Page 3 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
Nico Nyx. Lead singer for Bad Habit. Adonis in the flesh.
Chloe breathed, “Dude.”
In Chloe-speak this can mean anything from “wow” or “shut up” to any number of curse words. She never curses, being that she’s too ladylike, but I myself am afflicted with no such modesty.
“Ho . . . ly shit.”
Standing in the foyer I’d passed through only moments before, Nico filled the space not only with the significant bulk of his gym-hardened body, but also with the power of his presence. Even standing still his energy was larger than life, a raw magnetism that encompassed the room and the people, the air itself. I’d met a lot of actors, made up a thousand models, worked with a ton of people both famous and obscure, but I’d never known anyone who could electrify an entire room of people just by stepping inside it.
Chloe’s eyes were wide. “Now that is a man. My ovaries just fainted.”
“Mine are doing the Macarena.”
My gaze traveled up and down Nico’s body. He wore scuffed motorcycle boots, faded jeans, a black T-shirt so tight it looked painted on. His hair was black and his eyes were brilliant cobalt blue, the same blue I’d once seen in a picture of the Caribbean Sea.
He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.
It slowly dawned on me I knew the exact color of his eyes because I was staring into them. He stared right back at me with a look so charged I thought he might ignite me with it.
Happy to simply bask in the enormity of his atmosphere and focused attention, a nervous tingle coursed through my body as I experienced a moment of infinite delirium. Looking into his eyes, I felt a bone-deep, blood-rocking rightness flare through me. A connection, wild and melodramatic, sinful and impossibly sweet.
And stupid.
I knew better. Nico Nyx was a superstar, one of the most desirable men in the world. I was a broke, foulmouthed, possibly alcoholic makeup artist with an overactive imagination. He was only staring at me because I was blocking the view of his supermodel girlfriend behind me.
Face flaming, I turned away. “Please tell me I didn’t just get nailed checking him out.”
“Everyone’s checking him out, Kat. But, um, you’re the only one he seems to be checking out in return.” Chloe’s gaze dropped to the cleavage displayed by the little black camisole I’d thrown on earlier. “Which may or may not have something to do with the way your girls are on display in that shirt. That’s some serious boobage you’re rocking, hon.”
My pulse pounded so hard I felt it jumping in my fingertips. “Okay. Acting natural. Going about my business now. Not freaking out at all. See you later, Lo.”
“Later, Dolly Parton.”
“Shut up.” I wished I’d worn a different shirt.
Chloe giggled. “Good luck with the Brazilian Bombshell.”
I waved good-bye to Chloe. With all the grace of C-3PO, I walked to the dressing table on the other side of the room, pretending to ignore the feeling that I’d just been struck by lightning.
Which I so. Totally. Had.
The French have a word for it: abasourdi. The rough translation is “love at first sight.” Until that very moment I’d thought it an idea so sappily romantic I would be sure to make the “gag me” motion by sticking my finger in my mouth if it was ever brought up in conversation. After the past few years of bad relationships, my opinion of men in general, and love in particular, was lower than low. It was subterranean. I wanted nothing to do with either one.
So I’d decided that what I felt was simply hormones. I just needed a little one-on-one with Maximus, my trusty vibrator. He was far and away the most reliable male in my life.
I referred to him as my soul mate only half jokingly.
“Hi!” I said to Avery with brittle brightness when I arrived at the vanity where she was lounging. “My name’s Kat. I’ll be doing your makeup today.” I stuck out my hand, expecting any kind of reaction other than the one I received: a loud, sputtering snore.
Avery Kane was dead asleep.
Sitting upright in the chair, her head rolled to one side, her mouth open and her face shiny, she looked less like a supermodel, and more like a soccer mom who’d been hitting her kid’s supply of Ritalin. In fact, the closer I looked, the worse the view became. She had purple-blue shadows beneath her eyes, unwashed hair . . . and holy, the girl stunk like a brewery. I’d met homeless people who smelled better. I recoiled with a hand over my mouth.
Well, shit. Sleeping Beauty wasn’t asleep. She was passed the hell out.
I looked up, hoping to catch the eye of the chubby PA in the Metallica T-shirt who was barking into a cell phone nearby, but instead saw a sight that made my heart flutter.
There across the room stood Nico Nyx, looking around, his eyes hunting for something. He turned his head. Once again his eyes locked with mine, and I had to lean back against the edge of the vanity to steady myself.
