“What can I help you with, Mr. Tremaine?”
“Nice place.”
“Thanks, but I only rent a room.”
“Yeah? How’d you end up here?” He looks into the entryway.
It’s weird to be having this somewhat mundane conversation with Jackson Tremaine. In all the years I’ve lived in the LA area, I’ve barely even seen a handful of stars. Now one shows up where I live? What’s his game? Bet he’s sniffing around, looking for Shay.
I answer, “Ten months ago, I lost my attic apartment because my slumlord—I mean landlord—died and his kids sold the place. So I moved in here.”
He leans against the door frame, his gaze darting from one corner to the next, as though he’s trying to see what—or who—is inside. “So, who do you live with?”
Wait. “You didn’t come to see Shay?”
His brows draw together. “Shayna? As in Leave ‘Em?”
“This is her place. I thought you came to see her. She gets a lot of that.”
“She does all right with her little out-the-cheater business, eh?”
“I guess. She’s pretty hard to resist, I suppose.” I fiddle with the hem on my top, pulling it down to cover the band of exposed skin above my shorts.
His eyes zone in on the cleavage I accidentally revealed. Or maybe my headlights are shining, and that’s what caught his attention. Boobs. Why do they choose the worst times to do their own thing? I try to cross my arm over my tits and hide my midriff as well.
Damn. I can’t cover everything with this stupid top.
I lay my hand flat over the spot his eyes are burning a hole into. “Mr. Tremaine?”
With what seems to be great effort, he pulls his gaze to meet mine.
“Oh, sorry. Call me Jackson. I—” He takes a step closer and his hand shoots out. He wriggles his finger beneath my palm. “—is that a tattoo?”
What the hell?
I back up.
He follows me inside. He digs a bit further under my hand and pushes against the top of my breast. “C’mon, don’t be shy, Ronnie. Let’s see it.”
I tighten my hold over my tat and thump his knuckles. What’s wrong with him? Has he lost his mind?
“No.” I grind out.
“Aw. Now, don’t be like that. I want a peek.” His spicy, wooded scent encroaches on my comfort.
He inches closer, sending my heart into panic-mode when my back hits the wall.
God knows why, but I want to lean into him.
Wait. No. That’s wrong.
This is the guy who likely ruined my life between commercial breaks last night. What the hell is the matter with me?
I smack his hand. “What are you doing?”
He stops and backs up a couple of steps. His hands go up in surrender. “I—I’m sorry. No excuse. I just—you don’t seem like the tattoo kind of girl.”
“I’m not sure how you can presume to know what type of anything I am. We only met yesterday. And for less than a half-hour at that.” Tossing him a glare, I step into the doorway leading to the kitchen. I’m a retreating coward.
Again, he follows, tucking his hands behind his back. “Oh, I think I got a pretty good picture of who you are.”
“Well, you’re probably mistaken. That concept is most likely foreign to you, but I’m sure it will happen eventually. Almost everyone is wrong at some point.”
“And you’re going to be the one who puts me in my place, eh?” His presence fills the small kitchen as he stalks me.
Maybe I should do the old pinch test, see if I’m having some bizarre dream. Jackson Tremaine, in my kitchen? I sneak in a pinch to my thigh.
No, must be awake. Holy freaking shit.
When the edge of the counter bites into my lower back, I hold up my hand. He keeps coming until his pec presses against my palm. The firm muscle twitches, and his heart beats strong beneath my fingers.
A throb starts in my pussy, something I haven’t felt for far too long. Forever, it seems.
Why, oh why does it have to be him?
Because he’s crazy gorgeous. Because he’s an apparition that can’t possibly be real, pinch test or not.
Jackson’s hands find my hips. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”
With a raised eyebrow, I ask, “Conscience getting to you?”
The corner of his mouth goes up, showing off one dimple. How did I not notice he has dimples?
“Nope. I couldn’t stop thinking about how cute you were when you tripped. The look on your face was priceless. And there was the way you felt in my arms.”
Cute?
In his arms? Oh. “Well, if your stage people would have done something about those cables—”
“I need to give whoever fucked up a raise.” He leans in, and his breath tickles my earlobe. “You smell delicious. I’m dying for a taste. Have been since last night.”