The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (5 page)

With a bravado I didn’t think I possessed, I pull my eyes back to his and try hard to relay my point accurately, “You know, normal . . . a man meeting a woman, having a nice chat, getting to know each other.”

He laughs out loud.

Jeez, could he be any better looking?
His smile is equally as heart-stopping and I find myself wanting to make him laugh again.

“Pardon my confusion, I thought that was exactly what we were doing,” he smiles those pearly-whites at me, making my heart skip a beat.

Is he purposely acting obtuse, or is he playing with me?
Somewhat annoyed now, I think he knows exactly what I mean. Or perhaps my annoyance stems from my uncontrollable, and unwanted attraction to him. Is he really that determined not to give up the act?
A famous actor, with more money than Hades, and women likely throwing themselves at him on a regular basis, doesn’t really care about a plain Jane girl he meets in a club unless he wants to get laid. And I certainly don’t relish falling for someone above my station, winding up broken hearted in London. I have enough shitty mistakes in my past to contend with.

Even though it feels like he’s pressing me to be direct, perhaps I’ll be a little subtler than outright stating ‘you’re only talking to me because you want to fuck me.’ Regardless, I find myself somewhat in awe of witnessing this act of his. And an act it surely is.

With a frustrated sigh I realize that I’ll have to put this bluntly, “Look, you’re a celebrity. Currently being stared at by everyone. That’s far from normal. I’m unnerved just sitting here. Simply put, you’re a superstar, and for me to be sitting with you just doesn’t happen in real life. This entire scenario is just a bit much. And just so there’s no confusion, by scenario I mean, an average girl—like me—catching the eye of said superstar for anything more than a quick lay.”

Shit, I did say it. Ugh.

“Furthermore, how can you be sure I’m not sitting here talking to you solely because of
who
you are, versus simply a man I’m truly interested in getting to know? I’m not sure myself . . . ” I confess the latter on a whisper, staring down at my hands, absently peeling the label off my Heineken. “I’m not that girl, Alex,” I continue, somewhat disappointed in myself, and my carelessness at throwing away this opportunity to assuage many a fantasy starring
the
Alexander Tate and yours truly. “Perhaps you’ve chosen the wrong girl.”

Stacey would crucify me if she could hear me—my defensive diarrhea-mouth breaking all of her rules. I have Alexander Tate sitting across from me acting completely interested and I’m giving him the cut-direct. I can just hear her now, ‘Abs, just go fuck this man and stop acting like a pussy. He’s Alexander Tate for fuck’s sake.’

I can’t look him in the eye. I’m wishing like hell my sense of self-preservation for a broken heart—and subsequent depression when abandoned after what I know would be killer sex—wasn’t winning this fight to indulge in having a hot fling. Never mind he’s a sexy famous actor who typically wouldn’t look my way. The fact that this is even happening right now is blowing my mind.

Tilting his head, his lips cock into a slightly amused smirk, his sexy voice pulling me from my inward skirmish, “Just so
I’m
clear, when you say ‘that girl,’ exactly what girl do you think I’m hoping you are?”

Seriously?
Does he really need me to spell it out for him? “Look, you have a swarm of women down there just vying for your attention. Or should I say, vying for a night of no-strings-attached sex with a superstar. Willing, able women you can surely have your pick from. Like I said, given I’m the one sitting with you, I’m sorry to say you chose the wrong girl. Besides, you’d probably be disappointed with average.”

Letting out an annoyed sigh, he looks hard into my eyes.

Okay, now I’ve pissed him off. If I annoy him enough, maybe he’ll just send me packing. He can simply start from square one with some other willing female. Of that I’m certain. But, if he touches me again I can’t promise I won’t cave and do exactly what Stacey would want me to do.
And what I secretly want to do as well,
I admit to myself. Like fuck him into next Sunday. However, I need to remember—self-preservation.

“That’s a very presumptuous assertion to make, Aby. Perhaps that girl that I’m looking for will be more than a quick fuck.” I note the slight edge in his tone.

