Chapter 14 Collette #2
Fish grabs us both a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching for the glass.
Our fingers brush, and something electric shoots up my arm and straight into my chest. What was that?
He must have felt it, too, because he’s still looking at my hand with a confused expression, like he’s trying to figure out what just happened.
I pull away and take a gulp of champagne.
Must just be static. “So, where are all these male models you promised me ages ago?” I ask because I need to change the subject immediately before I do something stupid like touch his hand again on purpose.
“Have you not scoped out the talent since you arrived? They are everywhere.”
“I’ve noticed a few, but your giant head is distracting.” I gesture at the nearest display board.
This makes him chuckle. “My giant, handsome head.” I roll my eyes. “Fine, there’s a group of guys at the bar, would you like me to introduce you?”
My eyes land on the men he’s talking about. They’re tall and chiseled and look like they were designed by an algorithm to be attractive. “Yeah, um …” I hesitate.
“What?” he asks, and something flickers across his face. Concern? Or something else.
“The women they’re talking to are gorgeous.”
Fish looks at me, then the bar, then back at me. “You’re stunning too.”
I still. He stills. The word hangs between us in the cold air, and neither of us seems to know what to do with it.
“Who’s stunning?” Pierre asks, my brothers materializing out of nowhere like they have a sixth sense for whenever a man is within three feet of me.
“The models at the bar,” I say quickly.
“The male or female ones?” Felix asks.
“Depends on who’s looking, I guess.”
“Collette was checking them out,” Fish adds.
Pierre looks them over. “She can do better than them.”
“I think she can too,” Fish adds, and that surprises my brothers and me too if I’m honest. Pierre gives him a look that I can’t quite read, and Fish holds it for a second before looking away.
Before Pierre can launch into whatever overprotective speech he’s been workshopping since the elevator, a loud “There he is!” cuts through the rooftop noise, and I turn to see Evan, Bouch, Nelly, Sully, and Emmett heading toward us like a pack of very large, very well-dressed wolves.
“Look at you, pretty boy.” Nelly grins, gesturing at the nearest display board. “You’ve got more headshots than a Hollywood agent’s office.”
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Nelly,” Fish fires back.
“Debatable,” Evan says flatly, which makes me snort.
Bouch is circling one of the smaller display boards like he’s at an art gallery. “The tuxedo is very James Bond. But the overcoat …” He kisses his fingers. “Chef’s kiss.”
“Congrats, Fish,” Emmett tells him.
“Thanks, Cap.”
“So, are these models single?” Nelly asks, already scanning the bar.
“Go find out.” Fish laughs.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Nelly is already moving, Bouch hot on his heels.
“Free bar and food if you want it,” Fish tells the others.
“That’s all you had to say.” Sully grins, clapping him on the shoulder as he and Emmett head toward the buffet.
Pierre and Felix drift after them because my brothers have never met a free spread they didn’t demolish, leaving me with Fish and Evan.
Evan looks between us with those dark, unreadable eyes, and he doesn’t need to say a word for me to feel like I’ve been X-rayed by a man who knows exactly what he’s looking at.
“I’m going to grab another drink,” I announce, mostly to escape whatever Evan is silently cataloging behind that forehead.
“Want me to come?” Fish asks.
“I think I can manage ordering a champagne by myself,” I tease. “Go enjoy your party. It’s your night.” He deserves this. He’s worked hard, and this is his moment, not mine.
I weave through the crowd toward the bar.
It feels good to breathe without his cologne in my nose and his stupid blue eyes making me forget what words are.
You are not attracted to Fish. You are dehydrated and possibly drunk.
I lean against the bar, waiting for the bartender’s attention, letting the noise of the party wash over me.
The DJ has switched to something with more bass, and a couple of people are dancing near the edge of the terrace.
The city is loud below us, even from up here there’s a constant hum that never stops.
“The champagne is surprisingly decent for a fashion event,” a deep voice says beside me.
I turn, and there’s a man I definitely didn’t see approach.
Tall, maybe six-three, with dirty blond hair pushed back in that effortless way that probably took forty-five minutes, and green eyes that catch the string lights above us.
He has a jaw that could have its own billboard, and probably does because he’s clearly one of the models from the campaign.
He’s in a cream suit with no shirt underneath, and somehow, he’s pulling it off, which should be illegal. Hello.Down, girl.
“You sound like you’ve been to a lot of these events,” I say.
“Occupational hazard.” He grins. “I’m Alton.”
