Page 8 of A Crazy Kind of Love
As his car drove away, Micah stood a moment to take in the scene. Rather than escape the fishbowl or pose for publicity shots, he shook hands with one of the reporters and chatted for a few seconds before he came my way. He tilted his head back, and his face lit up.
“Wally!” He crossed over, hand outstretched. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. I hope everything’s good at home.”
Wally actually put his camera down to shake Micah’s hand. I glanced around. Nobody was taking pictures. Was there something inherently un-newsworthy about a guy talking to the media? I lifted my camera and started shooting. The whirr of my camera caught Micah’s attention, and he turned away from Wally with a wide-eyed look of recognition.
He put his hand up against the flash and peered around his fingers. “Jo-Josie from Georgia! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Since he was facing me, I kept snapping pictures. Knowing that Andy would want me to at least get a comment if I could, I blurted out, “Hey, Micah. Are you here alone tonight?”
I knew I should have asked him something more specific, but he was smiling that cocky-bratty grin, and it was messing with my killer instinct. If I had a killer instinct.
“I am. Or at least I came here alone.” The cameras around us began to flash, but Micah kept his cool, eyes on me, as if we were still standing on the sidewalk in Park Slope, all alone. His lip curled up on one side, like he was gearing up for a challenge. “How’d you like to be my date?”
Now I dropped my camera, and it slammed into my gut.Oof.Damn if Andy hadn’t called it. I still couldn’t process the invitation. “Sorry, what?”
He gestured with his head toward the steps. “Come on. You’ll get better pictures inside.”
I threw a glance at Wally who looked as envious as Charlie Bucket when the last golden ticket was found. He nodded me forward. Now that fantasy had turned into reality, I realized I wasn’t remotely prepared to rub elbows with the same people I needed to exploit. “Sure. But are you sure it’s okay? Nobody will mind?”
“Eden will, but I owe you one. And besides I have an in with the guy throwing the party.” He offered me his elbow. “Come on. Don’t be shy. You might get that Pulitzer prize shot.”
I gathered my gear together. Micah stopped and looked down at me while I threw my camera bag and backpack over my shoulder and straightened up. At my full height, he only had a couple of inches on me. I put my hand around his proffered bicep, completely aware of the feel of his skin on my fingertips. He turned his blue eyes on me, and I forgot how to breathe.
The smile dropped from his face for a second, and he asked, “Everything okay?”
I sucked in a lungful of air and laughed off my nerves. “Entering enemy territory for the first time.”
His confident, charming smile returned, and he led me up the steps into the brownstone—my own personal Trojan horse.
Micah nodded at the burly man inside the door as we passed. “This is Jo. She’s with me.”
The bouncer shot me a look of grudging respect. “Good luck.”
As Micah pulled me along, I looked back, unsure what the bouncer meant by that, but he’d already turned his attention away, so I faced forward, glancing around wildly for any A-list celebrities.
And it hit me for real. I was on the inside.
Chapter 4
We glided through the partygoers lining the hall, straight into a darker room that appeared to be an entertainment center. A large flat-screen TV occupied the far wall, and a long counter ran down the side of the room in front of a fully stocked bar.
Micah placed his hand on my back and directed me to one of the bar stools. “What’ll you have?” He lifted a finger, and an auburn-haired woman appeared out of nowhere, attentive to my needs.
“Club soda please? Could I get a twist of lemon?”
As she occupied herself, Micah slid onto a stool next to me. “Don’t drink on the job, Jo Jo?”
There were two answers to that question. I went with the second and confessed. “Don’t drink.” That answer would leave him wondering if I was straitlaced or overly religious, but whenever I told people I was type 1 diabetic, I ran into even weirder assumptions and judgments. Or people who would want to police my every choice and give me advice based on their experience with Great-Aunt Sally who nearly lost her leg to complications.
Something caught his eye, and he tapped my arm. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I surveyed the room, feeling way underdressed in my T-shirt, jeans, and Converse combo. Not that anyone was in tux and tails, but I got the distinct impression that if I asked, “What are you wearing tonight?” nobody would answer, “Something I found at the Mall of Georgia two years ago.”
At the end of the bar, Victoria Sedgwick sat, nursing a drink. She looked like that Degas painting, the one where the woman’s got her glass of absinthe and a vacant expression. I pulled my camera out of the bag and lifted it slowly. The shutter made the quick whirring sounds that always gave me away, but Victoria was too far away to hear them, in every sense.
I scooted down the bar next to her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve shot some pictures of you. You remind me of this old painting.”
“Who are you?”
