ONE NIGHT (Novella) (Superstars in Love Series) Page 3

  “Uh.” He gave an uneasy laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. His biceps flexed as he reached up, and she couldn’t look away. He obviously worked out. Accent and muscles? So not fair. “Yes, they know.”

  “Oh. Good.” She stopped walking and pointed at the door to the restaurant. “We’re here.”

  “Great, but before we go in there, I need to see something.”

  She blinked up at him. “Okay. What’s up?”

  He swung her out of the craziness of New York and her back hit the building. She barely had a chance to gasp before his mouth was on hers, teasing her senses. She clutched his shirt, not sure which need was stronger—the one to push him away or the one to hold him closer. To reflect upon how freaking amazing his lips felt pressed against hers, his hands on her waist—or to honor a memory of what she’d once had.

  She loved that he didn’t ask or pussyfoot around the kiss. He just took. He ended the kiss and rested his forehead on hers. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back and grinned down at her. She couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. Or remembering how great it had felt against hers.

  “I just had to see if you tasted as good as I’d imagined.”

  She licked her lips, and his gaze fell. His hands flexed on her, as if he wanted another kiss. And, God help her, so did she. “And?”

  “And … you taste even better.” He pushed off the wall and she inhaled. He held the door open for her. “After you.”

  She didn’t say anything, but walked around him to the door. What was there to say? He placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her inside. Through her lightweight shirt, she swore she could feel his skin on hers. And damn if it didn’t feel right, too—as if he had some unspoken right to touch her.

  What was wrong with her?

  The whole time they stood in line, he didn’t drop his hand. Some small part of her wanted to step away from him; uncomfortable with the sensations he awakened in her. The other, louder, part wanted him to touch her more. Everywhere. She gave the hostess her name and peeked over her shoulder to the inside of the restaurant. She’d been right about its not being too packed. At least, not by New Yorker standards. There was only a thirty-minute wait.

  Justin led them to a bench on the sidewalk and they sat down. He sat so close their thighs touched. He made her feel shaky and … weird. Scary. Fun. And oh so right. She hadn’t felt this alive since Hugh. She stared at her feet. She shouldn’t be here. Hugh had only been dead for a little over a year, and this weekend would have been their wedding day.

  This wasn’t right. It was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Lifting her chin up with his finger, Justin searched her face with a wrinkled brow. “Can I cash in a quarter?”

  “There’s something you should know.” She took a steadying breath. He deserved to know the truth about her. “I was engaged once. We were supposed to get married this weekend.”

  His hand dropped from her chin, and she missed his touch immediately. Instead of backing away from her, as she expected, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  Tears came to her eyes and she pressed her lips together tight. “He was a Marine. Need I say more?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his side. She stiffened, uncertain if she should let him hold her. Would he think she was looking to forget about her loss in his arms? Was she trying to do exactly that?

  God, she didn’t even know.

  The normal, cautious Lexi wouldn’t even think of allowing a man she’d met only minutes ago console her over the death of her fiancé. And she let him, this beautiful stranger with the amazing accent, strong arms and melodic voice. Tonight she didn’t want to be normal. “Yeah. I still miss him. Every day.”

  He hugged her closer and cradled the back of her head in his hand. “How long ago did he die?”

  “A little over a year now.” She would allow herself to enjoy his soft touch for a few seconds before she separated herself from his hold. Just a few seconds more … “It’s still hard.”

  “I get that.” He squeezed her closer, resting his head on hers. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Yes. No.” She sighed. Something about him made it so tempting to open up and pour all of her sorrows out. “Sometimes when I wake up, I forget for a second that he’s dead. Then, I roll over and see the empty bed … and I remember. And then I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try.”

  Compassion shone from his eyes, and he kissed the top of her head. “I can’t even imagine a loss like that. I’m sorry.”

  He’d lost his parents. He probably knew all too well how it felt. “I keep waiting for it to get easier.” She blinked back tears. “It has to get easier at some point, doesn’t it?”

  “I hope so.” He ran his fingers over the line of her cheek, his touch feather light. “I really do. But until then, feel free to cry on my shoulder. I’m here.”

  And he meant that, too. She could hear the sincerity in his voice. “I have tons of family and friends trying to force me to talk on a daily basis, whom I avoid, but here I am. Talking to you, a guy I barely know.”

  “Perhaps that’s why you can talk to me.”

  He had a point. “Maybe.”

  “I guess that’s just another funny trick fate played on us. You needed to talk,” he dropped his hand. “And I’m good at listening.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry for kissing you like I did earlier. I-I had no idea about any of this.”

  “Don’t apologize for that.” She looked up at him. “Tonight is the first night in over a year that I’ve actually had fun.”

  He smiled. “Good. Because I’m not actually sorry. It was a hell of a kiss, and I know you agree with me.”

  “Oh my God,” she said through her laughter. “Your ego is astounding.”

  “Comes with the job.”

  She gave him a hug but then moved out of his arms. They’d been too close for too long. “Thanks for being so understanding. This day’s been a long time coming.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do my best to make it as tolerable as possible.”

