‘So, now we’ve established who I am, and that I’m meant to be here, who the hell are you?’
ChapterSix
HOLLY
The whole world knows his name.
Now he’s standing in front of me, demanding to know mine.
Saliva pools in my mouth. My tongue feels thick and furry, and it has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the fact my Hollywood crush of fifteen years is standing in front of me.
On top of all the other adrenaline-inducing drama, it’s more than my cortisone levels can cope with. My knees buckle, sending me flopping onto the couch with the grace of a seventeen-stone rugby player.
Tootsie’s snoring on the floor in front of the fire, curled up in her tartan bed, completely oblivious to our handsome intruder.
‘Woah, are you okay?’ Nate edges closer, those huge palms reaching out in a silent reassurance.
My clammy, trembling hand clamps over my lips. ‘I don’t know.’
It’s true.
Life as I know it has been turned upside down, and that was before the world’s sexiest action hero rocked up looking like, well, the world’s sexiest action hero.
Striking emerald eyes glint with something that looks like concern as he inches towards me, the same way I’ve watched him tentatively approach terrified orphans on screen.
His full, plump lips are no longer laughing.
Instead, he offers me a tentative smile. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
I nod, unable to articulate anything coherent as his muscular, gravity-defying backside sashays over to the sink. He’s tall. Really tall. Well over six feet. Broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist. My eyes return to that bum again. Holy crap, the man looks like God carved him straight from heaven.
He checks every cupboard, searching for a glass. My beady eyes check every millimetre of his bulky frame searching for a sign this is not real.
But it is real.
I’ve watched enough of his movies to be familiar with every fine line of his face. Every slight indentation of his body. As an artist, it’s my job to notice these things if I’m going to capture them on canvas. Portraits are my speciality.
Or were, before I was persuaded to get a ‘real job’.
I painted a three-foot canvas of Savannah years ago and I still maintain it’s my best work yet. That’s probably the only reason I was allowed to hang it on my childhood bedroom wall.
The sound of water cascading against the sink jolts me back into the moment. Nate approaches cautiously, handing over the glass.
I down it, before handing it back to him like he’s here to wait on me hand and foot.
‘You’re in shock.’ His face is deadpan, but his pupils flicker with what looks like amusement.
‘You would be too if you were in my position. I bet everyone you meet tells you the same thing, but I’m a huge fan.’ And I’ve never been more aware of the fact I’m sitting in the poorest excuse of a nightdress, thanks to Savannah.
Though, would the paint-stained joggers have been worse than this desperate housewife-style, sexy scarlet number?
The jury’s out.
The couch dips as Nate folds himself into the seat next to me. He shoots a fleeting glance at my thigh before focussing on my lips. ‘You don’t look like an action movie fan.’
I’m not an action fan, per se.
Just a Nate Jackson fan.
