Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,181

the majors, I’m basically the sister of the ball boy for some middle school team. That’s how far apart our worlds are, but he allowed me to dream for just a few bright minutes last night. He allowed me to step out of playing the role of the good girl to do something naughty and completely out of character for once in my life.

I’d give up everything for him—I’d have done that before I even met him last night. Both my best friend Jill and I have obsessed over him for years. He and the drummer from his band appeared on a reality show together, and we watched every episode and then watched again and again. In my fantasy world, I’d quit my job to tour around the world with him and Vail. I’d be best friends with the wives or girlfriends of the other band members.

I briefly think about leaving my number with the front desk as I bask in that fantasy, but my insecurities get the best of me. Mark is known for doing this, for making every woman he’s with feel like the queen of the world before daylight comes and he moves on to the next one. I’m not special or different. I’m not memorable. The whole idea of that fantasy life is just a stupid dream.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step off as I continue to dig. I’m not paying attention to anything around me, don’t even look up as I keep digging through my purse, and—of course, because why wouldn’t it happen today of all days?—I crash smack into a hard wall.

I stumble backward, drop my purse, and feel arms come around my elbows to help steady me.

It wasn’t a wall, after all. It was a man. A man in a suit who looks crisp and fresh and hot as hell and why the fuck is the universe against me today?

“Are you okay?” His voice is deep and husky and full of concern. His big hands are still on my arms, and I brush them off after my eyes catch on his long fingers and sexy veins.

I dash the tears away again and force myself to look at the man who is gazing at me with bright green eyes. His lustrous, nearly black hair is brushed up and away from his forehead, parted to the side, which tells me he cares about his appearance, but the dark stubble lining his jaw tells me he’s all man.

I glance down and see that the contents of my purse have emptied all over the tiled floor. Eyeshadow is bouncing its way across the small hallway housing six elevators, lip gloss has rolled nearly in front of the furthest elevator, random change and gum wrappers are everywhere. I need to clean out my goddamn purse.

A couple walks into the hallway and pushes the button to call an elevator as they glance at the mess—and, subsequently, me—with disdain.

Fuck you! You could help us here instead of looking at me like you’re better than me! Haven’t you ever had a bad morning? Haven’t you ever dropped anything? Haven’t you ever walked out of a rock god’s penthouse suite without leaving your number behind?

My good manners keep those thoughts in my head. Instead, I ignore them and stare at all the shit I keep in my purse scattered all over the floor, and that’s when I remember last night when Jill and I left the house we share, it wasn’t bright enough to warrant sunglasses. I realize too late they’re sitting in the cup holder in my car.

“Dammit,” I mutter to myself as I close my eyes, willing the tears to stop falling. “I’m sorry,” I say to the man as the unhelpful couple steps onto one of the elevators.

“Are you okay?” he asks again.

I lift a shoulder and try breathing in through my nose. “I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he says, bending down to help retrieve all my shit so I can dump it back into my purse. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

He hands me some change and a bottle of lotion, which I toss into my purse, and I pick up my phone. I grab last night’s concert ticket—signed by Mark Ashton, of course—and he picks up the shirt I was wearing before I changed into the shirt I bought at the show, the one I’m wearing now.

Then, to my utter and complete mortification, the man hands me a tampon and a condom.

Seriously?