  “Okay, enough about me. Earlier you mentioned you needed a distraction.” She pointed at him, desperate to change the topic from herself. “Time for you to spill your guts. What’s bothering you?”

  He clenched his jaw and traced an invisible path on the bench, his graceful fingers moving smoothly. For a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. “Honestly? Opening night jitters. Nothing huge.”

  Aw, stage crew gets nervous, too? How cute. “I’m sure you’ll do great. Equipment is the same in London as it is here, right? Lights, echoes, and all that.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “I wish it was that simple.”

  “Imagine how much more nervous you would be if you were in the show.”

  His laughter died off, and he dragged a hand through his hair. “I can only imagine.”

  “Sing me a song.” A siren sounded behind them. The cops must be chasing another murderer or robber. Where was Spider-man when you needed him? “I want to hear you before anyone else does. Before you’re famous.”

  He looked past her at the crowded sidewalk. Nearby, a mom with a screaming toddler stood, trying to rock the child to sleep. Next to her, a man practically shouted at his secretary over his cell. “Here? Now? You won’t even be able to hear me over all of this noise.” The mom shot him a dirty look and walked further away from him. He winced. “I didn’t mean the baby. I mean all of it.”

  “All of it is New York City. Get used to it.” She motioned him on. “Now sing a song from Les Miserables for me.”

  “I thought you hated musicals and singers.”

  “I do,” she said softly, feeling the need to be honest. She liked the way he laughed. She liked the way he made her laugh. “But I like you.”

  His eyes darkened, and he leaned in close. When he opened his mouth and sang low in her ear, her breath caught in he
r throat. He was singing of falling in love at first sight—about his world being turned upside down by the mere sight of a girl.

  And he absolutely should be on a stage. He was tantalizing and perfect. He sang so quietly that no one else could hear him over the city noise. A few feet away, a fighting couple gestured wildly and drew attention. The screaming baby still screamed. And she saw another police car go by with its sirens on, but with his soft, perfect voice filling her head … she didn’t hear a single sound.

  He surrounded her.

  The fact that he sang for her and her alone made her shift on her seat. And it also made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him. A lot.

  And maybe tie him up in her bed so he could sing for her all day long.

  He broke off, his cheeks red. “There. You’re the first to hear me.”

  She took a deep breath. “Wow. You’re really, really good.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I have no doubt that you’ll make it one day. Maybe I’ll even come see you when you do.”

  “You’d brave the hated theater to see me?” He held a hand to his heart. “I’m touched. Truly.”

  She scoffed. “I have seen a few shows. I just don’t like them. I mean, really, who sings while fighting a revolution?”

  “French people,” he deadpanned.

  She burst into laughter. “Remind me never to go to France, then. I wouldn’t fit in.”

  “I don’t know. I think you’d fit in just fine. You’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at his compliment, but she forced herself to ignore the fluttering of attraction. Wrong time. Wrong man. “You’ve obviously never heard me sing.”

  He latched onto her eyes, not letting go. “I showed you mine. You should show me yours.”

  “Never. Happening,” she said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. He made her feel so different and alive. “I don’t sound anything like you.”

  His fingers brushed against hers on the bench, sending a hum of electricity through her blood, and he took a deep breath. His gaze collided with hers, and he slowly slid his hand over hers and held on tight. She tried to look away from him, to break contact, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. There was something between them.

  Something she was terrified to name.

  Chapter Three

  Justin took a sip of his beer and eyed Lexi over the rim. Why in the bloody hell did Americans insist on cold beer? Give him warm ale in a pub any day over this swill. But she had insisted he be “American” today, and … well … for her he would.

  “I saw that,” she said, her brow knitted.

  He pasted an innocent smile on his face. “Saw what?”

  She pointed a finger at him. “You cringed when you swallowed the beer. You’re supposed to be American today, remember?”

  “Of course.” He cleared his throat and used his best New Yorker accent. “I’m as American as they come, sweetheart. Didn’t you know? I’m not really British—I heard chicks dig guys with accents.”

  She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “They do. Especially British ones.”

  “Then you’ve gone to dinner with the right guy.”

  “What else can you do?”

  He leaned back in his chair, switching to a French accent. “I happen to be excellent at British accents in particular but can certainly do others.”

  She dropped her hand and laughed freely. The way her eyes lit up when she laughed drew him in. Tantalized him in a way he’d never been tantalized before. She was like a drug, and he wanted more. “You’re good.”

  Of course he was good at them. It was his job. He switched tones. “I can do Australian.” He switched to Spanish. “And, of course, Spanish.” He grinned when she burst into laughter, changing to Russian. “The better question is … what can’t I do?” American again. “Nothing! I can do them all, sugar.”

  She rolled her eyes, but laughed. “Oh God, please don’t say sugar. You need help with your slang if you want to impress me.”

  He lifted his glass to her. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I try to impress you.”

  “Next time?” Her smile slid away, and she set her beer down. Already, he could hear her adding up all the reasons they shouldn’t see each other again. She picked up her cell and looked at it. “I think—”

  He caught her gaze. “You know what I think? I think you think too much.”

