“How?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he wheels the suitcase to his left as if the small purple beast covered in sugar skulls belongs to him.
Before the control freak in me can open her mouth, the elevator dings.
The doors open.
I slip in behind him and catch that clean, maddening scent of him.
Not that I’m taking an extra-long whiff or anything.
That would be weird.
Low and gravelly, his voice is pure command. “No matter where I walk, stay glued to my ass.”
“I’m practically frisking you as it is,” I mutter.
“Try not to skip straight to a third-base cavity search.”
I roll my eyes.
We step out.
And my living nightmare spirals around us.
A throng of reporters pauses. Footsteps scrape. Voices murmur. “Where is she?” And “They said she was here.”
Who’s they, I wonder.
He starts moving, and I stay tucked behind him. He shields me like an armored wall.
Which, he absolutely is.
He navigates through the chaotic crowds with surgical precision, cutting off angles and keeping me behind him, completely out of sight.
Once we clear the crowd, he tucks me under his free arm like we’re just another couple passing through an airport.
It feels strangely natural.
He directs us towards an exit across the way and whispers, “So, Pix.” His breath is warm against my hair. “Since I’m doing something for you, you need to do something for me.”
Of course, he wants something.
Great.
Here we go.
What’s it going to be? A photo? An exclusive interview?
More?
I suddenly imagine his hot breath against my sex.
I clear my throat. Hard.
“And what exactly do you want?”
