Addicted To Him (Man Season)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Addicted To Him

Copyright 2013 RTWD PRESS

All Rights Reserved.

For all
the flower girls.

CHAPTER
ONE

Seven o’clock
at last!
Tegan
had waited breathlessly, as she did every weekday, to see him exit his studio,
slide into his sleek silver Jaguar and ease away from the curb, his black hair
flying like a proud stallion’s mane in the breeze. ‘He’ was Fleet Westcott,
millionaire, possibly billionaire, some said, owner of the high tech motion
picture production company, Westcott Limited. He was like a dream with his
perfect tan, finely tailored suits and carefree smile. How many times had she
imagined that smile aimed towards her as she stood in the florist shop,
endlessly arranging the bouquets for extravagant office parties and
anniversaries? Just once she wished he would step through the double glass
doors, take one look at her and be caught in her clinging vines forever.

But that was a silly fantasy, brought
on by novels and movies and her ridiculous imagination.
Tegan
St. Clair knew who she was, and who she wasn’t. No jaded billionaire was ever
going to find her fascinating, or even worth speaking to, for that matter.

She sighed, wrapped up the last
bouquet and stored it for its scheduled delivery. Then she grabbed her purse
and yelled towards the back: “Kerry, I’m going now!”

“Wait!” a man’s voice answered. Kerry
Randall stepped out from the storage room, a tall, grinning blond.
“Why the rush?
You never seem to want to stay and chat
awhile. Am I losing my appeal?”

She laughed.
“No,
of course not.
I’m just in one of my depressions, I guess; been
listening to too much Beethoven or something.”

“No, I’ve got your number, darling,”
he said, shaking his head. “You’re pining over that Westcott doll again. I do
that myself, you know. He is a looker!”

She stared at him. Then she shrugged
her slender shoulders and smiled. “Ha! Maybe we should go round the corner and
drown our miseries in a pint or two?”

“Lovely idea!
Just let me close up!”

The Pig’s Tooth Pub was a
neighborhood hangout and a
Burbank
legend. Most of the salaried workers
from the shops and studios stopped in for a brew now and again – not to mention
a select few of the elite and famous.

When
Tegan
and Kerry entered they were welcomed like old pals, and ushered to a booth of
distinction, one usually reserved for the moguls who ruled over the companies
up and down the street.

“Well, I feel just like Mr.
Westcott!” Kerry laughed as he was poured a fresh pint of beer.

“Do you now?” A deep voice asked.
“That’s funny. I don’t recall you being in my family tree.”

Tegan
and Kerry, and half the room, turned
round to see the real Fleet Westcott standing in the doorway.
Tegan
gasped, unbelieving that he could be that close,
finally, after months of faraway glimpses. He did not disappoint her. He was
more handsome than any photo she had seen of him, even the ones when he was
younger and trying to carve out an acting career. The ebony hair dusting his
brow, the finely executed features of his aristocratic face, and the body of
some forgotten Greek god, framed in the finest Armani trappings. And his eyes –
she’d never been sure until that moment what color they were – but they were
blue, a luscious, deep azure tone. When they flashed a glance at her, she
froze, unable to breathe.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Westcott,” Jim, the
proprietor, offered. “I didn’t expect you. You haven’t been in here since you moved
your studio into that old building down the street.”

“Sure, I know. No harm done.” He
turned to Kerry and
Tegan
. “May I join you?”

Kerry grinned. “Help yourself.”

He did, taking the part of the booth
closest to
Tegan
. As he sat down, his hip grazed hers
for a second. She stiffened, felt the need to stifle a childish squeal. He
smiled at her; her heart clinched up in a ball, began to beat wildly.

“So, you work around here?”

She didn’t answer.

“He’s talking to you,
Tegan
.”

She looked at Kerry, who was egging
her on with encouraging glances. Then she dared peer into the azure eyes. They
were all-encompassing; she wished she could swim in them.

“Oh, I am sorry. I thought you were
talking to my friend. I work in the florist shop, across from your building.”

“Your friend?
Not boyfriend?”

“Well, I am a friend, and I am a
boy,” Kerry laughed. “But that’s about where it ends.
Tegan
is like a sister to me.”

