What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

The air between us is charged and scented with his deliciously male cologne. My heart races and I reach for the phone. “Thank you,” I say, and our fingers collide.

The impact is electric—heat rushes up my arm and across my chest. My gaze collides with his, and there is awareness in the depths of his potent stare. He knows I reacted to his touch, he knows, and I know. What I can’t read is his own reaction. Maybe he felt what I felt. Or maybe I’ve entertained him or flattered him, but nothing more.

Afraid I’ve just made myself look like a silly fangirl, I quickly cut my gaze and slide my phone inside my purse. I expect him to step away from me, but he doesn’t even pretend to move. He stays right where he is. Right in front of me.

“I assume you’re leaving?” he asks, and just that easily, my gaze is drawn back to his, offering him a window view of each and every one of my reactions.

“I’m not really a party person,” I say, trying to stay cool and collected when I feel hot all over, so very hot. “I don’t like mingling or drinking all that much. That leaves eating, and that’s not a good idea.”

“Agreed,” he states, and his voice is warm as he adds, “I don’t like parties either, but I tolerate them for the right reasons.”

I have no idea why that statement feels intimate, but it does. And yet, there is nothing intimate about the words, not really. The look in his eyes is another story, I decide, and this time I’m fairly certain that means something. Or not. I’m not good at the game of flirtation, which is probably why I choose now to say, “I know who you are.”

“Then it seems only fair I know who you are,” he replies, and I swear he sways in my direction.

“Allison Wright,” I say, offering him my hand by way of a habit, and just as soon as I do so, I wish I could pull it back. “I—ah—” I try to lower it before he takes it, but it’s too little, too late.

His strong hand closes around mine, an intimacy to the touch that goes beyond casual communication, and I all but melt right there in the elevator as he says, “Nice to meet you, Allison Wright.”

His voice is a low, masculine baritone that seduces me as easily as does his hand on my body, even if it’s just my hand. The elevator dings and halts on the lower level. Our ride is over, and reluctantly it seems, or perhaps that’s my wishful thinking, he releases me. Disappointment fills me at the certainty that soon he will be gone again. Perhaps forever this time and I cannot help but feel regret with this idea.

He backs up, holding the door for me. I exit and automatically turn to face him. It is, after all, the polite thing to do.

“I’ll walk you out,” he offers, pausing in front of me.

“Since you’re going that way,” I tease, “I’ll let you.”

He winks, and my stomach does a somersault, and yet, there’s no denying the comfortable banter between us or the ease with which we fall into step together. “You didn’t want me to know who you were, did you?” I accuse, casting him a sideways look.

“I would have told you,” he assures me.

And yet, somehow, I’m not sure he would have. I get that he’s a megastar, especially since the movies came out, and that affects people’s reactions to him. But I’m not that person for reasons I won’t share with him, one of which is my father. Instead, I stop, and we turn to each other again as I confess, “I edited one of your books. I worked for your publishing house for seven years.” Several people are headed toward us, and we move in unison to the side of the main walkway, near a sitting area.

“How do I not know that?” he asks in earnest.

“Ellen didn’t want you to know,” I say, referencing his editor. “She was out for three months with a medical issue. But bottom line, I edited your book. That made me judge the book, not the man. Liking or hating your book doesn’t make you a likable person. And to that point, I have edited several wildly successful authors who’ve sold millions of books. I don’t like a few of those authors, one in particular. But I like that author’s books.”

“Do I dare guess who that is?”

“You can ask, but I won’t answer. That would be rude and not the point,” I add. “The point is that the fact that you pen the Ghost Assassin books doesn’t change one single first impression I have of you,” I say. “And it doesn’t make me like you. That would be shallow of me. Nothing about my first impression of you has changed.”