“Oh God, I can’t believe you did that,” Summer blurted between giggles.
“Well, believe it. Honestly, I’ve never been more humiliated in my life. This even beat the time in fifth grade when that snotty Billy Turner made fun of me for being in foster care.”
“Jeez, that is bad.” Summer paused. “Was he hot, at least?”
“Hot is an understatement. He was…” She searched her vocabulary for the right adjective and came up empty-handed. “Indescribably good-looking.”
Summer looked intrigued. “Nice bod?”
“Oh yeah.” Maggie sighed. “And he had that whole rebel thing going on. Messy hair, tattoo on his left biceps, the I’m-too-cool-to-shave thing happening.”
“Oooh, like Colin Farrell!”
“Who?”
“Your ignorance about sexy actors amazes me, Mags.”
“This guy wasn’t an actor. He was just a normal man trying to get some sleep—until I showed up and nearly raped him.”
“Did he like it?”
Maggie thought about the erection she’d stroked and fought back a shiver. “Oh yeah.”
“Then no harm done.” Summer shrugged. “He’ll probably wake up tomorrow and think it was all a dream. He doesn’t even know your name, unless you left your driver’s license on the nightstand or something.”
Maggie tucked a stray hair behind her ears and felt a warm flush spread over her face. “As a matter of fact, I did leave something behind.”
Summer furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”
A wail slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. “My underwear.”
After a moment of silence, Summer burst out with a high-pitched giggle that had Maggie flinching.
“Priceless!” Summer cried, wiping tears of laughter from her pale eyelashes. “That is absolutely priceless!”
Her roommate’s uncontrollable giggles brought back the wave of humiliation she’d tried to suppress. All she’d wanted to do tonight was, well, Tony. Instead, she’d made an idiot of herself in front of a complete stranger, and now had to live with the knowledge that she’d stripped naked, hopped into bed with a guy she didn’t know and stuck her tongue down his throat.
She’d be sure to tell her children about it someday.
Not.
Ben strode down East 45th Street with a cup of coffee in his hand, breathing in the early morning air then grimacing when he inhaled a gust of car exhaust. As he paused in front of a jewelry store to take a sip of his coffee, he couldn’t help but glance at his reflection in the large window.
What he saw was an unshaved jaw, circles under his eyes and a bloodshot expression, all of which confirmed what he already knew—he looked like shit.
It had been another sleepless night for him, only this time it had nothing to do with photographers lurking outside his house and everything to do with the redheaded tornado who had swirled into his room last night.
The more he replayed her stuttering explanation in his head, the less he believed his midnight visitor was one of the vultures. He believed it even less when he’d grabbed the morning paper at the kiosk across the street from the Lester and didn’t see his picture on any of the tabloids on the rack.
If Red—as he now liked to call her—was a reporter, the story of her seduction would’ve at least made the Tattler, a rag known for keeping page space open for last-minute scoops.
Since it hadn’t, he suspected she’d been telling the truth, that she’d ended up in the wrong room, in bed with the wrong guy.
And just like Cinderella, Red had left her prince a sweet little parting gift—a pair of pink lace panties.
And an offer for a free drink.
Under normal circumstances, Ben would have tossed the panties and passed on the booze, but last night had been anything but normal.
Sure, the make out session had been hot, but what turned him on most about her was that she genuinely hadn’t known who he was.
Everything he did was highly publicized, from his appearances at the Oscars and the Golden Globes to his trysts with his fair share of models and starlets. Whether he wanted them to or not, women knew who he was. They gawked at him when he passed them on the street. They sent him thousands of fan letters, half of which had a nude photo or two tucked between scented stationary. He’d been called a heartthrob and a hunk, a devil and an angel, and the last time he’d appeared on The Tonight Show he’d almost gotten mobbed outside the studio.
So how in fiery hell didn’t she know about him?
Ben had spent enough years tangled up in the film industry to know when somebody was bullshitting him, and he honestly didn’t think he’d been lied to last night. Red had been oblivious to his celebrity status, and considering she hadn’t salivated at the mere sight of him, he suspected she’d be unimpressed about it anyway.
Damn but that was a huge turn-on.
He quickened his pace, his gaze darting around in search of the lot where he’d left his car. He remembered it had been near that theater where he’d seen Hamlet last year, and there might have been a Starbucks around too, and a—