Fake (West Hollywood 1)

Then he sat up and took hold of my chin. His gaze seemed oddly intense all of a sudden. “Not quite. You have sugar on your lips.”

“I do?”

“Yeah,” he said, his thumb rubbing over my offending body part. Then he stuck said thumb in his mouth and sucked the sugar free. Just like that. How brazen.

We were incredibly close now. Bare inches separated our faces. I’m not quite sure how or when that happened, but he didn’t retreat or move away. Having his entire focus on me was . . . unsettling. Like the way my sex lit up like a stadium. It should know better. This was a work thing. Nothing more. Of all the times to get turned on. Anything involving Patrick Walsh was bad and wrong and all of my body parts should have been fully aware of this fact.

“Sweet,” he muttered.

“Sugar usually is,” I whispered back at him. Because I’m an idiot.

Happily, I’m an idiot who entertained him. Because he actually gave me a half smile. Good God. It was beautiful. The whole world fell away and it was just me and him. And the photographer in the bushes, because, business as usual.

“That’s very true,” he said.

Then, to compound the situation, I opened my mouth and said exactly what I was thinking. “You haven’t kissed me yet. You should probably do that. For the photographer and all . . . you know.”

What a wonderful terrible idea. I was the best worst.

Easily proving he was light-years smoother and cooler than me, the man said nothing. He simply angled his head and pressed his mouth against mine in a chaste, sweet, and not short closed-mouth kiss. Warm breath played against my lips and his body heat was overwhelming. The force of him up close and personal could not be denied. He was magnetic. My fingers twisted in my lap, dying to grab hold of him, but not daring to move.

And then it was over. He sat back, taking all of his hotness with him. Meanwhile, I trembled from head to toe. My brain officially blanked. I was shooketh. Which was odd. Kisses were nice and all, but they weren’t usually quite so devastating.

By the way, I’d been wrong. Patrick Walsh could act up a storm when it was warranted. The current state of me proved that just fine.

“Maybe you should try that as the next term of endearment,” I blathered. “Sugar.”

“Sugar?” he asked, thinking it over. He did this by studying my face intently—a level of scrutiny I was in no way prepared for. Not after that kiss. Then, at long last, he shook his head. “No.”

“Um. Okay.” I sat up straight and pulled my shit together. “Time to go?”

“Yeah.” He turned away. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER FIVE

When I woke, it always took me a moment to remember where I was. I lay spread-eagled in the middle of a big white plush bed in a room out of some interior design magazine. Like the rest of the house, the décor was a mix of mid-century and modern, expensive but minimal, with lots of cool art. And then there was the view out over the city through the French doors. A moderately smoggy day. Not too bad.

Dinner last night had been . . . interesting. I still didn’t know if I should high-five myself or smack myself in the forehead for asking for that kiss. As per usual, Patrick disappeared as soon as we arrived home. I mean, as soon as we arrived. So I got ready for bed and started another book, Act Like It by Lucy Parker. My dreams were a mix of smutty and strange.

Taking the last year off sex hadn’t been as much of a struggle as I imagined it would be. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to use toys, and I was ready to take a break from men’s bullshit. But getting up close and personal with Patrick made things trickier. My thirst for the man was real, despite all of our lies. Not that I couldn’t control myself. Of course I could. I just hadn’t had to in a long time.

Turning thirty might be a downer for some. The whole idea of leaving your twenties and your supposed youth behind you can be tough. But for me, it resulted in a shedding of fucks. Both figurative and actual. And you wouldn’t believe how much lighter everything felt after I deleted the dating apps from my phone. I just gave up on the ideal of a steady relationship and a dynamic career, and focused on learning how to be happy with me in the here and now. I was a work in progress, but that was okay.

Anyway.

The collection of texts, emails, and messages on my cell had grown overnight. Social media was an unrelenting bitch. Gran never much minded what other people thought of her and I tried to follow her example, but it wasn’t always easy. The DMs included vile comments about me, occasional threats from crazy fans, naked pictures from women who were sure they could make him happier, and so on. What with being female, I’d become used to the occasional unsolicited dick pic. This barrage of pussy and boobs, however, was both new and unusual. Not sure what they hoped to achieve. To so shake my confidence that I’d pass their photos and phone numbers on to Patrick, perhaps? Give up and go home?