Page 41 of Off Script
As I hold up the clothes she’s selected for me, I realize that is most definitelynotthe reason she wouldn’t look at me.
The outfit she picked out for me consists only of a pair of lacy thongs, a matching push-up bra, and one of Harper’s tight, body-hugging black minidresses.
On the same day that I was sexually accosted by my boss, she wants to dress me up like a slutty tart.
Oh, hell no.
“Harper, what the hell?” I screech. Again. I hurriedly wrap the towel around my body and open the bathroom door, not even taking the time to finish drying off before hunting Harper down so that I can give her a piece of my mind.
But as I exit the bathroom, I hear the front door open and Harper subsequently scream. The sound is blood-curdling, almost primal, and it spurs me into immediate action. I might have frozen with Mr. King earlier, but I’m not making that mistake again.
Legs pumping, my wet feet slide across the hallway tile, and I stumble once my feet hit the living room carpet, coming to a clumsy stopand nearly losing my towel in the process. Straightening, I manage to grip the towel before it unfurls from my body. I raise my other hand, ready to protect Harper from some unknown danger.
However, my brain short-circuits as I stare at the scene unfolding in front of me. Harper stands at our front door, hand on the doorknob, with her mouth agape and her face white as a sheet. My eyes swing from my lunatic roommate towards the perfect specimen of a man standing in front of her.
His eyes meet mine and the whole world stops. Am I hallucinating? This cannot be happening. I recognize him, but I can’t place how I know him.
Sputtering incoherently, Harper finally manages to shriek, “OMG, you’re Ben Sutton!” Stepping back from the door, she looks like she might collapse or pass out from shock. “Holy shit, Carlisle,” she stammers and turns toward me, noticing me standing behind her for the first time since she opened the door.
Holy shit is right.
Ben freaking Sutton, Hollywood's most eligible bachelor, is standing in my condo. His large, muscular six-foot-three frame looks out of place in our small living room. His chiseled jaw is clenched, and his piercing green-gray eyes stay locked on me. My mouth drops open as reality hits me.
The Ben that I've gotten to know over the phone is a famous movie star.
Harper looks at me again. “Holy shit, Carlisle,” Harper repeats, and I realize, with utter mortification, that I’m standing in a pool of dripping water looking like a drowned rat and wearing only a bath towel.
I want the ground to open and swallowme whole.
Then I hear the voice that I’ve gotten so familiar with over the past few weeks kindly suggest, “Baby, go get dressed and then we can talk, okay?”
Seemingly recovered from her shock, Harper adds with a smirk, “A little make-up and a hairbrush wouldn’t hurt either, Carlisle.”
That sounds like a good plan. Without saying a word to Ben, I spin and stride towards my bedroom with a speed I usually reserve only for Nordstrom’s semi-annual sale.
14
Ben
When a young woman opens the front door, I know instantly that she isn’t Carlisle. I can’t rationally explain it, but Iknow. Likewise, as soon as my eyes fall on the striking blonde hovering at the edge of the living room, my soul immediately recognizes her.
Carlisle.
Fresh out of the shower, without a stitch of make-up on, and only wearing a towel, she steals the breath from my lungs and causes my heart to skip a beat. The small towel does nothing to hide the curves of her body or her long, tan legs. Her large, cornflower blue eyes, still glassy from crying, fill her face and stare at me in shocked amazement. I return her stare, cataloging her every feature. I’ve spent countless hours wondering what she looked like and fantasizing about her. Now that she’s standing in front of me, I want to memorize every detail.
Every doubt I felt prior to seeing her in the flesh has vanished. She’s better than I ever could have imagined. She’s fucking perfect.
I want so badly to comfort her, to wrap her in my arms and never let go, but since she’s in shock and nearly naked, I move slowly so as not to spook her. I walk further into the living room and shut the door quietly behind me. The last thing I need is for neighbors to come out of their apartments in response to Harper’s scream and see me.
Since my presence has rendered both women mostly mute, I take control. With my eyes still trained upon Carlisle, I suggest softly, “Baby, go get dressed and then we can talk, okay?”
The endearmentbabyrolls off my tongue with ease and I like how it feels to say it to Carlisle.
Harper agrees with my request and urges Carlisle into action. I take a seat on their living room couch while Harper sits cross-legged in the only chair, kitty corner to the couch. “So, you’re the famous Harper,” I start. It’s a lame opening line, but it’s something anyway.
“I think that should be my line. So, you’re the famous Ben. But you know, in your case, it’s actually true.” Shaking her head slowly, she mutters, “I cannot believe this is happening. I can’t believe that you’re the Ben who Carlisle’s been talking to this whole time.”
“Hopefully you can understand why I didn’t tell Carlisle who I was straight away.” Shrugging nonchalantly, I fidget with my Phillipe Patek watch. Anticipation churns through me as I wait for Carlisle to reappear.