“Nice sister you’ve got.”

Tegan
glanced at Westcott. He was smiling.
Maybe she was asleep – this had to be a dream.

They sat around, drinking and trading
sound bites with Kerry, until near eight.
Tegan
realized she was supposed to be meeting her mom, Callie, for dinner.

“Oh, golly, I’ve got to go or I’ll be
late!”

“Where?”

“I’m meeting my mom for dinner.”

“I can drive you. Where does she
live?”

“She lives with me, in
Glendale
. But we’re meeting at Dell’s
Restaurant.”

“I know where that is. Come on!”

He stood, reached out a sexy,
muscular hand. She glanced at Kerry. He grinned, nodding for her to accept it.
Tegan
slipped her hand into Westcott’s; felt a zillion tiny
sparks go through her. Which embarrassed her – she was a virgin, technically,
but of course she’d held a guy’s hand before, among other things – just never a
guy like him. ‘Guy’ seemed like the wrong word to describe him; he was a man.

“See you tomorrow, Kerry!” she said
as she followed Westcott out the door.

“You can sleep in, darling,” he
winked. “I’ve got you covered!”

She passed him a dark look; he
laughed.

The Jaguar purred like a real cat as
Westcott steered it expertly over the crowded city streets.
Tegan
watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was so self-assured, knew exactly
where he was going in life. She wished she could be that way. But she’d had an
identity crisis every couple of years since she’d left high school; still
didn’t know where she was going or what course she wanted to follow. A stint at
college bored her to tears – seemed like a racket to her. Never really learned
anything useful for the real world, just how to get drunk and fend off jerks.

Then she took a course in real
estate, got her license and a starter position in a company – and the housing
bubble burst – the company had to downsize so of course she was the first to
go.

Her mom helped her find the florist job.
She’d taught her to garden when she was small, so it was an easy gig. But it
was getting tedious. She needed something else, something exciting and
fulfilling.

“I must be bad company,” Westcott
decided, his luxuriously deep voice startling her.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you keep drifting off in your
thoughts. Care to tell me what’s captivated your interest?”

“Oh, nothing in particular; I have a
strange mind. It wanders off in random directions sometimes. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.
It’s my fault if I can’t hold your attention.”

“Oh, you hold it all right,” she
thought, not daring to speak it out loud. He had the most scintillating smell
about him. She breathed it in, savored it.

They stopped at a red light. She
glanced at him, noticed he was staring at her.

“You have a lovely profile. And your
hair is the most intriguing color. I’ve heard it described as strawberry
blonde; reminds me of Venus rising from the sea on a big shell in that famous
painting.”

“Well, I’ve never been compared to
Venus before. But I can thank my great grandmother Kathleen for my hair color …
she was from
Ireland
.”

“Um, I was hoping I could find out
for myself if it was natural. If you know what I mean?”

Tegan
swallowed a hard gulp of air and
coughed.

“You okay?”

“Yes, I guess so. The restaurant is
right there.”

“I can see that.” He parked the car.
She started to open the door but he stopped her. “Wait …”

She peered into the azure eyes. There
was a fire burning in their depths, full of desire and need. His hand was hot,
electric; he began stroking her leg then slipped his fingers onto her thigh and
moved them up her skirt.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re not hungry, really, not for
food?”

“I have to meet my mom.”

“Call her and cancel.”

“But she’s right inside.”

“She hasn’t seen you. Call her.”

He handed her a cell phone with his
free hand. The other had worked its way into her panties and was manipulating
her into a quiet frenzy.

She nodded, punched the number,
trying not to moan as she talked to her mother.

“Mom?
It’s me. I know it’s not my cell
phone. I borrowed it from a friend. No, I can’t make it. Something …” She
glanced at his slacks, gasped at the hardness of him. “…
something
has come up.” Westcott laughed. “No, I’m not with a man. That was … the TV, in
the back room. Yeah, I’m still at work. I’ve got a ton of arrangements to
finish. I’ll see you tonight. No, I’ll grab a snack here in a minute.” Westcott
unzipped his
pants,
motioned for her to take him.
“Sure, I will. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you, but have a nice dinner. Bye.”