She nods her head solemnly as she turns back to her powders.
“Anyway,” Rona continues slowly, “it’s the first time Lilly’s talked about a guy in months. She hasn’t had sex for almost a year.”
“Ro!”
“What?!”
“Dude. Boundaries.”
“I’m nervous!” she cries defensively. “You know I get chatty when I’m nervous.”
“Chat about your own shit.”
“You spent a half hour in a closed pantry with a guy off the cover of Playgirl. My last date was with a dentist from Bakersfield. Your shit is so much more interesting than mine.”
“More interesting than the fact that you fart when you orgasm?”
“Lilly!”
I smile, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah. Not so great on the receiving end, is it?”
“Maybe we should all just shut up,” she grumbles.
The door behind me bursts open, knocking me forward. A member of the camera crew, a young guy with an ironically skeevy mustache, reaches out to catch me as I stumble forward.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry!”
I wave him away, catching my footing before I eat floor with my face. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Are you Lilly?”
“Yeah.”
“The one who refuses to go on camera?”
I shrug irreverently. “It’s what I’m famous for.”
His eyes dart to the producer behind me. “Can you talk her into it?”
“Don’t you think I tried?” she fires back, uninterested.
“We all tried,” Rona tells him.
He backs out of the doorway, looking to the right at someone out of view. “Nah, she’s not going to, but maybe you can convince her.”
I hear a chuckle, low and vibrant. Unnervingly familiar.
“I doubt that, man, but I’ll try.”
My body goes cold. “No fucking way.”
Rona stands in my peripheral, taking a step toward me. “Lilly, what’s – Oh, my God.”
The doorframe fills with him. It’s nearly too small, everything in the world seemingly inadequate in his presence. Nothing is bright enough, large enough, fast enough to keep up with him.
With the pulsing presence of Colt Avery.
He smiles when he spots me. It’s crooked, one side of his mouth rising higher than the other. It makes me feel like I’m tilting. Falling.
“What’s up, Hendricks?”
“No.”
His body jerks with a silent chuckle, his smile widening. “What?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what I want to say, not exactly. I’m too stunned by the fact that he’s here, live and in the flesh. In my world. My normal, average, everyday world that looks Technicolor bright with him standing in it.
I wasn’t supposed to see him again. What the hell is happening?
A cameraman moves behind him. He’s filming this, and I’m in the shot.
I shake my head at him. “You can’t use any of this. I haven’t signed the waiver.”
Colt glances behind himself at the camera. “Yeah, they told me about that.” He turns back to me, his smile going smug. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to be famous?”
“The store is closed right now,” I tell him, ignoring his question. “How did you get in?”
“For real?”
“Because you’re famous?” I ask dryly.
“It has its perks. You should try it.” He steps around me, his hand outstretched. “You must be Rona.”
Rona is nicer than I am. Most people are. She smiles at him pleasantly, shaking his hand and managing to look only mildly star struck. “Yeah. I’m— yeah. Nice to meet you.”
“Colt,” he supplies unnecessarily, at least having the decency to pretend we don’t all know his name and nearly every contour of his naked body. “Good to meet you. I love the store. Your cake was the best part of the party yesterday.”
Rona flushes pink all the way to the roots of her hair. “That’s amazing. Thank you.”
The makeup artist offers her hand next. “Kendra,” she purrs.
He nods, taking her hand only briefly.
He introduces himself to the producer next. Sandra. That’s her name. He’s charming when he greets her, effortlessly dropping the sexy act in favor of the boy next door show. She absolutely eats it up.
Under thirty seconds in the room and Colt has every girl sitting pretty in the palm of his hand.
“What are you doing here?” I ask bluntly.
Rona looks at me with big eyes, silently begging me to chill.
I ignore her. I can’t chill. This guy is an electrical wire to my body, destroying my regular functions. I’m still stunned by the fact that he’s here.
“I, uh,” he laughs at himself softly, dipping his chin. The gesture is so adorable I can taste the estrogen spike in the room. “I’m a little addicted to those Oreos you made. The chocolate coated ones. I smuggled out a few handfuls from the party yesterday but I ate the last one this morning and I can’t get them out of my head.”
“We don’t keep those in stock. We made them for the party. Sorry,” I apologize, the sentiment feeling obligatory.