Page 3 of Selling Innocence

“Thanks,” I whispered before pulling myself back together and stranding straight.

The man nodded and took a step backward.

“These elevators are always stopping.” A nervous little laugh escaped me. “When I first got here, I never took the elevator because it scared me, but now? I guess dying in a fiery crash is better than walking up all those flights of stairs.”

I cringed at my own words, the ones that escaped me in a rambling mess.

Worse, the man didn’t even try to respond. He turned his golden eyes to me, as if to acknowledge that he’d heard me, but he said nothing back.

I pressed my lips together instead of saying anything else and digging myself any deeper. Thankfully, the elevator shuddered to life again and started its crawl toward my floor. When it reached there, I hurried off with one more soft thanks to the mystery man before I escaped the humiliation.

Attendants packed the room by the time I arrived, but at least all the people meant I didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing how late I’d gotten there.

Of course, the full room confused me. The art department at my college hosted many artist meet-and-greets like this. They said that speaking to working artists was the best way to learn and gather information, so they’d host such events a few times a month. My professors always offered extra credit to go, and I sure needed that, so I always came.

However, it was usually just a few people and one artist questioning their decisions in life as they spoke to a mostly empty room.

This time, though, we had standing room only.

“Ms. Fox,” Grisham Oreando, my student advisor, said as he walked up to me.

“It’s still weird that you call me that while not letting me call you Mr. Oreando,” I pointed out and took a sip of my coffee.

“I dislike that name. It feels too distant. However, it’s a matter of basic manners to call a girl by her last name.” He offered me a familiar smile, the one that made us almost feel like friends rather than him just being my advisor.

“Why’s it so busy? Did Professor Calling offer extra credit or something?” She had made her lectures nearly impossible to pass, and she rarely offered extra credit. It was the only reason I could think that so many students would show, especially because I swore I spotted a few who never bothered coming to classes.

“You didn’t hear? Vance Moore is here.”

I twisted to cast a look of pure disbelief toward him. “Vance Moore? Are you kidding?”

“I am not. He rarely does these things, but I hear he was in town and contacted the school at the last minute to see if they might want him to speak.”

“I guess that explains all the girls here. They probably just want to get a glimpse of that playboy. I mean, is there a model he hasn’t bedded?”

Grisham chuckled softly. “I don’t disagree. However, if you want your extra credit, you should go sign in officially.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll go sign in then leave before I end up squished by the hordes of girls.” I offered a wave to Grisham before heading toward the back, where the table with the sign-in sheet sat. I didn’t expect to learn anything from some playboy artist who cared more about getting his paintbrush wet than actually drawing, but the day would be a waste if I didn’t at least sign in.

I set my coffee down beside the clipboard and exchanged it for a pen on a chain connected to the clipboard. Once I’d scrawled my name there and checked the professors whose classes I was taking, I picked my cup back up again and turned.

Only to find a wide chest before me, so close that I nearly ran right into him. I jerked backward, avoiding touching him, but I didn’t come out unscathed. The lid to my drink popped off and coffee spilled over the rim.

I hissed as the hot liquid touched my hand. More splashed onto my shirt, but that had more time to cool.

“Sorry,” the man muttered in a clipped tone as though I’d been at fault, then turned and walked off.

It left me staring at his back, glaring at the idiot. He’d stood close enough to me that he could have played the part of a train molester, but he acted as if it had been my fault?

He was tall and broad, with dark, neatly cut hair, which was the extent of what I could identify from the back. Well, he has a nice ass, too.

I grabbed a napkin and patted it against my shirt—not that it helped. It was like trying to soak up ocean waves with a handkerchief.

“Are you okay?” The masculine voice was almost lyrical. It sounded far too pretty for someone male and drew me to turn.

The face that stared back at me made me freeze in place.

Why was it that seeing celebrities in person felt so weird? I’d seen Vance Moore on TV plenty of times, in magazines and on internet sites. I could pick him out of a line-up with ease.

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