The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (4 page)

“Y-yes. I’m
sooooo
sorry,” I mutter quickly, bracing myself on his muscular thighs to push myself up.

The stranger stands to help my momentum and I turn to apologize for my clumsiness. Looking up, I stare into the face of an absolute dream-like god.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” the god-like man asks, his bright blue eyes clearly visible despite the darkness of the club, his hands resting on my shoulders.

I’m dumbfounded, lost in his striking baby-blues.

Staring up into his gorgeous face, I take in his chiseled jaw, cleft chin, and mass of dark curls. He’s the perfect combination of pretty and sexy. His strong nose, distinguished cheekbones, and full lips shaped to perfection. Instantly, I realize who he is.
Holy crap. I’ve just fallen onto Alexander Tate—
my inner dreamer leaps with joy. Alexander Tate, the world-renowned heartthrob I’ve worshipped on the big screen for years.

Shocked silent, I barely notice Stacey’s approach. “Are you ok? I just saw you get pushed. Where did that bastard go?” she scans the crowd for the inebriated nuisance. “Holy
shit,
” her barely audible whisper suggests she’s taking in the god holding me upright. “Aby, introduce me to your savior so I can properly thank him.”

“Ummm . . . I haven’t quite met him myself,” I continue staring shell-shocked into his beautiful eyes. I’m glued to him. Completely immobile. Am I dreaming this?
Did I fall and hit my head?

Alexander removes his hands from my shoulders, a small smile creeping across his face, “No thanks required. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I’m Alex, and you’re, Aby?”

Alex? He goes by Alex?
I’m speechless, ogling open-mouthed, feeling nauseous.
Say something dammit!
—my inner actress screams. Absentmindedly, I swipe my fingers across my lips checking for possible escaped drool.

“Alex, good man,” Thomas approaches, his hand extended in greeting.

“How are you, Thomas?” the beautiful god speaks, pulling his gaze from mine.

Thomas knows Alexander Tate and didn’t feel like sharing this tidbit of information with us earlier? WTF?

“Good, good. Enjoying a night out with the ladies. I see you’ve come to Aby’s aid.”

“I guess I have,” Alex smiles, his eyes returning to mine.

God, his eyes are dazzling.
I’m lost in their beautiful shade of blue, a kiss of brown rays in the top corner of his left iris.
Enchanting.
You’d need Google Maps to find your way out of them.

“I’m Stacey Stevenson,” my boisterous best friend interjects, forcing his gaze away.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he smiles before looking back to me, railroading my train of thought once more.

“Your fall has clearly shaken you up,” Stacey saves me, recognizing my inability to speak—an edge of cleverness to her voice I know well. “Perhaps Alex should fetch you a drink,” she continues, her conspiratorial suggestion helping me finally find my voice.

“No, no. I’m fine. Really. Thank you for saving my fall.” I feel a sense of renewed embarrassment at the ridiculous statement. This is how I meet a famous heartthrob?
A simple introduction through Thomas would have sufficed, but
nooooo,
I had to FALL on him
. Awesome.

“It would be my pleasure to get you a drink.”

“Excellent,” Stacey interjects. “Thomas, how ‘bout you and I go have a ciggy on the terrace. Aby seems to be in good hands. See you in a bit.” Thomas in tow, she flashes me a devilish grin over her shoulder.

Left alone with Alex, I feel like a fish out of water. More than overwhelmed, I’m unsure what to say. He must think I’m insane. Or mute.

“Shall we?” he asks.

“Shall we . . . ?”
Shall we do the tongue tango?
I check for renewed drool.

“Shall we go get you a drink?” his lips pull into a slow, sexy smirk.

“Oh . . . right. Ok,” I paste on a smile—a freaked-out, twisted one no less. Is this even happening?
Am I being Punked?

Turning back towards the bar, I feel the pressure of his hand at my lower back, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s a surreal, though delicious touch.
Oh my God, he’s touching me. He’s touching me!

“What are you drinking?”

