International Guy: New York (International Guy Series Book 2) Page 3

Unfortunately when my every fantasy is staring me down, half-dressed, I can’t blame “the beast” for reacting, standing up at attention, ready to take on the job at hand.

  She keeps one hand across her breasts and sticks her other arm out straight, rather awkwardly offering me her hand to shake. “Skyler Paige.” Her voice sounds strained, and her gaze moves up and down my body. Thank God my jacket is buttoned over my hardening cock.

  I take hold of her hand and am instantly zapped with a heat and energy unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

  “Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my eyes on hers.

  Hers widen, and the milk chocolate swirls into a dark-chocolate hot fudge. Incredible. I hold on to her hand, not wanting to let her go for anything in the world.

  Eventually she blinks and realizes we’re holding hands, staring at one another dumbly, me just outside of her door, suitcase at my side, and her half-naked.

  “I should, uh, take something off.” Her expression contorts into one of embarrassment as her cheeks turn a lovely rose color. “I mean put something on.” She moves a few steps back and waves me in, giving me the perfect view of her lovely, bouncing tits.

  The door behind me shuts practically on its own since she’s not holding it open, and she stands there, mute, taking me in while I can’t keep my eyes off her peaches-and-cream skin.

  “Skyler, I don’t want to be a bastard, but baby, you need to put some clothes on. Only so much a man can take.” I gesture to her insanely hot body. “All that is you, in that scrap of nuthin’ you’ve got going.” I suck in a breath. “I’m barely hanging on here.” The words come out of my mouth stern and direct, but also begrudgingly. No man wants Skyler freakin’ Paige to put clothes on, but in order for me to stop mentally eye-fucking her and be professional, she needs to move . . . fast.

  “I thought you were Tracey,” she whispers.

  “Got that. Not Tracey but a man. A man who sees a half-naked, beautiful woman greet him at the door with almost nothing on could get ideas. And Skyler, I have a lot of them. So why don’t you save me the hassle of getting smacked and fired for taking you into my arms and kissing you until you’ve got no breath left in you.” My chest rises and falls as I imagine doing that very thing.

  She makes a cute little squeak and follows it by saying, “Be right back.” And then I’m faced with a tight, round, bare fuckin’ ass.

  “Jesus Christ!” I swear again, watching her tight ass run down the hall and turn down another way, disappearing out of sight. My dick, now hard as stone, is screaming. I walk over to a table and lean against it, sucking in endless calming breaths, trying not to let the vision of Skyler Paige’s ass in a G-string pierce my brain.

  Damn, her ass is perfect.

  I shake my head and force myself to think about my mother, the kids at the library, Pops behind the bar at Lucky’s, Bo getting a pedicure in France while sipping on champagne. That image does it. Kills the hard-on immediately. Thank fuck.

  After a few minutes, as in ten, I’ve calmed myself enough to explore.

  The apartment is vast. Open and well decorated. Shockingly, in the information Wendy gave me about Skyler Paige, there was no Better Homes spread or some shit a lot of actors and actresses do. Showing off their pad and their money. Now I know why. This isn’t a show home.

  In front of a wall entirely made of windows that overlook Central Park is a large cushy sectional. Throw pillows in varying sizes and colors dot the U-shape furniture. The thing is massive. Could fit me and my two partners lying down with more room for others to loaf. It’s a piece you’d expect someone with a large family to have and use to hang out by the fire, the TV, etc. There is a fireplace in front of it and a large TV above that, but I know Skyler lives alone. Across another wall is a long table littered with mismatched frames in gold and silver. Pictures of Skyler and what looks to be her mother and father before they died. I read that they’d passed in a boating accident some years ago. Images of her with Tracey and a bunch of her costars in the movies she’s been in. Looks like she makes friends with the people she works with, because none of the other pictures have anyone I don’t recognize as being famous in them.

  Usually people put pictures of people they love and care about in frames, especially in places they consider sacred, such as their bedroom and living room.

  I decide to put that piece of Skyler into the memory bank to chew on later as I continue my perusal of her pad.

  Through a large archway is a giant kitchen. Pristine white cabinets with black knobs fill a good portion of the space. Shining granite countertops gleam, and a half-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich sits on the workspace. I step forward and continue slathering the jelly onto the bread, then the peanut butter. My stomach growls at the sight, reminding me I haven’t had lunch yet because the plane fare didn’t sound appetizing. Not everything in first class is awesome.

  Figuring she won’t mind, I pull out another two slices of bread and get to work on my own sandwich.

  “What are you doing?” Skyler enters the kitchen and stands far enough away to allow for personal space, but close enough I can still catch the scent of peaches filling the room. God, she smells divine.

  “Making a sandwich. I haven’t eaten, and I noticed you were in the middle of making one, probably when I arrived. Thought I’d finish it up for you.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbles.

  I pick up the finished sammie and set it on the bar before her. She eases onto a stool across from me and leans her elbows on the counter.

  “Tracey tells me you’re here to help me get my muse back. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve lost it, just that I’m not feeling right.”

  “You sick?”

  She lifts the sandwich and stops at her mouth. “No.”

  “You sufferin’ from the loss of someone or something?” I continue.

  Surprisingly Skyler takes a monster bite of her sandwich, chews, and shakes her head.

