That was not my doing.
I would never put either one of us in that situation.
It would never happen either, because one of us can just skip it or even both of us.
It’s crazy to think we’d do something like that.
We barely know each other.
True to his word, Axl stays locked up in his room while I sneak down to have my massage, and it is a true “sneaking” situation. I case along the wall of the back staircase, and I still find several fans loitering with their phones handy. It’s worth it, though, because my massage is amazing, releasing so much shoulder tension that my whole body melts like a pad of butter.
When I sneak back upstairs to change into my gown, the hairstylist I use when I’m in New York is already waiting for me. Everything goes well, and before I know it, it’s time for us to head downstairs. For the first time since Axl disappeared into his room, he taps on the adjoining door.
“Come in,” I call out while I stare in the mirror and press my new lip liner to the top of my lip, trying to cheat my lip line. I love the natural makeup look my stylist gave me, but one thing I’m big on is full lips.
I hear the door push open and close, but I focus on the mirror as I diligently fill in the gap, careful not to smudge it. When it’s perfect and just the way I like it, I snap the cap back on my liner and casually pivot.
My breath hitches intensely, inflating my chest.
Axl’s wearing a cobalt suit, with the blue setting off his eyes, and the tailoring on his suit adds so much swagger.
And the freshly sprouted beard. Oh, Martha. He wears it so well.
I manage to keep my mouth closed. Resisting the urge to drool, I swallow it down.
Then swallow again for preventive measures.
And once more.
Why did I just pencil on my lips with so much detail?
“You look . . .” He lets out a sigh that borders a groan, and I’m not sure if that’s a happy sound or not. His gaze takes a sweep over me, before latching on to my eyes, and I swear it left a scorching trail on my skin. “Radiant,” he tacks on, all the hues of blue in his eyes spiraling back at me.
This moment doesn’t feel like a fake date.
This moment feels real.
Again, I have to swallow to protect my fake lip line at all costs. I smile with pinched lips, keeping the flood-gates closed, hoping it passes for a mysterious smirk instead of the more likely constipated smile.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks when I don’t reply to his compliment. I literally can’t speak. My throat feels like it’s been baked into hardened clay. The way he’s looking at me, and the way he’slookingin that suit, make speaking an impossibility.
The beard was agoodcall.
I do the next best thing to talking. I hum out a giant, “Mm-mum.” Then I hook my arm in his, and we head out.
twelve
Axl
“My ex is right over there in the corner,” Sophie whispers under her breath as we do our best to glide into the room, chins up and arms entwined. I swallow as I scan the large banquet room, which is eloquently decorated in fall crimson and gold. A small band is set up in the corner, playing light jazz. Everyone’s dressed in cocktail coats and dresses, taking petite steps as they meander through the crowd, flashing their freshly whitened smiles. My stomach flips at the strong aroma of clashing perfumes and colognes, and I long for fresh air. “If you think it looks like he’s in the NFL,” Sophie continues, “it’s because he is. He also has a terrible temper, and he doesn’t get along with most people because he’s very violent.”
Of course, I knew she had dated Rocco Bella, an NFL superstar, but I didn’t need the ab-lib about his temper or what a bully he is.
Just like she says, he’s off in the corner. Dressed for the occasion in a black suit. He has beady eyes and an oversized nosethat looks like it’s been broken more than once. He’s surrounded by several people, including a female on his arm, but his gaze lasers on us. I can’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me return his inquiring stare. Even though I’ve never met the guy, cheaters are all the same, and I’ll go on record to say I hate them all. “I really don’t care to talk about that jerk.”
I guide her farther into the room and with each step we take, I can feel another set of eyes latch onto us. I know I’m here to perform, and I’m used to people watching me, but not like this. Usually, I’m focused on getting a puck and don’t have time to notice who is nudging who as I pass. This is slow motion, a torture I’ve never experienced. Of course, it is quite ego-inflating to have Sophie on my arm. She is so radiant, she practically glows, and people just naturally gravitate toward her. It makes me consider how stupid Rocco must be—a few too many blows to the head or something—because no other woman in the room even comes close to being as gorgeous as Sophie.
Not that I’m looking.
