Chapter 2

2

Lila Valentine, aka a woman who's all wet and sticky and weirdly so very fine with that

Oh.

My.

God.

Levi Wilson.

Cute was the first word that came to mind when I ran into him upstairs. Funny quickly followed. Charmingly gallant and adorkably real. And semi-familiar in an I think I've seen your face before kind of way, which isn't unusual, since my life lends itself to occasionally meeting with high-powered executives and celebrities.

Not that they're my favorite social companions. In my off-hours, I prefer hanging out with librarians, book club friends, and hockey players.

Long story.

And my point is, I pegged him as more of the librarian-out-of-water type than the pop-music-god type.

But I peer closer, realize how many people have called him Mr. Wilson in the last two minutes, and holy. Shit.

Levi Wilson is flirting with me. This is insane. It's nuts. It's crazy town.

My friend Parker is going to shit seven thousand bricks when I tell her. She loves him. In the way normal people love celebrities, I mean. Not in a stalker kind of way.

I don't think, anyway. Pretty sure she'd decline to have his babies.

I can't stop shaking Levi's hand. And he's not letting go either. He's just watching me with this surprised expression on his face like maybe he's stoned, or maybe like my running mascara is dripping down and making pornographic designs on my face, or maybe like he's never seen anything quite as beautiful as me.

With a strawberry daiquiri melting on my head and making my hair a total disaster.

I need to lay off the romance novels.

Or possibly I need to never leave home again and stick with only romance novels.

But Levi Wilson is flirting with me . While he's wearing that hat that makes him look a little dorky, but in the good way. And the sunglasses that say I know it's already dark in this club, but I need to protect you from my bedroom eyes so that you don't die of over-orgasming just from looking at my beautiful face .

Which isn't nearly as gag-worthy as it should be, because I honestly do think he could smolder me into a climax.

I don't care if he is stoned. Or if possibly I am from a contact high, though I didn't smell any weed in here, so maybe he just has super powerful pheromones?

Or maybe it's been too long since I've let myself enjoy the company of a man outside the pages of a book, and I should quit questioning this and enjoy the high of having all of the attention of a hot guy in a club who could've literally stepped out of the pages of a romance novel.

Considering what I actually came here for was a total bust, I can absolutely get behind hanging out with Levi Wilson.

He's not just a hot pop star. He also spends time in children's hospitals and takes pictures with puppies at shelters to help get them adopted.

I know because Parker told me so.

"You know where the bathrooms are?" I ask him, and I didn't realize I could yell in a breathy seductive voice, but look at that.

I'm getting it done.

He watches my lips while I'm talking, and it takes a second or two after I'm done before his head snaps up. "Yes. Yes, they're…" He trails off as he looks around, and then his face lights up again. I can't tell what color his eyes are behind those sunglasses, but I want to know, because when he glances back down at me, and our eyes meet, I swear I feel that lightning bolt in my soul that I've only ever read about in books.

Or possibly that's residual adrenaline from Uncle Al's girlfriend thinking I was trying to make a move on her man and attempting to freeze my brain with her drink, when all I really wanted was the one thing he'd promised he'd bring here tonight.

And didn't.

Naturally.

"This way." Levi tugs on my elbow again, and I realize he's happy that he found the bathroom. That's so…so…

Dammit .

Even if I'm not stoned, he probably is. For real. Because who gets that excited about a bathroom?

But he's not only a distraction from my woes, he's also just so damn cute . Even in the white pants. I didn't know I liked white pants on men, but these are molding to everything , and is there anywhere that Levi Wilson isn't blessed?

Except maybe in his better judgment?

But really, who needs better judgment when you're talking about a pop star? And any man who can see past the fact that I look like a redheaded squirrel who fell into a vat of frozen, neon-pink drink and smile at me like making jokes about dragon eggs is the highlight of his day probably still has a hold on his better judgment.

I drop a smidge behind him while we make our way to the bathrooms, not the least bit ashamed of watching how his ass is hugged so well in those jeans that I could easily be convinced to become more of a butt woman than a pecs and shoulders woman.

I wonder if his pecs and shoulders are as nice as his ass?

"Ladies' room?" he asks a woman.

She drops her panties, flings her dress off, and offers herself as a sacrifice to him.

Okay, not really, but her eyes go round, and she licks her lips and purrs. "This is the line, but you go ahead. Actually, do you want to just wait for me in there?"

