Page 10 of One-Click Christmas
I don’t know what to say. She’s standing close enough that I can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo and see the way the cold has turned her lips to a shade of bruised petals. Her cheeks are still blotched from the wind, her eyes bright with curiosity, and I feel that pull again. The one I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment I saw her.
“I…”How do I tell her that this is the one and only time I’ve ever hired an actor to step in? How do I tell her that I typically handle the moments with a muse myself? Coffee shops, gallery openings, train stations. I watch, listen, and take notes. They’d say something clever or tragic, and I’d write it down, knowing I’d never see them again. That was the rule. No risk and no fallout because those women didn’t move the needle.
Lana does.
Lana spikes it.
Lana is color and texture and contradiction.
That’s dangerous, especially given her age. She’s probably twenty years younger than me. Too young for me to be thinking about sexually. Too young for me to find attraction to.
“I observe,” I finally say, leaving out the minor details of previous arrangements. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can cancel the actor. We can do this in an interview format.”
She tilts her head to the side as though something has shifted inside of her. Something wild and heated. “No.” Herlips curl into something unreadable. “I’m going to give you something to write about.”
And just like that, she’s inside, her hips swaying, coat slipping off her shoulders like she’s shedding something heavier than fabric. She doesn’t look back, but she knows I’m watching. Watching as she plays the part, and she’s owning it.
The tight fitted dress I’m fairly certain she wore for me is now striding toward the actor. The man who stands and looks way more fucking interested than I hired him to look. He offers her his hand, and she takes it. Their fingers touch… and linger. She leans in just enough for her hair to brush his shoulder, and I feel it. A sharp, stupid twist in my gut.
Jealousy.
It’s ridiculous, manufactured.I built this moment.I cast the guy, I set the stage, and now I’m the one sitting in the dark, watching her light up for someone else all because I’m afraid of a stupid fucking feeling.
He pulls out her chair, and they lean into gentle conversation. About what? I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying. I should’ve made the actor wear a wire. I should’ve sat myself closer to their table. I should’ve assumed six thirty would be a busy time to eat. The restaurant is packed. Between the silverware clanking and the low jazz, I’m not hearing many actual words. Instead, I’m tortured by the low intimate, lethal sound of her laugh.
I should be writing. I should be cataloging the way her fingers trail along the stem of her wine glass and how her lips part just slightly when she listens, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
She’s radiant under the low light. Skin glowing, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in a way that’s almost indecent.
What the hell was I thinking allowing this? She was infatuated with me. I could tell the moment we met. I should’vetaken her right then and there like any man with a pulse would have.
She leans forward and her dress shifts, revealing the barest hint of thigh and my chest tightens.
She’s performing, proving a point. To him, to me, to the story. At least I pray that’s what this is.
If it’s real, I’ll have to destroy the man who so innocently took a job thinking it was for the betterment of art.
Stupid, naïve idiot.
Her hand grazes his knee under the table, and I feel it like a slap. She’s touching him, she’s letting him touch her, and I’m the one who orchestrated it.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how tight my collar feels and how warm the room has become.
She glances toward me, just once, and it’s devastating.
That look. That smirk. That flicker of knowing.
She knows I’m watching… and she likes it.
My sweet little plot twist, teasing me with that man like she enjoys watching me break.
Fuck!
My cock thumps hard against my zipper, and though the waitress has been to the table twice to ask for my order, I motion her away.
I can’t look away, can’t breathe right. The pain is sharp, erotic, and constant. A slow bleed of want and punishment.
Lana laughs again then shifts in her seat so her knee brushes his. Her fingers toy with the edge of her napkin. White, innocent linen. It’s obscene the things her fingertips are doing with it. A moment later she takes that motion and moves it to his hand, but I feel it. Not on my skin, but somewhere deep, somewhere primal.
