Page 19 of Take Hold of Me

Until someone shoves me from behind, jolting my sanity. I shout, “Drink?”

Her face falls but she nods and I gesture for her to leave the dance floor. We return to where we were talking with Lizzie and Grady, but they’ve moved to the other side of the bar and are chatting with a group of people, so I steer Emilie toward an empty hi-top table. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Neil’s off to the side, watching Emilie. He’s chatting up another woman, but at least has eyes on his client. One of the several bartenders takes my drink order. While I’m waiting, Grady joins me. “I hope I’m not out of line, but you give me the impression that you’re into Emilie. Not because of what she does, but in spite of it.”

How did he glean all that from our brief meeting?

And I cannot be into her. For her own sake.

Ignoring my silence, he continues, “Take it from someone who knows. She may look like she has it all going on, but she needs you as much as you need her. Remember, what you both do is not who you are. Took me a while to learn that.”

“Well, ah—”

Grady barrels forward. “I love everything about Lizzie. And she gets me, ugly-ass warts and all. Don’t be afraid to let Emilie get you.”

“It’s not like that.”

He chuckles. “That’s what I used to say.”

I can’t let her see all of my warts. They’re not just ugly. They’re grotesque. Relieved when the bartender returns with our drinks, I nod at Grady and make my way back to Ems.

Emilie.

Emilie Dubois, supermodel.

She’s deep in conversation with another woman, so I remain in the periphery.

I hear the name “Rinaldo” and my stomach hardens. Her ex-boyfriend. The Spanish soccer player is the perfect match for Emilie. Same high profile, same circles. She met up with him during recent shoots according to the tabloids—not that I’ve picked them up, but they’re always in the supermarket check-out lines.

Overriding my original decision to let the women talk, my feet take me to her side in less than five strides. Extending a vodka tonic to her, I say, “Here you go.” My eyes land on Emilie’s friend.

“Merci.” Pursing her lips, she says, “Wills, this is Belinda.”

I raise my own glass to her. “A pleasure.”

Belinda looks me up and down as if I stowed away to the VIP Room on the bottom of a server’s tray. From my bodyguarding days, I’m used to being treated like hired help. I bet Rinaldo’s never treated like this. Emilie never made me feel this way, though.

Emilie barrels forward. “Well, it was … interesting seeing you again, Belinda. Enjoy the evening.” After taking a rather large swallow of her drink, she grabs my hand and drags me to a secluded spot across the room. “I do not like Belinda,” she says, grimacing.

Her reaction makes me chuckle. I take a sip of my drink.

She eyes my glass. “Martini?”

“Yes. Vodka, dry. I usually stick with beer, but this is my favorite mixed drink.”

At my rather mundane admission—although why did I share it?—she breaks into a full-on grin. I place my thumb on her lush bottom lip, rubbing it away from her teeth. “What’s this for?”

“I am so happy. Like I just won a MOTY.”

My eyebrows pull into a frown and I drop my hand. Why is she so happy? And what the hell is a MOTY? “A what?”

“A MOTY. The Models.com Model of the Year Industry Award.”

I shake my head. “I really don’t know your model lingo.”

She reaches up to bring my head closer to hers. In her sexy-ass high heels, I’m barely taller. “I will be happy to brush you up.”

Her English translation mix-up is adorable. Our bodies face each other, almost close enough to touch. Like a gravitational pull, I cannot stop myself from closing the gap between our foreheads. “Not a good idea,” I mumble.

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