Page 10 of You Give Wine a Bad Name

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Bowie looked disappointed but didn’t push. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I just—last night was really nice, and I’d like to see you again. But I get it if you don’t feel the same.”

I bit my lip, feeling conflicted. The truth was, I did want to see him again. But what would he do if he found out who I really was? That I was the very pop star he had criticized, the one he thought was shallow and fake? I wasn’t ready for that conversation, for the inevitable fallout that would come with it.

But at the same time, Bowie had been nothing but kind to me. He hadn’t once mentioned my scar or made me feel self-conscious about it. He had treated me like a normal person, something I hadn’t experienced in years. And I couldn’t deny the fact that I had enjoyed his company, that he had made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I enjoyed last night too,” I admitted softly. “You never once asked about my scar or made me feel weird about it. That’s…rare for me.”

He looked surprised. “Why would I? It’s just a part of who you are. It doesn’t change anything.”

His words hit me harder than I expected. For so long, I had seen my scar as a flaw, a reminder of the past I wanted to forget. But Bowie didn’t see it that way. He saw me for who I was, not just the exterior that the world defined and judged me by.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “But I really do have to go.”

He nodded, though he still looked a bit disappointed. “I get it,” he said. “But if you ever change your mind, I’d love to see you again.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. “I need to get ready. Do you want me to call you a car?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll just walk out with you whenever you’re ready. I’m technically off to day so barring any emergencies with my staff, I don’t need to be anywhere in particular. I may hit the gym later. Feel free to take as much time as you need.”

“Okay.” I said, forcing a smile, wishing I could simply give him my number and make plans to see him again like any other girl. But I’d made the choice to live a different sort of life, one that offered no time or space for relationships. “Let me just freshen up, then.”

A short time later, we made our way to the elevator. The silence between us now felt different, charged with something unspoken. I caught Bowie glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, like he was trying to figure out what was going on in my head. But I didn’t give anything away. I had spent years perfecting my poker face, and I wasn’t about to let it slip now.

The moment we stepped into the mirrored compartment, an overwhelming sense of closeness with the man by my side washed over me. The doors closed with a soft whoosh, leaving Bowie and me standing in the small, confined space. He was so close to me I could feel the heat emanating from his body, almost pulling me toward him with a force all its own. My heart pounded in my chest, and the way his arm brushed mine made my skin tingle with an awareness I couldn’t ignore.

I glanced up at him, catching his gaze. There was something in his eyes—something curious and intense—that made my breath hitch. It was as if he was searching for something in me, trying to decipher the thoughts swirling behind my calm facade. For a moment, I hesitated, unsure of what to do or say.

But then a wave of boldness swept over me, a sudden urge to break the tension that had built up between us since last night. Maybe it was the way he had made me feel safe, or maybe it was the desire to experience something real, something unscripted. I didn’t know what would happen after we left the elevator, but right now, I wanted to take a chance.

“Fuck it," I whispered, almost to myself.

Before I could second-guess my decision, I reached up, cupped the back of Bowie’s neck, and pulled him down to me. The moment our lips met, everything else faded away. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if we were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, becoming more urgent, more intense. I could feel his surprise, but he responded almost instantly, his hands gripping my waist as he pulled me closer.

I lost myself in the sensation, in the warmth of his lips and the way he held me as if I was something precious. It had been so long since I’d allowed myself to feel like this—vulnerable, open, unguarded. There was no pretense here, no masks to hide behind. Just two people sharing a moment that felt more real than anything I’d experienced in years.

But as quickly as it started, I pulled away, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My lips still tingled from the kiss, and I could see the surprise in Bowie’s eyes, the way his pupils were dilated with the same rush of adrenaline that was coursing through me.

“Sorry,” I murmured, averting my gaze as I stepped back slightly. “I…I just wanted to know what it would be like. In case we never meet again.”

Bowie stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. I worried that I had crossed a line, that I had ruined whatever fragile connection we’d built over the past twelve hours. But then he smiled—a slow, genuine smile that made my heart skip a beat.

“I’m not sorry,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “And I hope we do meet again.”

His words sent a thrill through me, and I found myself smiling back despite my lingering apprehension. “My job is unpredictable,” I admitted, my voice soft. “But yes, I hope so too.”

The elevator dinged, signaling our arrival at the lobby, and I felt a pang of regret knowing that this moment was about to end. But before we could step out, Bowie gently touched my arm, stopping me.

“Hey,” he said, his voice serious. “Can I have your phone for a second?”

I hesitated, but the look in his eyes was sincere, devoid of any ulterior motives. Slowly, I handed him my phone, watching as he quickly typed something into it. When he handed it back, I saw his number displayed on the screen.

“My number,” he said simply. “In case you change your mind.”

I looked down at the digits, my heart fluttering at the thought of staying connected with him. For a moment, I considered deleting it, erasing any possibility of future contact. But something held me back—a small, stubborn part of me that wanted to hold on to the chance of seeing him again, however slim.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, slipping the phone back into my pocket. The gesture felt strangely intimate, like a promise of something more, something that I wasn’t quite ready to give up on.

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