“Collette.”
“I know.” My brows shoot up. “You came in with Pierre and Felix St. Pierre. I’m going to assume you’re their sister.”
And just like that, the spark dies. The familiar heaviness settles back into my chest. Every time. Every single time. It’s never just you’re beautiful, or I noticed you across the room. It’s always your brothers.
“You would be right.”
“Sorry, that probably sounded creepy. I’m a Mavericks fan,” he confesses.
I nod, reaching for my champagne from the bartender.
“I’m sure you get that all the time.” I nod.
I do, and I’m so tired of it. “And that just killed it, didn’t it?
” he says, reading my face before I can even attempt to be polite about it.
“Killed what?”
“Whatever small chance I had of you not walking away in the next thirty seconds.” He takes a sip of his champagne, completely unbothered. “I can see it. You went from interested to polite.” Okay. Wasn’t expecting honesty.
“I didn’t say I was leaving.”
“You didn’t have to. Your body shifted half an inch toward the exit the second I mentioned your brothers.” He says it with zero accusation, just observation, and the accuracy of it is annoying. “I’m guessing every guy you meet brings them up.”
“Not every single one.”
“That must be exhausting.”
You have no idea. “It has its moments.”
He nods slowly, sets his glass down on the bar, and turns to face me properly.
“Okay, let me try this again. Hi, I’m Alton.
I’m a model who studied architecture and can’t cook to save his life.
I worked the campaign with Justin Crawford, who, by the way, is a nightmare to shoot with because the guy can’t stop talking.
” This makes me laugh, a real one, not a polite one.
“And I came over here to talk to a beautiful woman who looked like she needed rescuing from her own thoughts.”
He called you beautiful. Don’t melt. You’re better than this. I study him for a moment. He holds my gaze, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t backtrack. “Architecture?” I ask.
His grin widens because he knows that means he’s back in. “Yeah. Specialized in sustainable residential design before this face became more profitable.” He gestures at himself with mock disgust. “The universe has a sick sense of humor.”
“So, you traded blueprints for billboards.”
“Temporarily. Buildings are forever. This jaw has maybe five good years left.”
“Generous,” I tease.
“Brutal.” He laughs, and it’s warm and easy, and he doesn’t look at me like he’s calculating what my brothers would do to him. He just looks at me. This is nice, normal. This is what it feels like to talk to a man who doesn’t play hockey.
“What about you? Is social media what you always wanted to do?” he asks.
“I grew up around hockey, so it was always going to be something in that world. I just didn’t think it would involve arguing with athletes about talking into a mini mic.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He laughs again. He’s easy to talk to, I’ll give him that. Most guys double down on the fan stuff or get weird when they realize they’ve fumbled. He read the room, called himself out, and redirected without making it awkward.
“So, are you going to let me buy you a drink, or is this still the polite phase?” he asks.
“It’s an open bar. The drinks are free.”
“Would you mind if I ordered us more drinks then?”
I bite my lip to stop the grin. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
“I’ll take it.” He signals the bartender for two more glasses and leans against the bar beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something clean and warm. Not like the one I normally smell.
“So, Fish can’t stop talking during shoots?” I ask because, apparently, even when I’m talking to another man, I can’t stop bringing him up. Pathetic.
“Relentless. We were supposed to do a silent, moody shot, and he spent ten minutes trying to convince the photographer that his left side was funnier than his right. The whole crew was in stitches, and we were an hour behind schedule.”
“That sounds exactly like him.” I smile, and something about the fondness in my voice catches me off-guard.
“You two are close?” he asks casually, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. The same question everyone asks and never believes the answer to.
“We work together.”
“Cool.” He doesn’t push it. Doesn’t do the knowing smile or the raised eyebrow.
Just accepts it and moves on. “Would you want to grab a seat somewhere? It’s hard to have a conversation when people keep reaching between us for drinks.
” Say yes. He’s nice. He’s normal. He’s exactly what you should be interested in. Should be.
“That would be nice.” I glance over my shoulder without meaning to.
Fish is with the boys near one of the display boards.
Nelly is gesturing wildly about something.
Bouch is cracking up. Fish is smiling, but his eyes aren’t on them.
They flick to me, to Alton standing close beside me, and then away.
Quick. Like he caught himself looking and course corrected.
He was probably just checking whether Alton was a creep.
I turn back to Alton with his easy green eyes, warm smile, and his complete absence of complications. “Sure. Lead the way.”