85. Michael
MICHAEL
A lice is practically vibrating under my palm, and I hate that she’s upset. Hate that this is happening to her on live TV.
But… I kind of love that she’s full of jealousy.
Which is understandable, even if there are zero feelings between me and Amber. Because if the assholes in charge dared to bring one of her ex-boyfriends onto my show, I’d bake him into a six-foot calzone.
“Mi—” Alice starts to say my name, and I flex my fingers against her neck as I guide her away from the contestants.
The clock is ticking on the New Year’s fruitcake challenge, and there’s no stopping it. So for the next hour and a half, we just have to sit up at the front of the large room, in view of the cameras.
But we won’t have to talk to Amber again until judging.
Fucking Amber.
What the fuck were the producers thinking?
Our relationship was never public. Hardly even a relationship. But someone had to know. There’s no possible way this happened just by chance.
“Michael,” Alice hisses under her breath.
“Baby,” I whisper back.
Her eyes are narrowed up at me. “Don’t you Baby me. Did you?—”
This time I cut her off by turning her toward me and gripping her chin.
I mouth the word don’t.
If she asks me if I knew about this, I’m going to lose it.
I get it.
This is fucked.
I can’t even really blame her for wanting to ask it.
But I still hate it. Because she knows me better than that.
Instead of going to the two director’s chairs set up for us, I let go of Alice’s chin and aim her toward one of the free-standing refrigerators.
I swear I can hear her mouth open, probably to hiss something else at me, so I rush the final few steps.
I put her back against the back of the fridge and crowd into her space.
We’re making a scene. There’s no way the cameras won’t follow us. But I just need to remind her about these fucking microphones and hope she’s willing to wait until we get upstairs to discuss this.
I point to my chest, where the small mic is attached to my shirt, next to one of my buttons.
She heaves out a breath. “I know.” I start to relax. “You’re my Mr. Claus and in charge, but this…”
My moment of relaxation ends.
Alice waves a hand back toward the contestants, and I don’t know if I want to slap my hand to my face or burst out laughing.
“Alice,” I say it as quietly as I can.
“But she’s seen the photos of me suck?—”
I slam my mouth to hers.
My lips cut off the rest of her words. Words that I just know were going to be sucking your dick .
Alice’s body instantly softens into mine, all her tension vanishing against my lips.
And I want to deepen the kiss.
Want to lift her and shove her against the fridge.
Want to bury myself inside her and remind her that she’s my one and only.
But we’re on live TV.
I pull back, and before she can make that little whiny sound that goes straight to my balls, I press my finger to her lips.
Her eyes are narrowed again, but this time it’s because she wants more kisses, not because she’s angry with me.
I slowly remove my finger, then bring it directly to the mic on my shirt.
She follows the movement.
Then her gaze jumps back up to meet mine.
I nod once. And mouth every word.
Her mouth parts in an O as she finally understands.
Then her eyes widen, probably remembering what she said right before I kissed her.
I nod again, and even though the whole situation is a mess, I can’t stop my smile.
Alice reaches out and places a palm over my mic and then one over her own.
“You still love me the most, right?” She whispers it so quietly that it’s only for my ears.
She’s smiling. But it’s a soft smile. One with a hint of insecurity.
I grip her wrists and pull her hands off the mics.
“I’ll always love you the most.”