Page 5 of And Then Came You

“You’re immune to me, Lexi.”

I bite back a grin. “Had to happen with someone.”

He nods, those dark emerald eyes studying me. “I suppose it did. I’ll see you around.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Not a problem. Just don’t let me catch you with another asshole. Deal?”

Another handshake, but this one is infused with friendly camaraderie. “Deal.”

Sam saunters off across the room, and I note how every pair of eyes tracks him. Have to hand it to the man. Despite his size, he’s graceful as a cat.

It must be all those fashion shows. Sam may not be my type, but there is something about him. Something mysterious, a sensuality that oozes from every pore. That, and he defended me to Carl, even if my asshole boyfriend is likely destroying my condo after their chat.

Walking back to my table, I settle into a chair with a sigh.

“What the hell was that all about?” Ramona inquires, nodding toward the alcove.

“Samuel Bernard is my new bodyguard.”

“Excuse me?”

“He overheard Carl giving me grief and decided it was time for our relationship to end. So he ended it.”

Ramona’s jaw slackens, a snort of laughter escaping her throat. “Yet another reason to love the man. See? I told you Samuel Bernard was perfect, and now, you’ve caught the eye of the most eligible man in the universe.”

I shake my head hard enough to give myself whiplash. “Trust me, it’s not like that. At all. He overheard how Carl was speaking to me, and he didn’t like it. So, he told him to vacate my house immediately. Apparently, despite the tattoos and bad boy persona, he’s a gentleman. Who knew?”

With a smirk, Ramona hugs me about the shoulder. “Apparently, you do now.”

* * *

The next few hours are a flurry of activity as readers and fans mingle with their favorite authors and models. Thanks to a stellar new release, I have a steady group of people lined up, clamoring for an autographed copy of my latest novel.

The irony of it all. I’m a diehard romantic, but I’ve had no experience with it in the real world. My reality consists of Carl-type jerks, moving in and out of my life. So, to counterbalance, I invent a plethora of incredibly sensual situations in my stories, played out by dashing book boyfriends who would never call their women nasty names.

Dirty names while in the sack? That’s a different story.

My novels are also renowned for their smoking hot love scenes—yet another facet created solely in my brain.

I’m no Mother Teresa. I’ve had sex. Many times. But it wavers somewhere between a wham-bam-thank you ma’am scenario, and my vibrator could have done it better.

In other words, hardly memorable. Thank God for fantasies.

I sneak a glance at the adjoining table, and the crowd of women gathered around Samuel Bernard. He’s taken at least two hundred photos in the last couple of hours, but his smile never falters. With each woman, he throws an arm around their shoulder, whispering something in their ear to earn a giddy grin.

For that 99.9%, he’s every fantasy come to life.

There’s no denying that Sam is very handsome, with dark hair that flops over one emerald green eye and a smile that showcases his perfect teeth. But despite his claim of being a gentleman, he plays up the bad boy exterior, his body covered in tattoos and with at least three piercings that I can see. I’ll bet money there are several more decorating his body, in places most women only dream about seeing.

If I was into the whole bad boy type, I’m sure I’d be swooning over him, too. But I’ve always gravitated toward the tailored businessman. Admittedly, I’m a sucker for a man in a suit, although the ones I dated generally ended up being out-of-work, abusive alcoholics.

Boy, I sure can pick ‘em.

Lucky for us both, I know that Samuel Bernard isn’t losing a wink of sleep over the fact that I’mnotdrooling over him. He’s got a full roster of women, and if his attire is anything to go on, I’m not his type, either.

Don’t get me wrong. I think I’m pretty, and I’ve been called beautiful frequently. But Samuel and I don’t exist in the same stratosphere. I’m tiny next to his gigantic frame, and although I work out—sometimes—I have hips, an ass, and breasts. My mirror and I have a love-hate relationship with my curves, although we both agree I should aim to lose ten pounds to achieve that svelte model look.

---