Option one: Face the paparazzi head-on.
Sure. With zero makeup, eyes still puffy from crying, and the faint but unforgiving stench of airborne child vomit clinging to my clothes. I can’t think of a faster way to make my career radioactive.
I instantly switch to option two.
Run.
My pulse roars in my ears as I scramble for a way out of this mess.
Thankfully, Lady Luck hasn’t completely abandoned me.
Though a small gap in the crowd, I see it. The elevator.
I grip my ten-pound backpack like it’s holding an Oscar-winning script and bolt for it.
Behind me, voices scatter across the terminal.
“Where’d she go?”
“Is that her?”
That one kicks me into a full sprint.
The second the elevator doors start to open, I lunge and slam straight into a brick wall of flannel.
Muscle. Heat.
Gloriously built for impact.
Despite the fact that I body-check him full on, I barely make a dent.
Then my eyes meet his. Two pools of icy coolness I absolutely should stop staring into.
“I think I see her!” someone shouts.
Shit.
I shove the lumberjack gently… as in pretty much plow him toward the back and pray they don’t find me.
Silence.
I drop my eight-hundred-pound backpack to the floor.
Because yes, I did buy twelve books at the airport bookstore, six of them hardcover.
The doors slide shut behind us with a merciful ding.
Silence.
And yes, I will suffer for my love of bad boys.
I slump against the wall, chest rising and falling like I just sprinted through a paintball zone.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of his attention. His gaze is so intense, my skin heats like he’s picturing me naked.
Or worse. Like he knows I’m picturing him naked.
Not that I can help it. He’s standing tall, in denim that should be illegal, with arms that could probably bench-press me. On a Harley.
