“What the hell are you doing in my room?!”
He stared back down at me, completely un
concerned, as the words bounced back and forth within the four tiny walls.
“What am I doing in my girlfriend’s room?” he repeated sarcastically. “In the naughty hours before the sun comes up?”
I held my breath as his lips curled up in a devilish, wicked smile. But as quickly as they did, his entire face washed clean with the sort of wide-eyed innocence you only saw on nuns and other people who had preemptively devoted their entire lives to the convent.
“I’m bringing you coffee, of course.”
He held it out with that same blameless smile—purposely wafting the steam my way in the hopes that I would smell it and start to wake up.
...it worked.
My fingers closed around it, nervously avoiding his, and I pulled myself up to a tentative sitting position—relieved beyond words that I’d fallen asleep that night wearing an actual shirt.
“Um...thank you, I guess.” I took my first halting sip—locking eyes with him all the while. “You know, you didn’t have to break into my place. We could have met somewhere.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he countered without hesitation. His sparkling blue eyes swept me up and down, before that twinkle translated into a smile. “I deserve at least a few perks of this fake relationship, don’t I? Breaking and entering should be one.”
He stressed the word ‘fake’ in a way that told me he didn’t believe it, and smirked at the words ‘breaking and entering’ in a way that told me he had done them many, many times before.
I tried to come up with something to say, but in the end, settled on silently drinking my espresso—wondering why in the world Nicholas Hunter was standing in my apartment.
“So,” I finally managed, giving him a once-over as well whilst I simultaneously tried to determine what time it was, “this is what it’s like to date you, huh? A continuous, seemingly innocuous stream of light felonies?”
“Oh Abby,” his eyes flashed in the early morning dawn, “I’d be happy to show you what it’s like to date me. But no,” his face resolved all at once, “it usually doesn’t lean so much toward the misdemeanors. I simply didn’t have your key.”
I snorted and began to pull back the covers—only to realize a second later that I wasn’t wearing any pants. The blankets shot right back up in an embarrassing burst of speed, and Nick’s eyes swept innocently from the headboard all the way down—dancing with such an absurd intensity, I could swear the man had x-ray vision.
“What’s wrong?” he asked casually, keeping his voice as innocent as his face.
It was a well-delivered performance, but I had known him too long for that. My eyes narrowed suspiciously as I tucked the comforter firmly around my legs.
“Nothing at all, thank you.”
My voice went up a bit on the ‘you,’ emphasizing it with that girlish petulance that women used to tease and harass their men. It was an accidental gesture, but one that was met with what looked like genuine appreciation from Nick. His lips curled up in yet another smile, as he took a deliberate sip of coffee—changing the conversation in its tracks.
“So, I actually came here because I wanted to apologize...for last night.”
My breath caught in my chest, as I stared in wide-eyed anticipation. In all the million times I had replayed the kiss in the hours since it happened, the one emotion I didn’t feel was regret. It didn’t matter to me if it was courteous or made some kind of logical sense—I didn’t want to hear him apologize. I certainly wasn’t sorry it had happened. Just surprised.
“You do?” Much to my great surprise, a sinking wave of disappointment settled in my stomach. I tried to keep it from my voice. “Well that’s fine, you don’t have to—”
“For the press.”
Our eyes met, and I could have sworn, he was hiding a secret smile. I started nodding quickly, hoping like hell that I looked as casual as him.
“Right—the press. Yeah, that...that caught me a little off guard.”
For the first time, a look of genuine remorse flashed across his face. Followed almost immediately by a sympathetic grimace.
“When I called them, I had completely forgot...” He trailed off, then shook his head. “It does get easier—the cameras. In a few weeks, you’ll hardly notice them. I promise.”
It was a kind thing to say, but we both knew it was a lie.
The constant fury, attack, and recoil of the paparazzi didn’t fade over time. As long as you were alive and a celebrity, you lived in a constant state of siege. When I was first coming up the ranks in the PR world, there wasn’t a single week that went by, when I didn’t get a screaming client on the phone demanding that I do something about the unrelenting pursuit of the press. Of course, such interventions were damn near impossible, and on most such days, I would simply sit and listen—interjecting at all the appropriate times—until the client had calmed themselves down, or tired themselves out, or simply gotten bored and wanted to move on to something else.