Page 74 of Going Solo

The former Go Tos singer was knocked flat on his keister in the middle of Fifth Avenue Tuesday after walking smack-dab into a New York City lamppost.

Kennedy (26) had appeared on “Sunshine Daily with Matt and Miley” and was apparently so engrossed in a phone call as he left the NYBC studios he didn’t see the 20-foot-tall streetlamp. The force of his shoulder slamming into the pole seems to have spun Kennedy around and knocked him off balance. Gravity did the rest.

“You know we put these on the other side of the street in England,” Kennedy quipped as his security detail helped him to his feet.

“I bet that’s going to bruise,” he added, lifting up his shirt and pulling down the waistband of his jeans to inspect the damage.

While our photographers saw no sign of that bruise yet, Kennedy’s cell phone was a goner. We hope he carries travel insurance!

ChapterThirty

Nick and I were holed up in the broadcast van in the car park out the back of the Cardiff International Arena, doing our live show. Outside, hundreds ofPop Reviewfans and Kenneddicts milled about. So did the paparazzi. My hands shook like that glass of water inJurassic Park. I’d thought about nothing but Cole and that bloody kiss for days.

“Showtime,” Nick said.

A string of black SUVs rolled up into the arena car park. My T-Rex had arrived. The fans went wild. As the cars stopped, photographers shouldered and elbowed each other to get the best shot. The crowd mobbed Cole’s vehicle. Mitch’s spectacular bulk emerged from the car, pushing the fans and photographers back. I could hear the screams, even through my headphones and the van’s soundproofing. I couldn’t see Cole—just the swirling, chanting crowd, and a placard that read: “I’m not a nurse but I’ll check that bruise for you!” As the mob lurched and surged, the sign spun around. On the other side, it said: “I’m marriage material!” I stared at it. The words seemed to drown out all the noise, and I felt myself get smaller, folding in on myself, shrinking.

“You OK, pal?” Nick’s voice in my headphones shook me out of my stupor.

“Fine,” I lied. I checked the clock—a DJ’s reflex.

Then suddenly Cole’s tall, confident figure—dressed all in black, swoopy hair flicked back—leapt over the barrier and strode across the car park towards the broadcast van with a wide smile across his face. The fans screamed. Cameras clicked and flashed, sparkling like stars. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. In the mellow early-evening sunlight, Cole was absolutely stunning. But then, Cole would be stunning in no light at all. You could blindfold someone, stick them in the back of a wardrobe in a house with no electricity in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night, and their head would still turn if Cole Kennedy walked past. Twenty seconds later, he was standing in the doorway of my studio, eyes twinkling. His fingertips held the door frame above his head, and the angle lifted his shirt to expose a sliver of honeyed flesh above his beltline. A vein divided the taut skin of his obliques and plunged down into his jeans.

“Hey,” he said through plump lips that, last time I’d seen him, had been pressed against mine. “Something smells incredible in here, is that you?” He swooped into the room, reached across to rest a hand on my shoulder, and pulled his face close to mine. I recoiled.

“Cameras!” I said. Cole stopped, nodded, and let his hand drop. His chestnut eyes, glinting with flecks of amber, betrayed disappointment.

“Not even a peck on the cheek?”

I shook my head. “Not even.”

“Brutal.”

Cole sat in the guest chair to the side of the desk. This allowed him to stretch his right leg down the gap between my desk and the wall—blocking my exit from the doughnut of my desk. I’d set up everything expecting him to sit opposite me, as he had before. I swung the microphone around and asked him to speak into it so I could check the audio level.

“I still can’t stop thinking about that kiss, about how good it was to taste you again,” Cole said.

My heart spluttered and misfired like a clapped-out motorcycle. “OK, level’s fine. Thank you.”

“You…” Cole paused. “Kissed me back, Toby. Right up until you slapped me, you kissed me back. And it gave me so much hope.”

“I did not!” I glanced through the glass at Nick and Fiona, who were pretending they weren’t listening in. Every microphone is a live microphone, if your producer knows what they’re doing—and Nick absolutely knew what he was doing. Cole brushed his foot playfully against my outer thigh, and I swivelled my chair out of his reach, scanning the windows to make sure no photographers were close enough to see what was happening.

“Quit it!”

Cole withdrew his foot, and as the relief washed over me, so did a feeling of something else: regret. Iwantedhis foot there. I wanted to feel Cole’s body against mine. I wanted his playful touch. I wanted to feel connected to him like that again, the way we used to be. I wanted to launch myself over the desk and wrap my arms around him and feel his body underneath mine and his hot breath in my mouth. I wanted Cole Kennedy. And that terrified me. I was clenched like clenching was the only thing holding in my internal organs.

“Thirty seconds,” Nick said through the studio speaker, rousing me from my thoughts. I slipped my headphones back on. Cole sat up straight, and I did the same. Then he leaned forward and gently slid the can back off my right ear, as tenderly as a lover tucking in a lock of stray hair. The intimacy of it took my breath away.

“I forgot to say thank you,” he said.

“What for?”

Twenty seconds on the clock.

“Your advice for dealing with the paps was… awesome.”

“I saw the photos. You really committed to the bit.”

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