Page 17 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Shame mars her cheeks in rosy shades, and she finally withdraws from my touch, severing whatever hypnotic state she was just in. She’s not quick to aim for the jugular; she’s not quick to slap me for reacquainting myself with places I’ve previously marked. She’s showing me that soft underbelly of hers and retracting her fangs.
“I…”
I crave those next words out of her mouth, but as always, what I want is never a priority. There’s a blinding flash in my periphery that makes me jump apart from her, and we’re ambushed by a throng of enthusiastic press that all address us with overlapping voices.
“Bristol! Lila! How are you feeling about being the new faces of Menoulé?”
One observes our closeness and asks, “Are you two dating?”
“Lila, are you a big hockey fan? How do you feel about working withtheBristol Brenner?”
“Bristol, how are you feeling about the upcoming season? Will the Reapers make it to the playoffs?”
Everything’s an overstimulation nightmare. Everyone vies for our attention, shoving clicking shutters in our faces and expecting us to perform. I know this job means a lot to Lila, but I also know her hatred for me goes deeper than the Mariana Trench, so there’s no telling what she’s going to say.
She glares at me before composing herself, brushing her hands down the front of her dress. “We’re definitely not?—”
Together.
I don’t let her finish that sentence. One, because it won’t be true for long. Two, because shooting this campaign in the foot before it even begins is social suicide.
“We’re so excited to work together,” I cut in, slithering my arm behind her back and resting it on the curve of her hip. I’m a gentleman through and through, but I can also appreciate an incredible body, and Lila has the most perfect body I’ve ever had the privilege of touching. She looks beautiful in whatever she wears—the faded, oversized T-shirt she breaks out whenever she feels sick, the ruffled, off-the-shoulder sundress that flares out above her knees, and right now, the tantalizing bodycondress that feeds every fantasy in my head. She has no idea what she does to me.
Her existence overwhelms me. It overwhelms me in the best possible way. It hurts to breathe when I’m not around her. I’m not even sure how I survived ending things with her in the first place.
“Not the word I’d use,” she mutters under her breath, thankfully out of the media’s earshot.
She wriggles around in my grasp, trying to put some distance between us, but I tighten my grip on her waist, earning myself an adorable—yet terrifying—scowl from her. I don’t remember the last time I touched her like this…with a possessiveness that only rears its head in her presence.
“You two are going to be the next big power couple, I can already see it,” one of the reporters squeals, completely oblivious to the tension between us.
Lila opens her mouth in protest, but she thinks better of it and lets the woman prattle on, enduring every waking second of relationship speculation with a saccharine smile.
“Lila, how are you feeling about being a part of something so incredible? Menoulé’s never partnered with any modeling agencies before.”
“I’m honored to be a part of Menoulé’s latest campaign. I’ve been a fan of theirs ever since I was a little girl. The first perfume I ever bought was Sugar Blossom Vanilla. I actually still have the original bottle in my room somewhere,” Lila says, her voice velvet soft, harboring a rare storytelling quality that makes me want to spend lazy afternoons listening to her recall her favorite childhood memories.
A few of the reporters jot her answer down on a notepad, and then one pretentious-looking older man redirects the spotlight on me like some kind of interrogation lamp. “Bristol, areyou planning on leading the Reapers to victory this season? Or should fans expect another letdown?”
Fucking excuse me? Yeah, our track record with playoffs hasn’t been great, but did this bastard seriously just stand here and say that to my face?
Stay calm, man. The press are always assholes. You don’t need to make a scene. It’s just one person’s opinion. You know your team has what it takes.
But even with my inner voice of reason, I’m so riled up from Lila’s little stunt earlier that I can’t bring myself to listen to it. The muscles in my upper body ripple with repressed resentment, and judging by the harsh squeeze to my bicep, Lila’s trying to calm me down before I derail this entire night. The moment I make eye contact with her, my anger gets snuffed out like the flame of a candle, and my heart slows to a measured pace.
I take a page from Lila’s book and don a wide, voltage-bright smile. “The team’s stronger than ever this season. And we’re going to prove it to the fans. Whether you stick around to watch is your business.”
Snappier than I would’ve liked, but the shocked expression on his face was worth every second of it. Jeez. I think Lila’s rubbing off on me (and not in the way I usually like).
A woman with pin-straight hair thrusts her microphone in Lila’s direction. “What about you, Lila? You’re a newcomer to the modeling scene. What are you hoping this campaign does for your career?” she inquires.
Between the lights scorching my retinas and the lingering fumes of my almost-diva moment, I feel Lila’s small hands cling to my arm before I register the strange look of discomfort on her pale face. At first, I thought she was finally playing up the chemistry between us, but upon second glance, I notice her body’s quivering, and there’s this distant gleam in her eyes like she’s having a hard time focusing on the people in front of her.
She steels herself on me as her throat bobs, and protection mode activates instantly as panic takes the driver’s seat of this whole operation. I usher her toward a rift in the crowd, using my hand as a visor to protect her eyes from the same blinding treatment mine got. Every reporter is still on us, following, hungry, and I’m not above shoulder-checking someone if I have to.
“That’s enough questions for tonight,” I say sternly, inserting my body between her and the rowdy swarm, hoping to give her some privacy while she goes through whatever the fuck’s happening to her.
The press disperses with a few boos riding the heels of our departure, and I speed-walk Lila over to the other side of the room where the buffet table is. Once we’re free from public scrutiny, I take her by the shoulders, force her to look at me, and fail to staunch the concern bleeding into my tone.