Levi studies her briefly, looks back at me, and I swear the city sighs happily along with me as that dreamy smile takes over his face once more. "Thank you."

"I have to pee really bad, but I can totally hold it for you, Levi," she replies, even though he was looking at me when he spoke.

I shiver.

He frowns. "Cold?"

"N-no," I reply as my teeth start chattering.

Am I cold? Or is this adrenaline? I'm no virgin, nor am I prudish. I am a workaholic, so my hook-ups don't happen often, but when they do, they're exactly how I like them—brief and satisfying.

Which is exactly how this will play out, if the tidbits I've picked up from Parker are any indication.

Perfect .

Hopefully.

His eyes study my face—it's nice that his sunglasses aren't the kind that shield his eyes from view, but rather the kind that make it obvious he's making a fashion statement, and no, I don't usually go for the guy who likes to make fashion statements, but there's something so weirdly relatable hiding under that Levi Wilson bling, and I. Am. Enamored.

Maybe I'm dreaming? Or am I high? Was there something in the air up at Uncle Al's table?

Levi's starting to smile again, and I feel about thirteen, discovering my first romance novel all over again, which isn't normal for a hook-up, but I ignore the warning buzz and let him pull me through the waiting line of people, past B-list celebrities and models and social influencers who know that he's first in the pecking order here, to rap his knuckles on the bathroom door.

And I swear he mutters something about no one carrying a diaper bag when they need a change of clothes, but I'm probably making that up.

The bathroom door opens, and a half-drunk Instagram star peers up at him. "Selfie?" she squeals, falling into him.

He obliges with a wink and a smile, holding her camera for her while she shoves me out of the way, nearly falling off her heels in the process. As soon as he hands her back her phone, he grabs my arm again—hello, delicious fingers heating me through my suit jacket—and drags me into the bathroom.

The noise from the club is softer in here, and now we're alone—just me, Levi, and a toilet. He grabs a handful of cloth napkins and starts wiping my hair and face gently. "I'd like to ground her for throwing her drink on you."

I laugh again. "Aw, go easy on her. She's in love."

"With Beversdorf? " His eyes widen in horror, and honestly, could he be any more adorable?

"The world's a complicated place, and people can't help who they love. Or why ." Why in this case being that it gets her a college education, which I can't really fault her for. If Uncle Al wants to believe she loves him for something else, that's his business.

Levi's hand stills in my hair. "You sound like you know the secret."

"Oh, Mr. Wilson. I definitely know the secret to love."

"Do you?"

"I do."

He lifts his brows, and oh my god , what am I saying? I drop my head back and laugh, because I am being so absurd. "Nope. Not a chance. You won't believe me if I tell you, plus you'll share the secret and rob me of my chance to sell how-to videos on the internet."

"If I wouldn't believe you, why would I tell everyone?"

"Because it's outrageous." It's not—if more people read romance novels, they, too, would know the secret to love. Which is a lot easier to spell out than it is to put into practice.

Case in point: I am never falling in love. Even though I know what it would take.

"Huh." His eyes are twinkling like he's amused, and honestly?

My heart's getting a little warm and squishy at the idea that I'm amusing him.

Not normal.

And I don't care, because he's saving what was otherwise a disastrous night.

"People always talk about the outrageous," I whisper conspiratorially.

"And what do they fall for, my dear Lila?"

His lips part, and oh , he has lovely lips. Not too plump. Not too sharp. They look smooth and soft set in the five-o'clock shadow he has coming in, but not like he moisturizes incessantly.

More like he's merely blessed in the lip department as well.

I very much want to kiss them.

And it's not like I'm going to have another opportunity. Ever . In my entire life.

And would he have come all the way into the bathroom with me if he wasn't interested in being alone? Why not just point? It's there. Go clean up. I have better women to do tonight.

No.

He asked me for a drink. He's still here.

With those lips. And those eyes transfixed on me, dropping to gaze at my mouth while his pupils go dark. And his body angling closer to me while he oh-so-gently wipes my forehead with a napkin, as though I'm a delicate flower that he wants to preserve.

And so I go for it.

I push up on my toes, wrap my arms around a hot, irresistible stranger, and smush my sticky face to his.

He freezes for half a second, but before I can reconsider this plan, his arms go around me, he backs me against the wall across from the toilet, and he slants his mouth against mine for the kiss to end all kisses.

