23. TWELVE
TWELVE
EDEN
Lights blind me the second Alex pulls me from the car. I blink through the spots of color, shielding my face with my hand. It’s instinct. Shitty for optics, but necessary for self-protection. A wave of panic tears through me, and all I want to do is get back in the car.
“Hey.” Alex’s voice somehow pierces through the squawking of the paparazzi. “You’re okay.”
I’m not. The furthest thing from it, actually. But there’s no going back now.
His arm snakes around my waist and pulls me into him, fingers splaying over my ribcage.
I step in closer so my entire left side is crushed against his body.
Well, to tell the truth, I first try to step behind him with the plan of using him as a human shield, but he keeps me where I am. Upright, straight legs, yet exposed.
“Alex! Who’ve you got with you today?”
“Alex! Who’s your flavor of the month this time?”
“What can you say about the video of you having sex in the stands?”
My nails sink into the fabric of Alex’s jacket, puncturing the lining until they meet skin. What are the chances I could pull out the flask in the pocket without being noticed? I need the liquor. Give me all the liquor.
“You’re good.” The low hum of his voice rumbles against my shoulder as he pretends to press a kiss to it. “We’ve got this. Just relax.”
That’s easy for him to say. He’s done this a thousand times. This for me, however, is diving with great white sharks without a safety cage or the ability to swim.
I put one foot in front of the other, ankles buckling in my heels, and use Alex to anchor my steps. I’m doing a satisfactory job of it until a man shoves a camera in my face. The lens nudges my nose. I falter, suppress a scream, and force a smile that feels more like a snarl.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
My heart lurches into my stomach.
“Are you Alex’s girlfriend? How long have you been seeing each other?”
So many questions. One after the other. Shit, am I supposed to answer them? Ignore him? Introduce myself like I’m the new kid in class and offer an interesting fact about myself?
This is what Alex should have prepared me for. Not our favorite foods and…kissing. Fucking kissing. I may never allow the man to kiss me as penance for his audacity and lack of prior planning.
It doesn’t matter that the warmth of his palm on my waist is the only thing offering me any sort of comfort at this moment. Or that I’m clinging to him like a life raft. Alex is in deep shit.
The photographer in front of me lurches and makes a grab for my arm.
I’m behind Alex in the next breath, his back obstructing the view but doing nothing to hide the menacing rumble in the back of his throat. “You don’t get to touch her.”
I peek out from behind his shoulder to watch the photographer stumble back, pale from whatever threat he read on Alex’s face.
There’s a beat of total silence then total pandemonium.
“Is she your girlfriend, Alex?”
“Are you finally settling down?”
“Do you think you’ll be able to stay faithful?”
“Will you stay with him if he cheats?”
Paparazzi trip over each other in their bids to get closer. Their shouts grow louder. The flashing of cameras becomes a firework display, and spots of color dance in my vision.
“Step the fuck back.” Alex’s voice is more like a growl as he tries to lead us through them.
But the crowd only grows thicker. Hungrier. Angrier.
Alex takes my hand, crushing my knuckles from the strength of his grip. I’m grateful for it, though, and squeeze back just as hard. Though, not to reassure him. To threaten him, if anything.
Get us out of here, damnit.
He tries another step forward and is blocked by a rotund man in a stained white t-shirt with a beard that reaches his chest.
“Give us a good photo, and we’ll let you through.”
I don’t like the look on Alex’s face when he looks at me. The lines of deep thought followed by the flicker of an idea. He looks at my lips, then back to the paparazzi, and nods.
“Let us through, then we’ll give you a photo.”
Oh, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is he planning?
There are murmurings through the crowd before they part like the Red Sea. Alex repositions me at his side and guides us through the narrow pathway, our arms brushing bulging satchels and poised camera lenses.
Tension has etched harsh crevices into his brow that only begin to settle once we’ve cleared the mob and begin the ascent up the stone steps to the venue.
The entrance lights are a beacon, and I want to go full moth mode and sprint to them, even if what’s inside is worse than what we’re facing out here.
Alex stops. Midstep. He turns around to face the swarm of paparazzi giddily awaiting whatever performance he’s about to enact, then he looks at me.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers.
“Absolutely not.”
His hands slide to my waist, turning me to face him then pulling me into his body. They burn through the thin satin of my dress, heating me in a way that reminds me how cold I am.
