Smitten

I’m standing at the foot of the stage, as directed, immediately underneath Fish, dancing and singing with Georgina and her new gaggle of friends—Kat, Violet, and a few more—and, through it all, I feel like I’ve been transported to another dimension. A dream world. A perfect fantasy.

Unfortunately, though, all good things must come to an end. Much too soon for my taste, the group ends their short set, making the crowd cheer like crazy and then converge on the band as they descend from the stage. I’m expecting Fish to stop and take a moment to chat with the partygoers who’ve crowded him and his friends—to revel in the praise he so rightly deserves. But, no. The minute Fish steps off the stage, he bolts from his adoring friends and beelines straight to me.

As he closes in on me, he opens his arms, inviting me to hug him, and, without hesitation, I do. Indeed, I fling myself into his waiting arms like a missile, and he wraps me in a warm embrace. As I crumple into his chest, I babble stupidly about how amazing that performance was. How talented and charismatic he is. How good he smells. I blurt, “This is the best day of my life.”

“What?” Fish says, not catching my words in the noisy room.

I look up from his chest and realize what I just said. “I . . . said I’m having a blast.”

He smiles. “Me, too.”

We stare at each other for a moment, heat coursing between us. Attraction. Electricity. His eyes drift to my lips, and I can’t help thinking, “He’s finally going to kiss me!” It’s what I’ve been dying for him to do since we walked away from the ping-pong table earlier.

But, no.

Despite the fact that I’m nonverbally screaming at him to kiss my lips, Fish leans down and softly kisses my cheek. Which isn’t a terrible thing, for sure. In fact, when his lips meet my skin, every nerve ending between my legs jolts with extreme arousal. But I can’t deny I want more.

Fish presses his lips against my ear, in order to be heard above the dance music that’s suddenly piping through overhead speakers, and my body jolts at the intimacy of his voice in my ear. “I can’t tell you how amazing it felt to see you down there, dancing and singing at the foot of the stage,” he says. “Watching you down there was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

My heart lurches and begins pounding, along with the nerve endings between my legs. Swallowing hard, I pull back and stare into his green eyes. Kiss me, I think. Do it now.

Once again, his eyes drift to my mouth. But he doesn’t kiss me. No. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “I could use some fresh air.”

I say something incoherent. Whatever I said, it certainly wasn’t English, though I don’t speak any other languages.

“Cool,” Fish says, as if the incoherent sounds that escaped my mouth actually made any kind of sense. He grabs my hand, the same way he’s been doing all night. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And off we go, toward the double doors leading to the patio.

Eight

Alessandra

Fish and I find a quiet, dark corner in a remote part of the large patio—a perfect little haven behind a low retaining wall with a lovely view of the twinkling, hilltop view. We step over the wall and get ourselves situated against it, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the ground. As we take in the view, Fish points out various landmarks to me.

I ask, “Where do you live from here?”

“Venice Beach.” He points southwest, toward the ocean in the far distance. “I’ve got a cute little bungalow, right on the sand. My house was the first big thing I bought when the ducats started rolling in. I always wanted a place where I could walk out my door and feel sand under my feet. I like being able to wake up and surf, even before my first cup of coffee.”

“I think that’s what I’d buy, too, if I were in your shoes. Or, rather, your bare feet. A cute little place on the beach. What more could a person want?”

He smiles, but says nothing, so I part my lips, inviting him to kiss me.

“Are you cold?” he whispers.

I shake my head. Kiss me.

“You’re shivering,” he says.

Because I want you to kiss me so badly, I think. If I’m shaking, it’s only because I’m dying to feel your gorgeous lips on mine. That’s what I’m thinking, of course. But what I say is a calm and measured, “No, I’m fine.”

Shit.

As soon as those stupid words escape me, I regret them. What if Fish asked if I’m cold because he was looking for an excuse to put his arms around me? If I’d said yes, I’m freezing, would Fish have cuddled me . . . and then, finally, kissed me when I was in his arms?