Page 25 of Dirty Hot Valentine
“Yeah, a couple of songs at one of those fancy Hollywood hotels. Our manager got us this celebrity anti-Valentine’s gig...” I run my hand through my wet hair, swallowing.
The party isn’t anti-Valentine’s. It is definitely pro V-Day, and the whole band is invited with the girlfriends as guests not only to perform. I don’t know why I feel like I have to lie to her about thistinydetail, but I believe I have a better chance to get her to say yes that way.
“Uh…normally, I spend that miserable day smoking weed and getting hammered, avoiding any sort of celebrations, even anti ones.” She gets into a pair of brown slacks and a suede jacket.
“I guarantee there will be lots of booze, and…you don’t know which Hollywood heartthrob you might run into one of those things.” I chuckle, knowing that while other girls would drool over the last part, she wouldn’t. Her mother is a famous Hollywood agent, and Maggie has been raised around celebrities.
I hold her hand and kiss her palm. “Please, babe. It will be fun.”
She gazes at me, and I make those puppy eyes that always make her laugh. She giggles again. “Well…you got me at booze.”
My hands clench into victory fists. “Yessss.”
“Now, would you please get outta the way and let me go to work?”
“Yeah, sure.” I gesture at the door, making way. “Davai.”
She grabs her bag and limps away, putting on her heels. When she opens the door, she stumbles on a heap of magazines and envelopes.
Quickly, she dances around her mail to get to the elevator but stops midway. Bending over, she picks up a certain magazine.
I raise a brow as she takes her time staring at the man on the cover. “Maggie?”
She doesn’t look up.
I call her out again. This time, she grunts, barely glancing at me.
“Hello? Work?”
Her head snaps up. “Yeah. Fuck.” Then she looks down at the magazine again and sighs. “Actually, would you give me a ride on your bike? I can use your death machine right now.”
3. MAGGIE
I wrap my arms around Viktor’s torso as he speeds into downtown L.A. The whipping air on my face and the riding rush don’t take my mind off the picture on the magazine and the title under it.
The Italian Heartthrob back for shooting in L.A.
The taupe brown curls of Mike’s hair flow down to his naked shoulders. His dark brown eyes hold a mischievous gaze. A scruffy jaw complements his strong cheekbones and sculpted lips.
Heat spreads under my skin as I retrace the lines of hairless, chiseled chest and killer abs of the thirty-two-year-old actor.
As I remember all the times I’ve wanted to touch that body. To taste those lips. To melt in those arms. All the times I’ve stood so close to him and couldn’t do any of that.
Yeah. Mike Gennaro is my mother’s top client and—despite her disapproval—my best friend.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve run away to England to escape not only my mother’s shitty treatment but my secret crush on the Sexiest Man Alive. Now that I’m back, and he’s back, the feelings I’ve been stifling down hit me all at once.
I’ve been trying so hard to convince myself it’s been nothing but a stupid crush. A normal feeling any seventeen-year-old-girl who happens to have an A-list celebrity as a family friend will have. But I’m no longer seventeen, and every time I see him, my heart throbs.
All these years, I’ve kept myself occupied, forcing my heart to sway in any other direction. To forget and make-believe. Then I see him, a few weeks later, a few months later, it doesn’t matter. One look and I remember.
The bike stops vibrating under me as Viktor pulls over by Dad’s office building. I hop off and adjust my bag over my shoulder.
I take one step forward, and Viktor grabs my hand. He twines is fingers with mine, his eyes gentle. “Hey, you okay?”
No. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Listen, if this’s about tomorrow’s party…”
