They crinkle at the corners when he smiles and when he smiles I feel the air leave my lungs.
It’s a famous smile and its impact in person is pretty remarkable.
Tiffany was right.
What a fucking babe.
He turns to the bartender. “I’ll get two Manhattans.”
“Manhattan,” I remark when he looks back to me, leaning casually against the bar. “No wonder you’re friends with Will. He orders Old-Fashioneds all the time. I actually have a minibar in my office specifically for Ted and Will’s daily drinks.”
Emmett laughs which shoots all sorts of lightning down my spine. “That doesn’t surprise me. I was wondering what it would be like to work for those two.”
“They’re a barrel of monkeys,” I tell him. “They at least keep you on your toes, even if they make running things harder sometimes.”
“They said the place would fall apart without you,” he says. “You must be pretty important.”
I shrug. The fact is, as nice as it is to hear that second hand from them, I don’t feel important at my job. I’m an office manager and have been for a long time now. I know I shouldn’t complain about my job when it’s a pretty good one. Easy. Reliable. But sometimes I lie awake at night thinking about where it could all go. I don’t really have an interest in visual effects or animation so it’s not like there’s any advancement for me in those areas. It’s like job-wise I’ve peaked and I know that most people are happy having a dependable job that pays well and they don’t hate but sometimes I…well, I have to wonder if this is it? Is this really the rest of my life?
The fact is, I have dreams. Small dreams that fester in the depths of my heart, dreams I push aside. But my dreams require money and a lot of risk and I just can’t spare any of those at the moment. I’m not sure when I ever will be able to.
“I’m pretty good at keeping people in line,” I finally admit.
“I can see that,” Emmett says, looking me up and down. “How can someone be so soft and prickly at the same time?”
I glare at him. “I assure you I have no soft spots.”
His mouth quirks up, his eyes dancing with a heat that’s hard to ignore. “I can see plenty of soft spots right now.”
My eyes narrow even more. “I realize you’re talking about my breasts now.”
“Breasts, ass, thighs,” he says casually. “All places I’d like to sink my teeth into.”
Oh my god.
Did he really just say that?
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask him, feeling flushed all over.
But he doesn’t look ashamed at all. Just flashes me that panty-dropping smile again. Luckily, I didn’t wear panties today, so it doesn’t work on me.
“Oh, blondie, there is plenty wrong with me,” he says, taking the drinks from the bartender as he passes them over. He hands me mine which I reluctantly take while he shoves a fifty-dollar bill into the tip jar. “There’s a reason they warned me to stay away from you, remember?”
“Right. The corruptible part. I’m starting to think they were right.”
Then he grabs my hand again and leads me to the corner of the room where the wedding presents are piled. “And I’m starting to think that you aren’t easily corrupted.”
“Does being this sleazy usually work for you?” I ask.
He looks at me in surprise and for a moment he almost looks hurt. Then it fades into a cunning smile again. “Yes. It does.”
“The perks of being a famous actor,” I tell him just as he takes out his phone and glances at it, frowning. “Popular, too,” I nod at his phone. “Is it your girlfriend of the week?”
He gives me a loaded stare. “My publicist,” he says after a moment. “Who, no, isn’t my girlfriend.”
“What does she want?” I shouldn’t pry but I’m so curious.
He sighs, putting his phone away and having a large swallow of his drink. I can’t help but stare at his tanned throat as he does so. “You don’t follow any gossip sites?”
“Sometimes. I like Perez now that he’s not so bitchy anymore.”
Emmett nods. “I got into trouble last night.”
“Oh really.” I swear he looks ashamed for a moment. “And what did you do this time?”
“Some fuckhead was filming me on his Instagram, harassing me, goading me to do something crazy.”
“And did you?” For all that I’ve heard about Emmett recently, crazy could be a number of things. I really hope that he didn’t punch anyone in the face though, because I’m not too fond of brutish violence.
“I took his phone and smashed it,” he admits, looking down into his drink as if he’s consulting the Manhattan as to whether he made the right choice or not. I’m not sure what the drink whispers back because then he nods and says, “He completely deserved it. I don’t feel bad in the slightest.”
“Fair enough,” I comment. “Though you’d think you’d learn to control your temper at this point.”
He stiffens and his eyes blaze darkly as he looks at me. I’ve touched a nerve. “Control my temper?” he repeats, then shakes his head and looks over my head at the dance floor. “You have no idea.”
“Try me,” I tell him. “Half the people here at this wedding work with me. Take a good look. Most are potheads and drunks and I have to handle them. Have you ever had to answer questions like ‘how do I make a copy?’ and ‘why isn’t my internet working?’ day after day? Believe me. I don’t have the patience of a saint but I have to control myself. For my job.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were lecturing me,” he says, his words sharp. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be me?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh woe is me, huh? I bet having all that money is a fair enough trade for being tabloid fodder. There’s nothing worse than a privileged celebrity complaining about this kind of shit. Do you ever stop for a moment and realize the rest of the world would kill to have your problems, especially when you’re bringing all of this on yourself?”
Emmett’s eyes never leave mine as he finishes the rest of his drink. Totally. Intense.
“You’re not as nice as I thought you were.”
“Because I’m telling you the truth and people hate that. Believe me. Especially men who think they have their shit together.”
He raises his brows. “Wow. Is the alcohol making you worse or better? I can’t really tell.”
I give him a quick smile. “I’m always like this. Prickly, remember?”
“I think I’d rather focus on the soft bits again. Finish your drink.” He nods at it. “Let’s dance.”
I don’t like being told what to do. And though I love dancing, I’m not a fan of slow dancing, especially with someone I don’t really know.
But there’s a dare in his eyes. He thinks I won’t do it.
I drink the rest back and place it on a high table. “Fine.”
He breaks into that grin of his, the one he’s famous for, that makes him look absolutely boyish.
Fuckin’ babe.
Wish it didn’t cause that ache between my legs but fuck, I’m pretty sure he knows it.
He grabs my hand, squeezing it tight as he leads me to the dance floor then pulls me close to him, wrapping his arms around me.
Holy crow. It’s like being held against a brick wall. We’re dancing way too close to each other than we should be and yet even if I felt like putting distance between us I don’t think I could. That iron grip from earlier is back but this time it’s holding every part of me.
And just as I suspected, the man can dance. His movements are fluid, graceful. We don’t just rock back and forth like kids in a high school gym, we glide.
I close my eyes briefly and can’t help but breathe him in. He smells delicious.
“Have a good whiff?”
I open my eyes and look up, our faces inches apart as he gazes down at me, lips twitching in amusement.
“It’s okay,” he goes on, his breath smelling cherry sweet, “I’m used to fans trying to smell me.”