I guess being surrounded by a heavy mass of vultures had one benefit: protection from the freezing February night. But now I’m exposed to the wind, goosebumps are breaking across my skin at speed, and a shiver trembles through me.
At least, I think it’s because of the wind.
It’s definitely got nothing to do with the way Alex’s thumbs are stroking back and forth on my waist or the little glances he keeps sending toward my mouth.
He smirks. “You said you wanted to wing it, right?”
Shit. Oh, shit.
“Eden?”
“Yeah?”
“Relax.”
And then he’s kissing me.
At first, it’s just a press of his lips on mine. Soft, barely a kiss at all. But then he moves in for another, applying more pressure this time, and the breath whooshes from my lungs.
Every part of me—my mouth, my hands, my hips—melts into him. My eyes close on instinct, my fingers curling into his long hair, winding through the dark-blond strands, as every nerve ending in my body ignites.
God, it’s been so long since I’ve been kissed.
And I’ve never, not once in my life, been kissed like this.
Alex groans, his hand drifting from my back to cup my cheek, angling my head just right so that he can slip his tongue between my lips.
It’s completely unnecessary. The situation doesn’t call for tongue at all.
Yet, I find my own twirling around his as the chorus of shutters and lewd heckles continues to surge around us.
I shouldn’t like this so much. I shouldn’t like it at all. So, why do I take his tie in my fist and pull until he’s flush against me? Why do I whimper in disappointment when he finally pulls away?
My knees knock together as I will myself not to collapse in front of the fifty or so paparazzi who’d be thrilled to catch me in such a moment of humiliation, and Alex grabs my waist to settle me.
“You okay?”
“Huh?” I’m barely coherent. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”
He grins, unflustered, as if that one kiss didn’t just awaken his libido after a ten-year-long nap, which, given his infamous sexual exploits, I suppose it didn’t. That one might just be me.
“Ready to go in?”
Not even a little bit. I need an hour alone to splash cold water on my face and stare at a wall to process what just happened.
But I nod anyway, because I doubt that’s in the cards for me tonight.
In fact, I’m acutely aware that whatever awaits me inside might be worse than what I’ve already encountered out here.
Still, I’m glad to leave the swarm of shutterbugs behind me as Alex slides his hand to the small of my back and guides me inside.
“How was that for you?” he asks once the bronze doors are closed behind us, silencing the barking of the paparazzi.
I fight the urge to run my fingers over my tingling lips. “Horrible.”
“Oh?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod. “Worst kiss I’ve ever had.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets with a knowing tilt to his lips. Lips that I can’t stop looking at. Lips that are even softer than they should be. Lips that I cannot allow to touch mine again tonight, lest I lose all my good reason and judgment for a second time.
Must be the whiskey.
“We shouldn’t do that again, then,” he says.
I shake my head violently. “No. Definitely not.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes, well…” I check my manicure for an excuse not to look at him. “You’re a terrible kisser.”
“And you’re a terrible liar, but we’re late.” Alex holds out his hand. “Time to face the music.”
The event space has a different vibe from the foyer, so much so that it’s a wonder we’re in the same building.
Where the entrance was classic opulence, this room is all polished concrete, exposed steel pipes and brick-cladded walls.
It’s moody, and sexy, but no less lavish than the marble and bronze work downstairs.
Perfect for the athletic elite.
People hover around utilitarian tables, the women dripping diamonds from their ears and throats as they sip from flutes of champagne.
The men are just as dazzling in their black three-pieces, their ties as sharp as the knives the waiting staff are using to slice citrus fruits, even if they have all chosen to wear the same suit tonight.
I look down at my own outfit with a frown, smoothing my hands down the satin of my dress.
It was expensive by my standards, but I bought it from the sale rack, and the single piece of jewelry I chose to wear with it—a thin chain with a small pendant—has no monetary value at all.
It’s a costume diamond. Anyone looking my way will be able to tell, since it sits dull against my chest and barely reflects the light at all.
I squeeze Alex’s hand. “Are you sure I look okay?”
“Excuse me?” He performs a slow turn toward me, his mouth agape in feigned shock. “Was I not clear enough earlier when I told you that you look exquisite? I thought that was a fancy word by my standards, but if it doesn’t work for you, I can try something else.”
“Oh, no, that’s—”