Chapter 71
1779words
But sleep remained elusive.
"For heaven's sake..."
I tossed and turned, creating a crater in my mattress that could rival Armageddon. I cocooned myself in sheets, unwillingly at the center of my own turmoil.
It should have been simple. I should have been able to see this for what it was, compartmentalize it into the 'work-related' folder of my life, and move on with a semblance of purpose.
Yet, that didn't happen either. The longer I lay there, chasing sleep, the more I was consumed by the reality of what had transpired.
Nicholas had kissed me.
The man who had been my client for just over two years. The man whose public image I meticulously crafted to appease the press. The same man I recently paired with the worst possible date to appease his father's company.
That was the man who kissed me. That was the man who kept me awake that night. The man whose perfect, captivating face now haunted my thoughts.
...and for good reason.
The kiss had left me speechless. It had unraveled me completely.
Nicholas kissed the way he did everything else—boldly, wholeheartedly, without restraint.
It caught me off guard, despite my preparations. Despite witnessing his passionate embraces on tabloid covers and glossy magazines. At awards ceremonies and late-night dinners. Whether with princesses or supermodels, the intensity was always the same.
There was simply no way not to be overwhelmed by it.
Possibly it was the combination.
It was strong, yet vulnerable. Laying himself bare, while sweeping me away with a feeling of utter helplessness at the same time. He took complete control, but also left room for active participation. The whole thing felt like an invitation. A precursor for even more delightful things yet to come. The whole time, I held my breath.
Hoping it would last another second, another minute.
Another lifetime.
But truth be told, that's not what kept me awake that night. What kept me awake was a repeating question, as simple as it was utterly outrageous. Alone in my bedroom, without even a house plant to witness, it still somehow managed to make me blush.
If that was how Nicholas kissed...
I bit my lip.
...how did Nicholas fuck?
'Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable."
I actually leapt awake, landing somewhere in the center of the bed—pulling the lilac sheets up around me. I had no idea when, in the last hour and a half, I had actually managed to close my eyes. But at the moment, that was the very least of my problems.
Just a few feet away, Nicholas himself was perched on the edge of the mattress, holding out a steaming cup of coffee, identical to the one he was holding against his chest.
'What—what are you doing here?!"
I strung all the words together, unable to separate them. Unable to stop the guilty blush that had sprung up the second it seemed as though he was answering my embarrassing sexual question. Guessing at the guilty little speculation that had been running around my brain.
'This bed," Nicholas replied, completely ignoring my exclamation in light of what he'd deemed a weightier issue, 'this is the most uncomfortable bed I have ever come across. And for the record, I used to sleep with an understudy in Miss Saigon—their standards aren't very high."
I stared at him for an incredulous second, before trilling out in a high pitched voice:
'What the hell are you doing in my room?!"
He stared back down at me, completely unconcerned, as the words bounced back and forth within the four tiny walls.
'What am I doing in my girlfriend's room?" he repeated sarcastically. 'In the naughty hours before the sun comes up?"
I held my breath as his lips curled up in a devilish, wicked smile. But as quickly as they did, his entire face washed clean with the sort of wide-eyed innocence you only saw on nuns and other people who had preemptively devoted their entire lives to the convent.
'I'm bringing you coffee, of course."
He held it out with that same blameless smile—purposely wafting the steam my way in the hopes that I would smell it and start to wake up.
...it worked.
My fingers closed around it, nervously avoiding his, and I pulled myself up to a tentative sitting position—relieved beyond words that I'd fallen asleep that night wearing an actual shirt.
'Um...thank you, I guess." I took my first halting sip—locking eyes with him all the while. 'You know, you didn't have to break into my place. We could have met somewhere."
'Where's the fun in that?" he countered without hesitation. His sparkling blue eyes swept me up and down, before that twinkle translated into a smile. 'I deserve at least a few perks of this fake relationship, don't I? Breaking and entering should be one."
He stressed the word ‘fake' in a way that told me he didn't believe it, and smirked at the words ‘breaking and entering' in a way that told me he had done them many, many times before.
I tried to come up with something to say, but in the end, settled on silently drinking my espresso—wondering why in the world Nicholas Huntington was standing in my apartment.
