When we reached the bottom, she stopped and lifted her gaze to mine. “About that little freak-out on the bridge… I’m… I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I mean, you—”
She could have apologized all she wanted, but I wasn’t interested in the least. Pulling a yellow piece of paper from my pocket, I cut her off. “Take this. I completely understand that you don’t want to talk or tell me your name. But, last night, I was freaking out that…” I paused to think of how to gently phrase it, but I came up empty. It is what it is. “I thought you jumped.”
“Sam—”
“No. Just hear me out. That’s my number. You seem to get here no earlier than eleven every night. So I’ll be here tomorrow and every night after that by ten thirty. But if, for some reason, you feel the need to come earlier, use that and I’ll be here.”
Her face softened as she took a step toward me. “Sam—”
I scrubbed a hand over my chin and continued to talk over her. “And if, for some reason, you don’t feel like coming up here, can you at least put me out of my misery and shoot me a text or something?”
“Sam, stop.” She inched even closer and rested her hands on my chest.
“I get it. You’re clearly a private person. Feel free to block your number and sign the text ‘Designer Shoes’ or, really, not at all. I’ll know who it’s from,” I nervously rambled. It wasn’t because she was suddenly touching me or the fact that heat might as well have been radiating from her hands for the way it made my chest feel, but rather because I wanted to touch her too.
But I really just wanted to throw her in the back of my car and force her into some kind of therapy so I could stop obsessing about her—and then maybe touch her in a different way.
I didn’t think kidnapping would go over well, but instead of acting like a normal person and offering to get her help, I looped an arm around her waist and shifted her even closer against my body.
“I think you’re right. I really might be a tattooed stalker.”
She smiled. “I’m not going to jump,” she whispered.
God, I want to believe her.
“Take your glasses off,” I whispered back, tipping my head down so I was only a breath away from her mouth.
Her tongue darted out and dampened her red lips.
I needed to see her fucking eyes. And then taste her mouth.
Then kidnap her.
I decided to take matters into my own hands. After slowly reaching up, I pinched a corner of her glasses. I didn’t remove them, but I made my intentions clear.
“Please let me see you.”
She didn’t move away, nor did she agree. So I stood there with my hand on her glasses, pleading with my eyes for a single glimpse of hers.
She did something better.
Her tongue made an encore against her lips—just before it ruined me for life.
She pushed my hands away then sealed her mouth over mine.
My eyes popped open in shock for only the briefest of seconds. Then a moan rumbled in my chest as she opened her mouth and twisted her tongue with mine.
She tasted like mangos, and I fucking devoured her like a man starved.
For as many cigarettes as I’d smoked while waiting for her, I probably tasted like an ashtray. But I could apologize for that later. I wasn’t stopping any time soon.
Her tongue swirled as I took the kiss deeper.
Suddenly, she pushed off my chest and took a step away. “Fuck. Shit. I can’t believe I did that. What the fuck is wrong with me?”
My head was spinning, and her words sounded a whole lot like insults, but I still followed her forward.
“I’m standing right here,” I reminded her. “Can you possibly check the freak-out for after you sleep with me on our first date?”
“Oh God,” she groaned.
I tugged her back against me. I wasn’t letting go no matter what her reaction might be. Not after that small sampling.
“I’m kidding! Jesus, lighten up.”
“I’m sorry. About…” She dropped her head to my shoulder.
“Stop apologizing and grab a drink with me. I’ll even find a place with really bright lights so you won’t even have to take the shades off,” I joked, and she rewarded my efforts with quiet giggle.
At the sound, an unfamiliar high whirled through my mind. It rivaled anything tobacco could ever give me.
“Sam, I need to go. But I promise I’ll be here tomorrow night. Okay?”
It was my turn to groan.
No name.
No eyes.
Just a promise I didn’t want her to keep.
I wanted her to be absolutely anywhere but on that bridge tomorrow night.
But I also just wanted her to be with me.
“Okay,” I replied, begrudgingly releasing her.
She began backing away, and I could feel her hidden gaze locked on me.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said. “Let me know if you change your mind about the dry-cleaning.”
“How about this? I’ll trade you my jacket for your wig and sunglasses!” I yelled as she got farther away.
A smile lifted one corner of her mouth. A mouth I now knew and desperately wanted to taste again.
“Goodnight, Sam.” She waved her hand before heading to a parked black SUV and climbing into…the backseat?
Interesting.
“Goodnight, Designer Shoes,” I whispered to myself as her vehicle left the parking area with the silhouette of a man behind the wheel.
An unnatural rage flooded my veins.
What the fuck?
WHAT THE FUCK had I done? Oh, that’s right. I’d kissed Sam.
A freaking stranger.
Who was suicidal!
While standing on a bridge.
While he’d thought I was suicidal as well.
But, worse than all of that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I’d replayed it in my mind at least a thousand times since I’d walked away from him.
I’d made poor choices with men in the past. I was far from the angel the media portrayed me as. But I had a sneaking suspicion that, if the news outlets got ahold of this little story, it wouldn’t have the romantic spin my stomach took every time I thought about the moment his lips had touched mine.
My steps were a little lighter that night while I was performing for thousands on stage. My thoughts weren’t filled with dread and guilt. Instead, they were focused on the top of that bridge¸ waiting for the moment I could return.
To Sam.
The show was entirely too long, but I snuck out of the backstage after party about thirty excruciating seconds after it’d started. Like a Freudian slip, I left my wig at home. I should have stopped to pick it up or at least checked to see if my stylist had something I could borrow, but after the concert that night, I just wanted some fresh air and a few moments alone.
And, by that, I meant a cloud of smoke and the sexy and intriguing man who accompanied it.
“You look better as a brunette,” Sam announced as he sauntered up next to me with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
A smile pulled at one side of my mouth.
He was wearing jeans and a black, long-sleeve button-down shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, which drew my eyes down to the colored inked on his arms, and I wondered what they meant. But, seeing as my heart was racing and I couldn’t figure why I was suddenly nervous around this man, I decided to give up on the deeper meaning behind his tattoos and worry about covering my clammy palms instead.
“No jacket again?” I asked, pulling the beanie low over my curls.
“Any chance tomorrow night you’re going to lose the shades?” he replied, ignoring my question.
“Not likely.”
“Your legs are healing up well,” he stated, leaning on the railing beside me.
“They looked a lot worse than they were.”
“Right.” He rolled his eyes, which I noticed were the most amazing shade of gold. Not quite hazel, but definitely not brown.