Page 31 of Whiskey Splash

He smiles, writing something on my palm with the pen. “Now you’re catching on.” I frown and he taps my lower lip with the pen. “I’m new to the language, but I think that’s Esme-ian for maybe. Not quite a yes, but I’ll take it. Friday, south entrance –”

“Three o’clock. Yes, I heard you.”

“Excellent.”

“And I should also bring a dress?”

He smiles, his cheek feathering. “Maybe not the gold one with the fringe. Super-hot, yes, but maybe choose something you’d actually wear this time.”

“You don’t think that’s my normal late-night wardrobe?” I sass back.

He shrugs. “Like I said, super-hot.”

He stops writing and curls up my hand, kissing my knuckles before releasing it. “What is this?” I ask, nodding to my yet-to-be-opened palm.

“The next reason you’re going to be pissed at me.”

“Oh really?” I unfurl my fingers and look down, but his handwriting is atrocious. I have to move my hand two inches from my face to decipher the scribbles. “Who taught you how to write?”

“I’m an actor,” he sasses. “All the degrees and diplomas I have are purely symbolic.”

I squint, trying to make it out. It looks like it says GPH1. I glare at him. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t you work here?” he says nodding to it again, raising an eyebrow like it should be obvious, and I look back at the handwriting. I turn my palm left and right to see if I read it incorrectly, when it hits me.

It means Grand Penthouse One. GPH1.

It’s his room number.

My eyes flick up to him and his smile is indecent, shooting heat all the way to my toes.

“And, uh, what is this for?” I rasp out, when he snatches my chin, pulling me slowly toward him with his fingers. He leans in and brushes his lips against the side of cheek. It’s a whisper of a kiss just above the corner of my mouth. Then, he drags his nose along my cheekbone till his warm breath is at my ear and his fingers are idling at the top of my throat.

“This is in case you can’t wait till Friday.”

He nips my earlobe, before releasing me and I’m so startled I don’t have a response. He struts away, walking back in the direction we came from and leaving me all alone with my pulse pounding. I look at my palm, his room number—and naughty promise—sketched into my palm.

Hot damn!

Chapter Eight

At home, I lie on my bed staring at my hand. The pen ink has smeared, but it’s not like I’m going to forget what it said.

What am I supposed to do with this information? Does Desmond expect me to show up one of these nights for a midnight howling at the moon? Is he going to be disappointed if I don’t? It’s one thing for Arie to create an awkward set up, and another for the little mishap at the spa. But this—I mean this is a real hot-blooded booty call … from a movie star!

I should go over there right now—if only for the bragging rights. And one day, I’ll be able to tell my children: “Hey kids, I had hot mind-blowing sex with the sexiest man on TV. He’s not your father of course, but that’s not the point. The point is to live a little, have fun, make crazy mistakes, and don’t forget tocarpe diema ten-inch cock when it comes along!”

I’m such a spaz.

And, I’m definitely not my sister.

I don’t know how to knock on a gorgeous (much less, famous) man’s door in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a trench coat and my birthday suit underneath. Do people even do that? With my luck, that’s the type of cliché you only see in bad comedies and I’m the schmuck who’d actually show up wearing it!

Of course, I’m not going to go knock on his door.

Of course, I’m not going to drink ten martinis and drunkenly ask Desmond Pike if his rollercoaster is open for a midnight ride. That would be the most humiliating night of my life. Though, it’s pretty hard to top the last two encounters between Desmond and me.

I pull out my phone and text Arie instead.

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