'So," I finally managed, giving him a once-over as well whilst I simultaneously tried to determine what time it was, 'this is what it's like to date you, huh? A continuous, seemingly innocuous stream of light felonies?"
'Oh Avy," his eyes flashed in the early morning dawn, 'I'd be happy to show you what it's like to date me. But no," his face resolved all at once, 'it usually doesn't lean so much toward the misdemeanors. I simply didn't have your key."
I snorted and began to pull back the covers—only to realize a second later that I wasn't wearing any pants. The blankets shot right back up in an embarrassing burst of speed, and Nicholas's eyes swept innocently from the headboard all the way down—dancing with such an absurd intensity, I could swear the man had x-ray vision.
'What's wrong?" he asked casually, keeping his voice as innocent as his face.
It was a well-delivered performance, but I had known him too long for that. My eyes narrowed suspiciously as I tucked the comforter firmly around my legs.
'Nothing at all, thank you."
My voice unintentionally rose on the 'you,' adding that girlish touch used by women to tease and provoke their men. It seemed to strike a chord with Nicholas, who genuinely appreciated it. His lips curved into yet another smile as he took a deliberate sip of coffee, effectively steering the conversation in a new direction.
"So, I actually came here because I wanted to apologize... for last night."
My breath hitched in my chest as I stared at him with wide-eyed anticipation. In all the countless times I had replayed the kiss since it happened, regret had never been an emotion I felt. It didn't matter if an apology seemed appropriate or logical—I didn't want to hear it. I certainly wasn't sorry it had happened. Just surprised.
"You do?" To my own surprise, a sinking wave of disappointment settled in my stomach. I tried to mask it in my voice. "Well, that's alright. You don't have to—"
"For the press."
Our eyes met, and I could have sworn he was suppressing a secret smile. I nodded quickly, hoping I appeared as composed as he did.
"Right—the press. Yeah, that... that caught me off guard a bit."
For the first time, a flicker of genuine remorse crossed his face, followed almost immediately by a sympathetic grimace.
"When I called them, I completely forgot..." He trailed off, then shook his head. "It does get easier with the cameras. In a few weeks, you'll hardly notice them. I promise."
It was a kind sentiment, but we both knew it was far from the truth. The relentless pursuit, the constant intrusion of the paparazzi, didn't diminish over time. As long as you were a celebrity, you lived under siege. Back when I was climbing the ranks in PR, not a week went by without a client screaming at me over the phone, demanding that I do something about the unyielding press attention. Such interventions were nearly impossible, and on those days, I would listen attentively, interjecting appropriately, until the client calmed down, grew tired, or simply moved on to something else.
Nicholas handled it better than most. It was a rare day indeed when his perpetual armor cracked. He concealed the constant stress and frustration beneath a carefully honed smile, a skill he had likely mastered since childhood.
"That's easy for you to say," I muttered, recalling my near breakdown amidst the flashing lights. "I seem to recall a picture of you as a child consoling the Secretary General of NATO when the cameras got too intense."
By now, in the folklore of our city, it had become an iconic image. Like the returning WWII soldier sweeping a woman off her feet. Lennon in his glasses. Images that held cultural significance.
They were captured on the steps of the MET. One kneeling to be at eye level with the other. Nicholas, in his miniature tuxedo, imparting sage advice to one of the leaders of the free world.
At least, that's how the New York Times captioned the photograph.
'Are you kidding?" Nicholas laughed softly and shook his head. 'If anything, that picture proves my point. I was having a full-blown panic attack. Javier Solana took pity on me, knelt there and told me stories until I was able to calm down."
My jaw dropped open as my messy bed-curls tumbled into my face—completely aghast at the debunking of such a famous pose. It was like hearing that Marilyn Monroe wasn't really the one in the white dress. That Elizabeth Taylor didn't really like diamonds.
'Seriously? You're not just saying that?"
'Take a closer look." He downed the rest of his coffee and tossed the empty cup onto my nightstand. 'It's why he kept a hand on my jacket—he was holding me steady."
I clapped a hand to my chest, overwhelmed by the adorable tragedy of it all.
'...he was holding you steady?"
Nicholas shrugged dismissively.
'I was six. I got scared."
Yeah. He was six. Then why was it that right now, I was feeling so protective of him?