Levi and Lila... Livi? Lela? Wilentine? Valson? What would our celebrity name be? Does he like chocolate or vanilla cake on his birthday? Does he secretly know calculus? Does he do crossword puzzles? Would he be the kind of man who would read a romance novel out loud for me?

Or sing it to me?

Hello, those hands on my ass are making my vagina ask if she could please have some attention too.

It's not wrong to be a groupie for one night, is it?

Not when it feels so right. And not when I felt that spark even before I knew who he was. And not when I read about flings every night, and haven't had one myself in…well. We don't need to talk about that .

Let's just say if my favorite romance heroines were to come to life and sit on my shoulder as my conscience, they probably would've been suggesting I proposition complete strangers on the street weeks and weeks ago.

Levi presses me harder against him while I part my lips and he groans and dives deeper into the kiss, and I don't know how those jeans are holding that thick ridge pressing into my belly, or how I'm still standing. He tastes like toothpaste and smells like fresh satin sheets and his stubble is setting the nerve endings around my mouth on fire in the best way, and I'm fairly certain I need to be naked.

"You're…so…wow," he gasps between kisses, and then he licks my jawline, and my nipples tighten so hard that they might've just turned inside out.

"Oh, god, yes, there." I'm jerking his buttons open and pushing his slick shirt over his shoulders so I can feel the holy grail of tight, bunched biceps and triceps that are making my panties way wetter than my hair, and he's tugging my dress up and sliding his hands all over my bare legs, up to tease the bottom of my ass at my panty line.

I wonder if our kids will have red hair, or if he's missing that recessive gene in his family pool. And if he'll propose with a guitar and a song, or somewhere special, like right here in this bathroom where we first consummated our love.

Okay, yes, it's definitely past time to remind myself that this is just a hook-up.

And that it means relatively nothing other than that I'm about to have one hell of a memory for the books, and he'll probably forget my name by morning, but memory .

Who doesn't want a memory like this?

And oh my god , now he's pulling my dress over my head and pinching my nipples through my bra and there's a bolt of lust ricocheting through my entire body and settling right between my thighs, and just making out with him and licking his neck is already seven hundred times better than my last intimate experience.

I fumble with his zipper.

He drops his head to my chest, where he suckles at me through the lace, his fingers dipping back into my panties, fumbling to find my clit. I tilt my pelvis, and when his thumb brushes over that tight nub of pleasure, I grip his hair and drop my head back with a moan. "Oh my god, Levi, yes ."

He freezes.

Hard freezes.

I look down, and a high-pitched screech splits the air.

I jump.

He jumps, and then shoves away before I process that the smoke alarms are going off in the club.

My dress is on the floor. His hair is standing on end where I've been gripping it, his jeans are open, and his paisley shirt is hanging in the toilet.

He rakes his hands through his hair and stares at me with the kind of dawning horror usually reserved for the devastating news that your favorite taco bar is being converted to a polka museum or for that time you accidentally ate the brownies at a party that your hockey friends laced with laxatives meant for their teammates who outweigh you by seventy or two hundred pounds.

And it's not the dammit, those fire alarms just screamed their way through the best make-out session I've had in a club bathroom in a year horror.

Nope.

This is the what the fuck was I thinking letting you maul me with your mouth and body? horror.

Nine times out of ten, I can fake my way through a situation. It's why I get free extra cheese at my favorite pizza joint on Fifty-Second and Broadway, how I ended up serving as a bridesmaid for a Thai princess, and it's how I kept my cool during a bachelor auction once.

But right now, I'm struggling to find my no big deal, guys are always horrified about making out with me face.

"Sorry," he mutters, and that mutter is louder than all of the screaming and wailing sirens. "We need to get out of here."

He slips past me—runs, really—glasses crooked, hat knocked off, shirt still dangling in the toilet, and bolts out the door bare-chested, which instantly swings open again as a woman rushes inside in a too-tight dress, hitches it up, and squats to do her business right in front of me.

On that shirt.

"I don't care if this place burns down, I have to pee so bad that I— Oh, wow, tell me Levi Wilson wasn't a let-down," she says.

I blink twice before I realize I need to pull my dress back on and get out of here. This one isn't a situation I wanted to fake my way out of.

I definitely should've stayed home tonight.