Page 16 of Cupid's Beau

“Then what are you saying?”

He takes a step closer. “I’m saying I’m sorry about all this. But I’m not sorry about kissing you.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy with possibility. When I don’t respond, he continues.

“I just… I need you to know that. Before we step into whatever this is about to become.”

“And what is this about to become?”

He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne, see the tension in his jaw. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to pretend last night didn’t happen.”

His words hang in the air between us, making my heart race. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Jack…” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.

“Tell me you felt it, too.” His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Last night. That first day. Right now.”

“You know I did.” I lean into his touch despite myself. “But this whole fake dating plan-”

“Doesn’t have to be completely fake.” His other hand finds my waist, drawing me closer. “Unless you want it to be.”

I should step back. Should think this through. Should remember all the reasons this is complicated.

Instead, I rise on my toes and press my lips to his.

He responds immediately, backing me against the wall as his mouth claims mine. This kiss is different from last night - hungry, almost desperate. My fingers tangle in his hair as his hands slide down to my hips, pulling me flush against him.

He groans against my neck.

“Neneh?” My mother’s voice floats up the stairs. “The car’s here!”

Jack steps back, his expression shuttering though his breathing is still uneven. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair - the only evidence of what just happened.

“We should…” I gesture vaguely at my half-packed suitcase.

He nods once, then surprisingly moves to my suitcase and starts folding the clothes I’d thrown in haphazardly. The sight of Jack Ellis, Hollywood superstar, carefully folding my sweaters in my childhood bedroom is so surreal I almost laugh.

His eyes flick to mine, questioning.

“Nothing. Just…” I move to help him. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured my morning going.”

He doesn’t respond, but his fingers brush mine as we reach for the same shirt, and the contact sends electricity through my arm. The air between us feels charged.

“Car’s here, kids!” my mother calls again.

Jack straightens. “I’ll take your bag downstairs.”

I follow him. My parents are waiting. My mother’s wringing her hands, my father’s arm around her shoulders.

“The car’s in the back,” my dad says. “No cameras there.”

My mother pulls me into a warm hug. “Call us when you get there.” Then she surprises us all by hugging Jack too. He stands stiff for a second before returning her embrace.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For everything.”

My father nods, extending his hand. “Take care of our girl.”

The weight of everything fills the kitchen. This isn’t just about escaping photographers. This is me leaving with a man I barely know, a man who kissed me senseless twice in less than twenty-four hours, a man whose walls are so high I’m not sure anyone’s made it over them.

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