I was kissing the prince of all things magical.
Then he slanted the other way and my brain simply checked out.
My heart was trying to climb out of my chest, everything took on a hazy sparkle, and oxygen became an afterthought. Maybe the whole lack of oxygen thing was causing the sparkles. I didn’t really care. There was something to be said about a man with moves.
I wrapped my other arm around his neck, and my fingers coasted under his hat, pushing it off. Then there was nothing but his silky, thick hair fluttering through my fingers. My elbow slammed into something hard, but I couldn’t find my internal compass.
I didn’t care what I’d hit.
Just another kiss.
Just him.
“Oh my God.”
He tore his mouth from mine.
Yeah, I hadn’t said that. I so hadn’t said a damn word. “Please, no. No, no, no,” I whispered.
He stood up straight and shoved me behind him. The bowl crashed to the floor, and pasta and mushrooms scattered over my shoe.
“Shit,” Hunter muttered.
I tried to peek around him. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. A few people. It sounded like a lot more than a few, but surely there weren’t that many people out there. Finally, I lifted his arm, and looked out from under his stupidly perfect biceps. A horde of people were out there. Like, literally…had the concert venue changed to the lobby?
And I was pretty sure every one of them had their phone up for a photo.
I was so dead.
“Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.”
He looked over his shoulder at me, a dimple denting his left cheek. “Such language.”
“This is all your fault.”
Instead of answering me, his shoulders shook.
Honestly? This asshole was laughing about this? I hadn’t even managed to be at the venue for an hour, and now there was going to be a splash of pictures with his tongue down my damn throat.
Sweet Georgia, I was so ruined.
I punched him in the shoulder. The lunatic just kept laughing. “This isn’t funny, Mr. Jordan.”
He turned around, his back facing the horde now. He leaned down, so we were nose to nose. “Really? Still with the Mr. Jordan? After all we were to each other?”
I blinked at him before trying to back up. My heel slipped on pasta, or butter, or my pride. All I know is that my arms had become massive pinwheels, and I was going down.
He grabbed on to me, dragging me into his body. All six-plus-something-feet of him.
When he was leaning against the wall, he didn’t seem nearly as gigantic. Hell, earlier he didn’t seem so big. Now he was just a pair of shoulders and distracting lips. There were a few reasons why I wore heels. Being vertically challenged was one of them.
“Stop looking at me like that, Kenny.”
“Kennedy,” I corrected.
He skimmed his thumb along a curl snaking down into my camisole. He stopped just before the curve of my breast. “I like Kenny better. It doesn’t suit you at all.”
What a contrary man. “Then why use it?” I snapped back.
His dimple flashed again. “Because your eyes crackle with disgust and excitement.”
“They do not.”
He hovered so damn close to my lips that I could taste the butter again. “Just like now.”
“Stop. There’s about five hundred people staring at us.”
His thick lashes lowered until his storm-gray eyes were mere slits. “I don’t mind when people watch.”
Oh no, he didn’t. I shoved him back this time.
He skidded on the mess on the floor and landed on his ass in the middle of the crowd of people. I grabbed my purse, then stepped over his long, sprawled legs. I lifted my chin. The crowd parted for me. So many pictures.
Don’t react. Don’t look.
The pops of the cellphone flashes, and the disconcerting shutter sounds made me cringe. I was probably committing career suicide, but enough was enough. I would not analyze the fact that my entire body, down to the soles of my feet, went haywire at the thought of someone seeing us together.
The last thing I heard was his roar of laughter as I stalked down the carpeted aisle. Indie was standing on the stage with her hands on her hips, hat tipped back. I had the strongest urge to explain all of my sins.
Since there were too many, I gave her a wide berth and ducked behind the curtain.
She followed me with a sigh. “You left him there?”
“He deserved to be left,” I said on a growl.
“Of course he did. He’s male.” Indie pushed me into a chair next to a pile of signed T-shirts. She turned to their bodyguard-slash-everything guy. “Patrick, go rescue him, would you?”
Patrick dropped his folded arms to his sides. “Yep.”
Keys had a silver Sharpie top between her teeth as she calmly signed the records with a scrawling script. “What’d he do now?” she asked around the top.