2. Nightmare #2
It happens all in the span of maybe three seconds, but it’s enough to grant me a few parting words before I’m inevitably dragged under the surface and drowned.
Like the elegant, philosophical lady that I am, I cry out, “Holy fucking shit!”
But the fall never comes.
I’m still waiting to meet the water, to have it rush over my head and fill my airways, when a strong pair of hands catches me around the waist, yanking me back against the banister.
The accompanying arms that wrap around me feel like the world’s firmest hug as I’m turned around to face the terrace.
Mint and sandalwood hit my nose before my eyes can process the man standing in front of me—
May I repeat:
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit!!
Did one of the statues out here come to life? Because I’m pretty sure I’m looking at something that only Michelangelo himself could have sculpted: chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and a body that could rival Adonis himself.
He easily towers over my five-foot-five frame by at least seven or eight inches.
An expertly tailored black suit hugs his body in all the right places, but unlike all the country club dullards here, it’s pretty obvious he isn’t part of their in-crowd.
While every other male within a twenty-mile radius sports the same Gordon Gekko slicked-back cut, this guy’s hair is the definition of bedhead, rumpled and tousled in all the right ways.
It’s a little shorter on the sides and long enough on the top that the front strands can fall into his eyes.
Even though it’s still dark, there’s a surfer quality to its coloring that I suspect is wholly natural.
Not only does his hair showcase sun-bleached highlights, but his skin is a rich tan that doesn’t look like it came from a bottle or heritage.
And like the idiot I am, I just stand here, ogling the brightest pair of blue eyes that would make even Paul Newman envious.
Then there are the finer details.
If you shake hands with any of the men here, you’ll likely find their skin softer than your own.
That happens when you’ve never had to do manual labor a day in your life.
No one on Ravenswood’s Upper East Side has ever worked construction, been under the hood of a car, or even cleaned dishes in hot water.
Yet, calloused palms brush the small of my back as this stranger helps me over to the safe side of the railing.
The effort has the front of me flush against the front of him, and oh sweet Moses!
Maybe he is made of marble, because there isn’t an inch of this man that’s soft.
Narrow waist, broad shoulders, muscles visible even beneath the cut of his suit…
Did I die?
Seriously, did I fall in the water and drown? Am I in Hot Guy Heaven? Because it’s the only explanation for why this perfect specimen is standing here, still holding me against the rock-hard contours of his torso.
And God, he smells good.
If that isn’t enough, he’s apparently forgone shaving, allowing what appears to be at least a week’s worth of growth to cultivate from a five o’clock shadow.
His nose would be perfect, if not for the fact that it’s slightly crooked, looking to have been broken at some point.
There’s also a thin, faint scar that runs diagonally from it, starting between his eyebrows and down the right side of his cheek.
Damn, I’d never consider myself to be into the rough-and-tumble type, but my brain doesn’t seem to have enough room left in it for logic, because all it’s conjuring up is a fantasy of me ripping his shirt off with my teeth!
I mean, sure, he looks undoubtedly edible in that suit, but anything used to cover up this guy honestly seems like a sin.
I have no idea how long I’ve spent ogling him, and I know I should say something, but any thought outside of ‘Can I lick chocolate off your body?’ is nowhere to be seen.
All I can manage is, “Jesus.”
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?
‘Thank you,’ you dumb ass! The words you were looking for are THANK YOU!
Nope, I settle for the son of God.
Not only that, but my voice catches in my throat, the sound inexplicably breathy.
“Of all the things I’ve been called, I can’t say anyone’s mistaken me for him .
” Hot Guy chuckles softly, his voice as smooth as velvet, but the amusement vanishes as I just stand there, not moving and apparently unable to form a coherent sentence.
I must look like a deer caught in headlights, because those glorious, calloused palms drop away from me as he steps back and raises his hands. “I didn’t mean to bother you—”
Bother me?
Is he kidding?
“I know it’s not my business, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch,” he’s quick to add.
That’s…a strange thing to say.
Who the hell would want someone to ‘just stand by and watch’ when you’re in trouble?
It takes a bit too long for me to process what he thinks he saw, and—
Shit.
He doesn’t actually believe…?