He
is
insulted. No matter. I’ve just saved myself from my inner battle of ‘should I’ or ‘shouldn’t I’ since I’ve now ruined my chances anyway. Well done. That issue’s solved.

“And you’re far from average. I’d prefer you didn’t label yourself as such,” he adds with vehemence.

Wow, that was hot.

Hmmm . . . he’s smooth.
He’s pulling out all the stops to make me feel like I’m more than I surely am—an easy lay for man who’s horny. One who likely picks up regularly. I find myself a bit confused now, and somewhat pulled into his charade. Could I be reading him wrong? Part of me knows deep down that I just happened to be the girl who fell into his lap tonight—literally—and that’s the only reason I’m sitting here. Plus, Stacey’s conspiracy to get him to buy me a drink. But his outstanding performance is making me second-guess his motives.

Taking a sip of my Heineken, my uncontrollable verbal diarrhea continues to brew. “Alex, I’m the girl who made a lot of mistakes and plans on never repeating them. Jumping into bed with a man on a whim would be another one. Famous superstar or not. If I’m being honest, I can’t see any other reason why you’d want me here. Other than Stacey’s insistence, and perhaps you feel some unwarranted obligation. Either way, sleeping with someone I don’t know is not something I’ll do. The man for me has a tall bill to fit and I plan on maintaining my course without sidetracks. I’m sure that’s a bit too much reality for you to hear, given your efforts are for the sole purpose of getting into my pants, but there you have it. Regardless of who you are. What I mean is . . . whether you’re a superstar I’ve fantasized about forever, means nothing. I want more,” I state, somewhat matter-of-factly, taking another sip of my drink. Did I just willingly admit that I’ve fantasized about him? Right to his face. Could I be any more ridiculous?

Clearly taken aback by my accidental admission, Alex raises his eyebrow in question and I almost choke on the sip of my Heineken, a few drops spilling onto my chin. I’m struck still as he reaches up to brush his thumb along my jaw, wiping the beer, before putting his finger in his mouth to suck it away.

I’m mesmerized.
Wow.
That had to be one of the most sensual things I’ve ever witnessed. I subconsciously cross my legs at the feel of my long-uncherished vajayjay throbbing in need, squeezing away the want.

“So, describe the man that fits this tall bill of yours,” he continues, unaware of my body’s reaction to his erotic display. He’s clearly pretending that I didn’t just admit to having done the bump and grind with him in my mind.
For like EVER!
Oh. My. God.
But what a shocker that he didn’t jump all over the inadvertent admission and use it to his advantage.
Hmmm, impressive.

“That’s a very personal request coming from a man I just met.” What a joke. I’ve already opened Pandora’s Box to him with my big mouth.
I think I’m drunk.

“Well, you have me intrigued. Enlighten me,” he pierces me with his panty-removing gaze.

Releasing a sigh, I stare out to the crowded dance floor.
Oh, Stacey, where
are
you?

I can easily answer his question. It took years of my wanting more that essentially created this perfect list. Here goes nothing . . . ”Well, I want to be his world and everything in it. I want a man that can metaphorically make me fall to my knees by just whispering in my ear, and make me tremble in yearning. I want a man to build a life with. One that knows who he is and what he wants, and doesn’t shy away from getting it. Me included. I want to feel desired above all things, and . . . worshipped. I want to wake up every morning and feel blessed that he’s mine. Essentially, I want to be loved, and love wholeheartedly in return.”

A rush of embarrassment assails me. I just spewed my deepest desires to a man I barely know.
Better yet, a superstar who really doesn’t give two shits what I really want, but is simply hoping that I’ll cave and be in his bed within the hour. And, one that now knows I’ve fantasized about him.
Damn alcohol and lowered inhibitions.
Ugh.

I need to get out of here. “I should go,” I quickly blurt, pushing myself up. “Stacey and I have a big day tomorrow. It was a pleasure meeting you, Alex. Good luck with your career. You’re a very gifted actor.”
And apparently, so am I
—my inner actress reminds me, quelling my libido to just give in and rip his clothes off. Pasting on a smile, I extend my hand.

