“Are you saying I’m a hungover mess, Mr. Barton?”
He smiles and pushes his sunglasses up his brow, and they stay there, defying gravity. His steel-blue eyes are breathtakingly gorgeous in the bright morning sun and just as distracting as they were yesterday in the boba shop. Forget words—I don’t even remember how to stand anymore.
“Hell no. Definitely not saying that.” He stares too long before remembering something. “Oh, and I brought you a little something for breakfast. Okay, several little somethings. They’re in the Jeep.”
I smile back, and he darts around the car, holding the door open for me. He even offers to take my bag. It’s warm this morning, so I shrug off his jacket and he puts it in the back.
“Oh, uhm, I didn’t even know guys still did that. Thanks.”
“If they don’t, they should. Hopefully, they made the coffee how you like it, foods in the center console.”
I open the bag, and the scent of butter and chocolate hits me hard. “Holy shit! Is that like six chocolate croissants?! What’s the deal with you and pastries?”
“I didn’t think flowers would be your thing, at least not yet, since I have no idea which ones you like. And the bakery by my house is pretty amazing.” He smirks, and I’m wondering if he’s still drunk because he’s giving off some severely cocky vibes that he didn’t have last night. “So, which ones do you like? Flowers, I mean. For tomorrow?”
He doesn’t give me time to react before he jogs back to the other side. I sit there, drooling at the bag of croissants, while trying to think of flower names, any flowers. Flowers, breakfast, holding the door open—who is this guy?
Honey, maybe you should lay off the sweets. No one wants a pig for a wife.
I take a deep breath, quieting the voice again. I hate days like today when it’s louder than usual.
He climbs in and starts the drive, and I glance at the GPS on his phone. “Are we going to be late? I should have just said we could take the metro.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not that kind of convention. No one will even notice if we walk in a little late. Hair and makeup professionals don’t really worry about things like that, and half of them are hung over from a big party the sponsors hosted last night.”
“Ugh, I know the feeling. Wait! Hair and makeup? Fuck! God, they’re going to see me and think I’m a fucking idiot.” I dig through my bag, looking for anything I can find to clean my face. Out of nowhere, there’s a hand on mine, and my eyes meet the soft blues that keep making my heart skip. “How do you know so much about hair and makeup convent—? Never mind, you’re a photographer.”
“It’s fine.”
“I get that you’re trying to be nice or whatever, but no.” I’m blushing so hard I wish I could find a rock to hide under. “My makeup is on par with a toddler who broke into the drawer of markers and glitter and wanted to play dress up. I’m too old for this anyhow. I?—”
“No, I mean it. I think…I mean…what I’m trying to say is…” He licks his lips and pulls his bottom lip through his teeth slowly as he thinks. He can’t stop looking at my mouth. Is it because I have clown makeup or there’s chocolate on my face?
Fuck. Does he want tokissme?
“Angel, you’re…stunning.”
I stare at him. A strange feeling fills my stomach and makes my head spin. Stunning. Not pretty, not beautiful, not even just adorable. Last night he said I looked amazing, and today I get stunning. Me?
“I…we should probably go…the light’s… uhm, green,” I barely even hear myself think the words, let alone say them. He nods and goes back to paying attention to traffic while my brain continues to slosh around. I mean, how often does a hot-as-hell man in this city tell someone like me they’re stunning?
Never. It’s never.
And he called me Angel. He’s also called me Alexis a few times now, and I hate that name, but when he says it, it sounds so…different. I have got to get my head back in the game. Even if I did like him—or he liked me—I don’t do relationships.
We drive away from the city’s high-rise buildings and down the freeway, heading toward Long Beach. If traffic cooperates, the drive isn’t horrible. But the traffic is rarely cooperative in L.A.—except for weekend mornings before ten. I watched the GPS moving closer and closer to the river of red we’re headed for. The roaring wind from the topless Jeep provides a serene escape from conversation. Once we hit that wall of cars, though, all we’ll have is time to talk.
It’s so much easier at a club or out with friends, where everything becomes a distraction and loud music makes it hard to talk.
My mind drifts back to last night. The feel of his mouth on my neck and the way he held me. We shed our awkwardness, even if for only a few stolen moments. I giggle to myself, thinking about how that moan and the high-pitched whimper that followed went to my bones. Most guys I’ve been with don’t make a lot of noise, or if they do, it’s nothing but terrible attempts at dirty talk.
“I’m sorry if that was too forward earlier. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he finally says as the Jeep slows and we join the long line of commuters clogging the roads. We should be fifteen minutes away. Instead, we’re going to be another forty-five at least.
“Oh, no, it’s, uhm, fine. Really.”
“Look, I know we’ve been doing a hell of a job starting on some weird footing, but I just wanted to tell you that I’mreallyexcited to work with you.”
My stomach lurches, and I wonder if this is the part where we return to promises of professionalism. The part where he tells me the alcohol did all the talking last night. I drop the remaining half of the croissant I’m working on back into the bag and roll the top down on it. I don’t need croissants anyhow. Or cute guys complimenting me.