“Heineken,” I reply, resting my arm on the bar’s sticky surface. Wow, I’m one-wording it now.
I guess it’s better than letting my initial response escape
—‘I’ll have a big tall glass of you.’
I’m trying my damnedest to act natural, but I know I’m failing miserably. His smirk tells me he knows it too. Whatever. I’ll just let him buy me a drink, say thank you, and be released from this embarrassing experience.

As he places our drink order, I try nonchalantly to eye the nearest exit in hopes of avoiding being branded the drooling-clumsy fan of the year.

He turns to me, holding out my Heineken with a smile.

“Thank you,” I attempt to feign indifference to the fact that a heartthrob actor just bought me a drink.

“You’re very welcome.”

He’s looking directly down into my eyes, the crowded bar forcing us within inches of each other, quickening my heartbeat.
God, the man is drool-worthy.
He must be over six feet tall. Six feet of sculpted steel. Sensual authority oozes from every inch of his body. He’s sex on a stick with the face of an angel.

“Why don’t we take a seat? I have a table just up the stairs.”

My eyes follow in the direction of his hand gesture.
He wants me to sit with him?
This can’t be happening.

With my lack of reply insinuating my acquiescence, he places his hand at the small of my back, “After you,” he offers, smiling. His accent is dazzling.

I’m totally unnerved and have no idea what to do.
Why the hell does he want to keep hanging with me? Oh wait . . . he just wants to get laid. That has to be it. Why else would he want to sit with me?
The nerve! I’m no hussy.
Although, right now I kind of wish I was.

The walk towards the stairs is excruciating. I can feel his gaze, and my steps falter slightly. The sudden touch of his hand scorches my back as he assists my unsteady gait to climb the short steps.

Reaching the top, I realize this is a private area. Turning, I look over the railing, taking in the dance floor below. My eyes rest upon an attractive man staring at us from the bar—the man that was sitting next to Alex.
They must be friends,
I shake off the weird vibe that hits me when his eyes catch mine. “Your friend at the bar, I think he’s looking for you.”

“He’ll survive without me,” Alex gestures for me to take a seat.

Officially committed to sitting and chatting, I make my way towards the center of the sectional before he moves around the small table, taking a seat beside me in the opposite corner. It doesn’t escape me that I’m sitting with the most beautiful man I think I’ve ever seen. I shake my head inwardly that this is even real.

Our proximity causes our knees to touch slightly. I’m bumping knees with Alexander Tate. This type of thing only happens in movies, doesn’t it?

You’ll do just fine, you’ve been an actress playing a role for quite a while
—my inner actress offers sarcastic encouragement, though it doesn’t seem to be working. I’ve been a pile of mush since I first looked into his incredible face.

He’s looking at me with a sensual curve to his lips, his eyes glistening. His stare is so intense I feel like he can see right through me. It’s an unnerving feeling. But he
is
an actor, I remind myself. He’s good at portraying anything. Even portraying being interested in me.

Why did Stacey leave me with this god? Oh right, she just wants me to get laid. Well, that’s not happening
.
Especially not with this man.
I’d feel completely inadequate. Not to mention that a fling doesn’t fit into my ‘plan’—a fling with an unattainable heartthrob at that.

Self-preservation, don’t fail me now.

“YOU’RE AMERICAN?” ALEX asks, his fluid British-accent giving me goose bumps.

“No, I’m from Canada.”

He says nothing in reply, his orgasmic-inducing stare unflinching as he waits for me to continue. He’s clearly not satisfied with my one-liners. I’m not sure what more he wants me to say.

“I needed a change of scenery, so I opted for London,” I add, giving the standard spiel. “I’ve been staying at the Intercontinental until I find an apartment. In fact, Stacey and I are going on the hunt tomorrow.”
Why am I telling him this?
From one-liners to spilling my guts.
Ugh.

I feel a bit silly for even trying to sustain a real-life conversation. Where are those damn acting skills of mine right now?
They’d do me wonders if they’d show themselves. Perhaps then I could fake disinterest, instead of the nervous idiot I imagine I’m showcasing.