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself!” I mean to sound reassuring, but it comes out waaaay too defensive, bordering on belligerent.
As expected, he doesn’t look convinced.
“Seriously, I’m not suicidal,” I try again.
“If you say so,” he mutters, low enough under his breath that I can barely hear him.
“I’m not !”
“Could’ve fooled me with your reenactment of Titanic. ”
“What?”
“An emotional redhead comes storming through here, climbs over to the wrong side of the railing, and is about to throw herself into the water… Sound familiar?” The slightest semblance of a grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Although, I don’t remember Kate Winslet using the profanity you did.”
“I was just trying to numb the pain in my feet ,” I growl, angling my right foot sideways to show him the bright red skin. “And like you’re one to talk, Dracula. Do you always appear out of nowhere and scare the shit out of people?”
The jerk smiles, and heaven almighty! The man has dimples.
Freaking dimples ! And most refreshing of all, his teeth are real .
In a town of over-whitened, veneered, and capped smiles, the slight crookedness of a couple bottom teeth is proof in and of itself that his mouth isn’t made entirely of porcelain.
Add in the tilt of his lips, and it’s officially the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Focus!
“Where did you even come from?” I demand.
“No one else was out here.” He motions over his shoulder to where I can now plainly see an abandoned suit jacket and tie sitting on a stone bench I hadn’t noticed before.
To be fair, it’s nestled inside an alcove that is only visible from this very spot.
Still, I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.
“…Oh,” I say stupidly.
“So you’re not suicidal?”
I glare at him. “No.”
“Depressed?”
“You mean having to be here ?” I nod back up at the building. “Undoubtedly.”
To my surprise, he laughs. “Not enjoying the festivities?”
“I’d rather rip my fingernails out with pliers than go back inside.”
I’m not proud to admit it, but I totally check out his ass the moment he turns and makes his way back to the alcove.
I get an even more spectacular view as he bends forward to grab something hidden behind the bench.
Thankfully, I’m able to stick my eyeballs back in their sockets and my tongue back in my mouth before he turns around, revealing a bottle of what appears to be tequila.
“Why? What happened?” he asks.
“You mean besides everyone treating me like I’m the Whore of Babylon and telling me that I look like a tacky stripper in a dime store dress?” I shrug, flattening my voice to sound nothing more than bored. “I’d say my evening could be better.”
I’m not sure if it’s my deadpan delivery or my actual words, but the guy nearly chokes on the liquor as he takes a swig.
“Wait, what ?” He looks appalled. “Who the hell told you that?”
I shrug again. “My family. Lovely people.”
“Well…fuck.” He extends the bottle out to me. “I’m pretty sure you need this more than I do.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“But I’m already throwing a party, and it’s no fun when it’s only for one.” The smile that spreads across his face is nothing short of mischievous.
“Rough night?”
With a nod, his expression sobers to a cartoonish degree. “The worst.”
“Why?”
“On my way over here, the driver in front of me…wouldn’t turn off his blinker.
For five miles.” He sucks in a breath, as if the sheer recollection is too painful to relive, and for the first time since arriving in this hellhole, I actually laugh.
“Being trapped in a room full of bloated aristocrats doesn’t help either. ”
My name stirs at the back of my throat, but I lose my nerve to force out the word. Instead, I extend my hand and say, “Lexi.”
Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s not a lie…technically. My name is Alexandria, so it could be shortened to Lexi. Everyone’s just always called me Ali, and quite frankly, I don’t want to be her—not tonight, and definitely not with him.
The stranger’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he studies me, like he’s trying to figure out something, but he nevertheless shakes my hand. “Michael.”
I take the bottle of liquor from him, not even bothering to read the label before helping myself to a mouthful of what tastes like fruits and paint thinner.
Yep.
Definitely tequila.
It burns its way down my throat, but warmth blossoms in my stomach.
“You do realize you could be conversing with the enemy, right?” he says, taking back the bottle and downing a swig of his own.
“I’m sorry?”
“Paparazzi are rather notorious for crashing these events. Rub shoulders with the right sycophants, especially when everybody’s drunk, and you’re pretty much guaranteed to get a juicy scoop.
A handful was just thrown out about an hour ago.
God knows what they’d pay someone like me to get them a little dirt. ”