  “I do not.” She pressed her lips together, her eyes flashing with anger. “I use my brain a perfectly logical amount.”

  He placed his hands on the table, leaning in. “How did you figure that out? By thinking?”

  “I—you—” She stopped talking, then laughed softly. “You’re too much. Yes, I figured it out by thinking. It’s kind of something I do.”

  “I gathered.”

  She crossed her arms. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Depends.” He looked her up and down. “You have to know when not to think. Sometimes it’s better to stop using your head—and start feeling. Blimey, what good is life if you’re always worrying?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve felt plenty of things. I’ll stick with cold, hard logic. It’s safer.”

  “Not with me you won’t. Not tonight.” He stood up, grabbing her hand as he passed. She stumbled to her feet and followed him, her steps hesitant. “I might not know you very well, but I’m making it my personal mission to loosen you up.”

  She dug her heels into the floor, fighting his hold feebly. He knew if she really wanted to get away, she could. His fingers were loose on her wrist. “We should probably—”

  “Have a few shots, get a little arse over elbow, and then go watch the fireworks from my flat? Sure, let’s go.”

  “I definitely don’t think that’s a good idea,” she protested, following him despite her refusal. “I don’t like shots. And I’m not going to your place.”

  “For one night, can you just do something fun? With me?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not fun. I warned you ahead of time. I just wanted a distraction.”

  “Oh, stuff it. I don’t believe that. You’re just scared to let loose. Furthermore, I’m not finished distracting you yet.”

  “I barely even know you,” she said, her mouth pursed. “Why would I go home with you?”

  “Besides the obvious?” He chuckled at her immediate blush. She was so adorably innocent, while somehow being undeniably sexy at the same time. It was a killer combination. “All right. How about we dance all night long instead of going to my flat, then? Close down the bar.”

  She winced. “I don’t dance. I’m horrible at it.”

  He raised a brow. “You don’t dance. Don’t sing. What do you do to relax? To have fun?”

  “I, uh, well, I knit.” She turned bright pink and added, “and I read a lot, too.”

  “Doesn’t count.” He dragged her to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. When she came closer, Justin leaned in. “Hello.”

  “Hello, yourself.” The bartender gave him the come-get-me smile he knew all too well. Lexi stiffened next to him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like—”

  Lexi slid closer to him, putting her hand right next to his. “We need drinks.”

  “Uh.” He fought back a grin. She was jealous. Bloody fabulous. “Yes, we do. Two shots of Patron, please?”

  The bartender nodded, not even looking at Lexi. “Coming right up, cutie.”

  “You know what?” Lexi crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t like her.”

  He chuckled. “She seemed plenty sweet to me, luv.”

  “Yeah. You’d think so.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her hand. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

  “Getting pissed.”

  “Pissed?” Her brow furrowed. “I think we have different definitions of that word.”

  Not really. In American terms, she looked quite pissed at the bartender. But he kept that thought to himself. “
Pissed. Drunk. Sloshed.” He shrugged. “Call it what you will.”

  “In The States, pissed means angry.” She turned to stare at the bartender and frowned. Her skirt was still damp, and still showed her arse off way too much. His fingers twitched with the need to touch. To have. To conquer. “And I prefer mixed drinks or beer.”

  “Bollocks. Tonight you like tequila.” He rested against the bar and swept his hair off of his forehead. “And then afterwards we’re either going to dance, or we’re going to my flat to watch fireworks. I have a great view of the sky.”

  “Sky, huh?” Her lips twitched. “I’m sure you do. Must be quite the salary you get for being on the stage crew.”

  He should tell her the truth. Tell her he wasn’t stage crew. After all, tomorrow she would see it for herself. But then tonight would be ruined. And he didn’t want to do that. So instead, he just kept digging the hole deeper and deeper. “They’re very, very generous with us. So what’s it going to be? Dancing, or my flat?”

  He held his breath, waiting to see if she would accept one of his options. He didn’t offer door number three: she could go home alone.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. We’ll go watch the stupid fireworks at your place.”

  He grinned, his heart picking up speed at her words. She had ignored the obvious option of the unmentioned door number three just as much as he had. “Excellent.”

  While they spoke, the bartender had lined up the shots, including the salt and lime slices, and Lexi eyed them dubiously. “Why did she give us salt? Are we making margaritas? Because I’m so down with that.”

  She didn’t even know how to take a shot of tequila? Damn, he could have a lot of fun teaching her how to live. He grabbed her hand and flipped her palm up, then ran his thumb over her smooth skin. When she shivered and tried to pull free, he held on tighter and clucked his tongue. Bending over her wrist, he flicked his tongue over her skin. He probably should have let her do it herself, but the opportunity to taste her was far too tempting to resist.

  “Oh.” Her cheeks turned pink and she licked her lips. His cock grew hard, but he tried to ignore his primal reaction. He sprinkled salt on her, and then set down two slices of lime on a plate next to them.