And god, that kiss. It’s wrong what we’re doing, and I no longer care.
The topic is music. Parker’s at the head of the table with a lot of opinions on the subject. He loves music. Lana’s next to me, bending over the proposed schedule that I’ve worked out, practically on my lap, and Brazilian supermodel Zera Valsano, who hates costumes, is playfully wringing my neck over my suggestion she walk out in a whale costume, and I’m laughing, and that’s when Mia appears.
I stiffen. What is she doing here? There’s usually a caterer for these things.
She manages a tight smile, but I see her. She doesn’t like the photo on my office wall, and she really doesn’t like it being re-enacted in front of her.
I stand. “Hey,” I say.
She pushes her cart to the edge of the room, proud and aloof, with a slight air of danger.
How is she here? Parker’s assistant usually arranges the catering on these things. Did Parker’s assistant put in this order?
“I have seven low-carb salmon bowls, five keto pork, one vegan veggie, two teriyaki steak wraps and a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich.” This last in a tone dripping with loathing.
Our gazes lock. The sparkle of anger and aliveness in her gaze hits something deep inside me. And I don’t care. I’m just glad she’s here. Mia’s beautiful even in her hatred—so fucking beautiful I can barely breathe.
Zera still has her hand on my shoulder, but it’s Mia I’m watching, Mia’s hand I’m imagining. Doesn’t she see she’s the most exciting woman in the room?
My girl goes through the layout with confident movements, never giving me the satisfaction of seeing her sweat. I’m so proud of her I could die.
Needing somebody more than they need you is for suckers. That was the central lesson in the book I wrote way back when.
It felt like the gospel truth back then. But right now I need for everybody to be gone from here so I can be with Mia.
“Now where were we?” Parker says, squeezing mayo onto his sandwich. “Lindsey, let’s have the media schedule.”
Lindsey launches into a rundown of the schedule in the exciting and slightly confidential way that she has. Mia has everybody’s lunches set out except mine. Making me wait.
She gives me a mischievous look. She’s a lot of sunshine and a little bit devil. She sets a napkin in front of me, and then my croissant sandwich.
I gaze up at her, meeting her devil. “Mustards, please,” I say hoarsely.
Her cheeks go pink. There’s nothing sexier than the real Mia pushing out from underneath her acting skills, like a wildflower through concrete. When she’s really off-balance, the old accent peeks through—just the edges of it.
She sets down the mustards. Energy flares between us. It’s all so wrong, and I goddamn love it. I’m addicted to our dance. To her.
She sets down the cheesy puffs.
“What other chips are available?” I ask.
Her cheeks go pink. “Cheesy puffs were specified.”
“You were out of cheesy puffs the other day and I recall having something else that was really delicious,” I say.
She licks her lips. “That choice is no longer available to you, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be a fond memory. Never to be repeated.”
“No?” I can feel Parker staring at us—probably wondering what is up. I’m so far from caring.
“So sorry.” She opens the chips and arranges them just so, at a specific angle like she does when she’s trying to annoy me, then she positions the mustards.
“Thank you,” I say. At least it sounds like a thank you to the people around the table. It’s really just a tug on the rope between us. Mia spares me a burning glance. Is it possible she’s jealous?
Does she think I arranged this? To get a rise out of her?
She’s doing her fussy repositioning of my sandwich, and all I want to do is kiss her. I want everyone gone and for it to be just us. I’m going mad.
“Wait, it’s not quite right,” she says sweetly.
“It looks good to me.” My breath speeds. “I would go so far as to call it impressive.”
“No, there’s something missing.” She has everybody’s attention now. “Wait, I know what’s missing.”
“What?” I ask, rapt.
With the economical speed of a boxer, she punches her fist down into the sandwich.
The dull thump of a fist hitting a wad of meat and pastry resounds through the hush.
Gasps and exclamations rise up.
I stare at the sandwich in shock.
She’s smashed a crater into the middle of it. Bits of roast beef and swiss bulge out the sides of the misshapen croissant.
She straightens. She smiles at me. “There we go.”
My people watch me, aghast. The lunch-cart girl just smashed her fist into my sandwich. What will I do?
I bite back a smile. Pride is probably the wrong emotion here.
Lust is definitely the wrong emotion.
Everything falls away but her. She just doesn’t give a fuck—she never did. Even back in high school she was like that.
“Odd,” I say in the patrician tone that drives her insane. “I don’t recall ordering a panini.”
“My bad.” She smiles sweetly.
Everybody turns back to me, waiting for the famous Max Hilton retort. I always have something clever to say, but right now I don’t. There’s just me and Mia.
I just love her. I swallow. Did I really just have that thought?
“Anything else? No? Bon appetit.” She pushes her cart out.
I stand. “I’ll go see if everything’s…” I end the sentence with a mumble and get out of there. Nothing in that room is important anymore. I head out after her, down the hall. I round a corner just as her cart disappears into the elevator.
I slap my hand over the doors.
Her nostrils flare. “You think you’re all that. What with the models. Please.”
A grin splits my face. “And you think you can punch my sandwich?”
“Yes,” she breathes. “I think I can punch your sandwich.”
I’m in the elevator. I let the doors close behind me. “Do you have an apology for me?”
“No,” she says.
“What was that?” I cage her with my arms. Pure lust courses through my veins. “No? No apology? That won’t do.”