You just couldn't resist getting a peek before production starts, could you? Let me guess. You've already identified seventeen plot holes and thirty-two unrealistic character choices."
I try to laugh, but it comes out strange. A little too high, a little too breathless.
"Whoa." Hannah's eyebrows shoot up as she studies my face. "What's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe a hot celebrity?" She steps closer, her voice dropping. "Did Ryan Reynolds somehow crash this party? Because if he did and you didn't tell me immediately, our friendship is officially over."
I can still feel the warmth of his hand lingering on mine. The memory of those golden eyes makes my stomach flip. My eyes quickly dart around the room.
Partly to see if there are any errant photographers left.
Partly in search of him.
"I just—" I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying desperately to regain my composure. "I met someone outside."
Hannah's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. "You met someone? Like, 'met someone' met someone?"
"It's not like that," I say automatically, though my burning cheeks betray me.
"Your face is saying something entirely different." Hannah grabs my arm, pulling me toward a quiet corner away from the bustling crowd. "Spill. Everything. Now."
"There's nothing to spill. I was reading the script outside, the wind blew it away, and this guy helped me gather the pages."
"A 'guy'? That's the best description you can give me? I need height, build, hair color, eye color, estimated net worth?—"
"Stop." I laugh despite myself. "He was just..." How do I describe him? Gorgeous? Magnetic? Everything that I want but can't have? "Interesting."
"Interesting? That's all you can say?" Hannah repeats, her voice dripping with disbelief. "No wonder you haven't gotten laid in all seven years since I've known you."
"Seven years?" I parrot, feeling my cheeks flush even hotter. "It hasn't been?—"
"Six years, nine months, and approximately twelve days," Hannah cuts in, rolling her eyes. "You think I don't keep track of these things for you? Someone has to maintain your sex calendar since you clearly abandoned it."
Clutching the script pages to my chest like they might protect me from the lingering sensation of his touch, I glance nervously around the room, painfully aware of how many industry people are within earshot.
"Could you say that a little louder? I think the catering staff in the kitchen didn't quite hear you."
Hannah waves dismissively. "Please. Everyone here is too busy networking or trying to fuck somebody else to care about your dormant lady garden."
"My—" I stifle a horrified laugh. "Oh my God, Hannah."
"What? It's accurate." She leans closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "So this mystery man... scale of one to ten?"
An image of golden eyes and broad shoulders flashes through my mind. "I don't rate people."
"Eleven. Got it." She nods sagely. "Did you at least get his name?"
The rhythm of Hannah's teasing grounds me, even as something deeper, something darker, whispers at the edges of my mind.
Remember what happens when you get close to someone.
"No," I admit, pushing the thought away. "But he said he'd see me again."
Hannah clutches her chest dramatically. "Aurora Castellanos, letting a man promise to see her again? Without running away screaming? This is progress!"
"It wasn't like that," I protest, but there's no conviction in my voice. "Besides, what does it matter? My lady garden is perfectly fine being dormant."
"Your lady garden is turning into a desert, sweetie," Hannah says, patting my arm sympathetically. "Pretty soon we'll need to call National Geographic to document the wildlife that's gone extinct there."
I can't help but laugh. "I'm just taking it slow."
"Girl, if you take it any slower," she says, "your next relationship will be with the poor archaeology student writing his thesis about the only woman in L.A. who never got laid."
"Look, it's not like I don't want to date. I'm just choosing not to right now."
"And I don't get that. I mean, look at you!" She gestures at me. "You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen in literally all of Los Angeles, but somehow you never talk to any guys, you never go on any dates, and you don't even have a Hinge account!"
"Yeah, well, that's my choice, right?" I shrug half-heartedly. "Maybe none of them interest me."
"Bullshit!" Hannah claps her hands together emphatically. "I think you're just afraid of relationships."
Like you wouldn't believe. And just like that, I feel the familiar fear bubbling in my stomach and I swear I can smell blood again.
Look what you made me do.
"Look. This guy, whoever he is, is clearly hot," Hannah barrels on. "I'm not saying that you need to fall in love with him. God knows nobody does that in this town. But that doesn't mean you can't find him later, fuck his brains out, have some fun, and then go back to being happily single and uninterested."
"Anyways, I need to put this back." I tap the script in a desperate attempt to change the subject. "Before some writer notices it's missing and has a meltdown. You know how they get."
"Oh for sure." Hannah nods knowingly. "Wouldn't want Vashti to rewrite the entire third act out of spite again."
We navigate through the crowd, making our way toward the back office. On our way back, I find myself searching the room with every step for those golden eyes.
The sharp sound of metal against glass cuts through the party chatter. Everyone turns toward the makeshift stage where a man in an expensive suit stands with a microphone.
"If I could have your attention for a moment," he announces. "We'd like to hear a few words from our executive producer and chief financier Ruslan Dragunov."
A new figure strides onto the stage. The spotlight catches on his face and I freeze.
Oh. My. God.
It's him.