Surely he isn’t interested in me, or my story. This is all a little much. I’m frustrated with the pretense, and a little annoyed that I’ve gotten myself into this surreal situation. It’s a complete waste of time. Sure, it’s pretty damn cool to have met a famous person. Who wouldn’t want to accidentally run into a heartthrob? Particularly one as hot as Alexander Tate. But to sit and have a chat? Get real. Clearly, he’s just hoping to pick up. It’s best to keep this brief. Why get hung up on someone who’s a foregone conclusion of walking out of my life the second he fulfills his sexual needs.
God, the thought of quenching those needs . . . shit, Aby, play it cool.

Damn this couch is uncomfortable,
I notice in my nervous seat shuffling. It’s one of those uber-modern couches that are hard as rock, covered in smooth black leather with no support to lean back on. Not to mention, that lack of support is forcing us to lean forward, and my proximity to Alex—his masculine smell and probing baby-blues—is heightening my nervousness further. His unruly brown hair falling onto his forehead lends him a disheveled and sexy-as-hell look that kick-starts my kegels.

This is painful. I have no idea how to act. I’m not used to this loss of control—my years of mastering the ability to act in any given situation has suddenly left me. I feel naked and exposed.
Act natural—
my inner actress snipes. I feel like I’m on a first date with someone. Brutal.

His hand is suddenly at my cheek, brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. The unexpected touch is sensual, causing my breath to hitch. It feels much too intimate.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers.

Did he just tell me I’m beautiful?
Of course he did. He’s putting on a show. I know all about putting on a show. I need this guy to know I’m on to him. I know his game and I’m not buying it. As much as I want to. Again, he’s an actor for Christ’s sake. Letting out a sarcastic laugh, I give a flirty rebuke, “How many drinks have you had?”
Arg. Now I’m flirting.

“I’m not drinking.”

“Oh,” I stutter, taken aback by his admission, the surprising development jarring me from my giddy anxiety.
Hmmm . . . That’s refreshing. I like that.
Given every guy I know would never—and I mean NEVER—be at a bar and not drink. Jeez, Liam and his friends would drink at a three year old’s birthday party for God’s sake, which was a huge point of contention for me.

If Alex is telling the truth, he just went up a few pegs with me. Unconsciously, my eyes veer to his drink noting its deep red substance.
Cranberry juice?

“It’s cranberry,” he mutters, reading my thoughts, lifting it to his lips for a sip.

God, those lips.
I’m once again transfixed, mouth agape as I watch him take a sip, unabashedly staring as he runs his tongue along his full bottom lip as though licking any residual juice.

He smirks at me knowingly and I shake my head, glancing nervously out to the dance floor hoping to spot Stacey and Thomas. Unfortunately they’re nowhere in sight.
Damn you Stacey.

Not knowing what to say, I’m left peering out towards the sweaty patrons gyrating against each other, lost in the music. The display of eroticism amplifies my uncomfortable position. This man makes me nervous.

An awkward silence ensues.

His not drinking comment has me slightly intrigued.
Is
he putting on an act? Is his ‘beautiful’ compliment truly genuine? It’s clearly not alcohol induced. What a conundrum I find myself in. I feel at a complete disadvantage.

Looking down, I pick at an imaginary spot on the hem of my dress. Taking a deep breath, I decide to put an end to this ridiculous cat and mouse game and lay it all out on the table. Yes, I want to eat this man’s face, but this is real life, not the movies. “Alexander . . . ”

“Alex,” he interrupts, reminding me with a sexy smile that freezes me momentarily like a strike of lightning.

“Sorry . . . Alex. You have me at a disadvantage here,” I state matter-of-factly, trying to keep the nervous tremble from showing in my voice.

“How’s that?”

“Well, this isn’t exactly
normal.
”

“Normal?” Intrigued, his eyebrow arches, his head tilting slightly to the side as he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. My eyes inadvertently survey his muscular arms and strong shoulders—his tight knit, light grey V-neck sweater showcasing his drool-worthy definition. He looks sexy as hell. The epitome of a man. An incredibly well-built man.