With a small smirk edging the corner of his mouth, he stands and grasps my small hand in his, giving it a strong but gentle squeeze. There’s no question that I feel the long desired sparks at his touch. Surely it’s just because of
who
he is, and his active role in my night-time/day-time dreams over the years.

With slow assurance, he leans towards me. I’m frozen as his lips fan my cheek. “The pleasure was all mine, Aby. Thank you for enlightening me with the man who’ll fit your tall bill,” he whispers.

Holding my breath I’m unable to respond, stunned with the desire coursing through me. Exhaling, I pull back to smile at him, awkwardly no less, and make a bee-line for the stairs, mentally shaking myself that he just metaphorically brought me to my knees with his whisper.

I’VE BARELY SLEPT—my mind continually replaying my run-in with Alex Tate.

Did that actually happen? Maybe I dreamt it.

Turning to look at a comatose Stacey, snoring lightly beside me in her alcohol-induced slumber, I let out a frustrated sigh, pulling the pillow over my face to block the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtained windows.

In my semi-asleep dreams, Stacey’s side of the bed had been occupied by, none other than, Alexander—
Alex
—Tate. The short moments of sleep I
was
able to enjoy were
spent in the throes of passion. How awkward to wake fully to see your best friend in his place.

Ugh.
I groan in frustration, the pillow shielding my face effectively silencing me. My body is a bundle of unfulfilled sexual need.

As if I’m not the only woman who’s rocked Alexander Tate’s world in their dreams
.
Problem is, not many women can say they had a real-life opportunity to be with him smack them right in the face, only to walk away from it.
What an idiot I am.

I made such life-altering changes to be here only to hold myself back when presented with a mind-blowing opportunity. Didn’t I promise myself that I wasn’t going to hold back from what I truly wanted to do anymore? Now I’ve gone and spit the chance in the face. I’ll never see him again, that’s a surety.
Damn my uncontrollable defensive reactions.
Self-preservation—
ha!
Stacey’s right, a part of me
is
being preserved—my vajayjay is drying up at the expense of my guarded heart.

Well, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it now. I can simply go back to dreaming, and leave it at that.
Fantasies are always better than reality anyway,
I convince myself. And I’m a pro at writing, directing and starring in fantasies.

Stacey stirs beside me. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she’s a little too perky for someone who drank way too much last night.

Pulling the pillow off my face, I turn to look at her; still gorgeous despite her rumpled hair and smeared make-up.

“What time is it?”

“Early,” I grumble, watching her hop out of bed, a bundle of energy. How she avoids hangovers I have no idea. Three drinks take me a week to recover.
Maybe I should drink more often?
I wonder in jealousy.
Work up an immunity to it?
Regardless, it’s not my alcohol intake from last night that’s rendered me useless this morning. It’s Alexander Tate.

“Well, I guess we better get a move on. We have a ton of flats to look at today, and I
need
coffee,” she makes her way to the bathroom.

There’s no way I can admit to her that I’m now having serious regrets about leaving Alex last night. I won’t hear the end of it if I do. I had to endure an earful after I coerced her and Thomas to leave the Wellington Club—rather abruptly I might add—as a result of having all but ran from Alex.

Ever the dutiful friend, Stacey obliged my sudden request to go back to the hotel, where I returned to the comfort—and loneliness—of our empty room, and she to the hotel bar to continue drinking with Thomas. But like all best friends, she foresaw my current predicament, telling me over and over during our cab ride back that I was a dumbass for leaving, and that I’d forever regret it.
Boy, how right she was,
I swallow the lump in my throat, begrudgingly getting out of bed. She knows me so well.

Still groggy from lack of sleep, I indulge in a lengthy shower as a means to wake-up, allowing the water to soak my hanging head, torturously replaying the previous night’s events. What he said . . . What I said . . . What I
should
have said . . . What I
should
have done. That’s life, though, isn’t it? Continuously daydreaming about how you could have done something differently.