The man from outside. I'd recognize that perfectly tailored suit, broad shoulders, and golden-brown curls anywhere. And when he accepts the microphone, my eyes zoom right to the tattoos on his hand.
My stomach plummets as the realization hits me like a sledgehammer. Executive producer? Chief financier?
The man I'd just spent fifteen minutes ranting to about how terrible the script was to his face ? The man who signs every check that eventually trickles down to mine?
Hannah grabs my arm.
"Holy shit," she whispers, her eyes locked on Ruslan as he surveys the crowd with those mesmerizing golden eyes. "That is the most delicious man I've ever seen. Like, I want to lick his face. Is that weird? That's weird, right? I don't care. I want to lick his face. Fuck, I want him to lick my face."
I can't even form words. My stomach has dropped through the floor and is probably halfway to China by now.
"Hannah," I finally manage to rasp. "That's the guy I met."
Hannah's head whips toward me, jaw wide open. Her expression cycles through confusion, disbelief, and finally lands on pure, unbridled glee. "No!"
She looks back at Ruslan, then to me.
"You ran into Ruslan fucking Dragunov outside and didn't know who he was?"
"Well, I didn't exactly ask for his resumé while I was busy explaining all the reasons why the script was terrible."
Hannah's eyes grow impossibly wider. "You did WHAT?"
"I told him the script was unrealistic," I whisper-hiss. "And how the third act felt forced and the character motivations made no sense. I basically gave him a full critique of everything wrong with the production."
Hannah claps a hand over her mouth, but doesn't quite manage to stifle her laughter. "You know what you have to do now, right?"
I have an idea what she's about to say. "Don't you start?—"
"You need to go find him, bat those big hazel eyes of yours, and beg him for forgiveness." Hannah laughs. "On your knees if you have to."
"Could you be any more vulgar?"
She smirks. "Oh come on! Don't act like you weren't thinking about it."
I bite my lips involuntarily as memories of my own brief fantasy in the alleyway returns. Whether I want to admit it or not, Hannah is right.
I was thinking about it. Still am, in fact.
I force my attention back to Ruslan methodically scanning the crowd, while every single one of my organs is doing a synchronized trapeze routine.
"Oh," Hannah gasps. "Do you think he's…"
Yeah, he's definitely looking for someone.
Please don't see me, please don't see ? —
Then his golden gaze locks with mine.
The corner of his mouth curls into a knowing smile. And suddenly, my mind is flooded with the image of gazing up at him on my knees.
Fuck!
I should look away. I need to look away. But all I do is meet his intense gaze and feel the rest of the world melt away around me.
Hannah's fingernails dig painfully into my forearm, bringing me back to reality for just a split second.
"Oh. My. God." Her entire body is practically vibrating. "Aurora! He's looking right at you! You have to go talk to him after this. And then you need to climb him like a goddamn tree."
I want to shush her, but my vocal cords have stopped functioning.
"Good evening, everyone. Thank you for joining me to celebrate the kick off of what I'm confident will be a great production."
Ruslan's baritone voice rolls through the room, simultaneously smooth and commanding.
But all I feel is a delicious tremor through my body that pools between my legs.
"I usually stay out of the creative stuff. But tonight, someone gave me a fresh perspective on our project." He smiles. "And I have to admit, I liked what I heard."
Hannah gasps beside me, her grip on my arm tightening to tourniquet levels.
I should be plotting my escape route. Instead, I'm enthralled by how the stage lights catch the gold in his eyes, how a single errant curl plays at his neat eyebrows, and how he's staring at me and only me.
"I was told—quite passionately, I might add—that our script could benefit from some adjustments to make the characters' motivations more believable."
His eyes are drilling into mine. But I don't want him to just stare. I want to feel his fingers threading through my hair. I want to feel the command of his hand on the back of my head.
Whoa! Where the fuck did that come from?
But now that the thought is in my head, I can't push it away.
Ruslan smiles a little wider, as if he can read my mind.
"I believe the exact phrase was," he continues, "Trauma doesn't just vanish because someone's attractive. Unfortunately for my nephew Mikhail, it means that he's going to have to step up his acting game instead of just brooding prettily at the camera."
While the rest of the production laughs in agreement at what they assume is a joke, blood rushes to my face so fast that I feel dizzy.
He's quoting me verbatim.
"I found this feedback refreshingly honest," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "And I'm inclined to agree."
A nervous laugh escapes my throat before I can stop it. Hannah is practically hyperventilating beside me.
"So please take the rest of the night to enjoy the launch party and mingle with each other. Hopefully, by the end of the night, we'll all gain some more fresh perspectives that will elevate this production from a great one to an extraordinary one."
By now, my face must be the color of a fire truck. Every word from Ruslan feels like it's meant only for me, a private conversation happening in a room full of people.
"After all," Ruslan concludes as his eyes burrow into mine and send my stomach somersaulting. "The best insight can come from the last place you'd ever expect, like a chance encounter on a gust of wind."