  “Then what do you think is wrong with you?” I ask, and bite into my own PB&J. The grape hits my tongue, mingling with the peanut butter in a superb way. It reminds me of home, listening to my mother read back my vocabulary words while I studied for a test back in elementary school. Good times. Simpler times.

  Skyler shrugs. “Don’t know.”

  “What do you know?” I throw out the question quickly so she can’t really think of her answer before responding automatically.

  “I can’t act anymore. I’m twenty-five, and I’m going to become a has-been. I don’t know what I want out of life anymore. I just know it isn’t this.” She gestures to her body and around the room, but I get the feeling she isn’t talking about her house or her body. No, there’s something bigger happening.

  “And what is this?” My nerves are prickling as my spidey sense picks up that this very well could be the crux of her problem. Body image, career strain—it has to be hard to be an actress, especially one at the top of her game.

  The woman before me is not Skyler Paige, A-list actress, the sultry bombshell on the silver screen, the one who woos men with a glance, breaks hearts left and right across the tabloids, wears only the latest and greatest designers, and tosses money around like it grows on trees.

  This woman is Skyler Lumpkin. A twenty-five-year-old, yoga pants– and hoodie-wearing, self-doubting, depressed woman. A lovely woman who is not only trapped in her lifestyle but inside her own persona. She looks scared, afraid, and utterly lost.

  I’ve never met a woman who needed my help more.

  “My life,” she says, as if she’s living a nightmare.

  “Most would say you’re living a dream. The life of luxury. Men at your fingertips. Hollywood on your heels.”

  “But it’s not me.” She runs her fingers through her beautiful blonde hair, tugs at the roots, and lets it fall. Of course, it falls perfectly into place.

  “This life you live, the job you have, it’s part of you. I think it’s going to be my job to show you that you are so much more than a b
eautiful liar.”

  “You think I’m a liar?” Her nose scrunches up in the cutest little cringe. It’s like watching a playful kitten get angry. Adorable.

  “Aren’t all actresses? Maybe the problem is you’re tired of lying.” Her breath catches, and her eyes snap to mine. I know I’m on the right track. “That’s part of it. You’re tired of being Skyler Paige. Tell me, Skyler, how often do you get to be simple ol’ Skyler Lumpkin?”

  Her eyes widen. “Did Tracey tell you my real name?”

  “No, actually my assistant did. She’s kind of a hacking savant. Be that as it may, how many people know the real you, Skyler?”

  She picks at her sandwich. “I don’t even think I know me anymore. How could anybody else?”

  “I think it’s high time we find her.” The mic is dropped and waiting for her to pick it up.

  She laughs dryly. “Oh yeah? And how do you think you’re going to be able to manage that?”

  “For now, I think we need to get to know one another. Build trust. In order to do that, I’m prepared to share and answer any question you ask honestly, as long as I get to ask one in return.” I purse my lips and cock an eyebrow in challenge.

  Her lips twitch, the first sign of happiness I’ve seen. Silently I consider this a small win. By the end of this experience, I hope to see a lot more than a tiny smile.

  “Deal.” She takes a big bite of her sandwich and holds out her hand. I sample a bite of my own and grab her hand. Once again, the heat builds between us, and I squeeze her palm once and smile before letting her go.

  “First question: Who’s the best kisser in the business?”

  Chapter 3

  After a late lunch, we retire to her comfortable couch to continue our game of truth. I start off slow, asking her perfunctory questions about her job, other actor and actress tidbits, and then I finally start to ease into the real deal.

  “What do you hate about being an actress?”

  A dry laugh leaves her lips as she suddenly stands, walks over to the bar, and pulls out an enormous bottle of Patrón Silver. “We’re going to need a drink for this.”

  I grin and stand up, remove my blazer, fold it, toss it over the side of the couch, and proceed to unbutton the cuffs at my wrists and roll them up for comfort. I remove my tie, set it over my coat, and undo a couple of the top buttons on my shirt. An ease fills my chest as I glance over to where Skyler is pouring not one shot but two . . . each.

  She passes one double shot glass to me; I take it, and she raises hers. “Bottoms up.”

  We both swallow the shots. Immediately she pours another pair and raises hers again.

  I stay her wrist before she can shoot the second one. I focus my gaze on hers, raise my glass, and look intently into her eyes. “To the truth.”

  She swallows and nods before lifting the glass to her lips. “To the truth.”

  The second shot hits my throat with a familiar burn I haven’t felt in quite a while. Skyler shockingly pours another double shot, but this one she grabs and takes with her as she settles back onto the couch. With her knees up into her chest, she hugs a slouchy red throw pillow to her side. The couch is a deep-chocolate-brown suede material with a mix-and-match theme of paisley, striped, and bold colored pillows in a variety of sizes tossed about.

  “Acting?” I remind her of my question.

  She sips the tequila as though it’s bourbon. “There’s a lot I don’t like about my job.”

  I ease onto the couch about two seat cushions away, allowing her to have her space. We’re still strangers, and the conversation is getting heavier. I want her to feel perfectly safe in her home with me a part of it. More than I’d like to admit, being here, sitting next to this woman, feels so completely natural. Peaceful even. Not something I’d expect when I was out-of-my-mind nervous to meet her just a handful of hours ago. Now I’m sitting on her couch, doing double shots of tequila, and digging into her deepest, darkest secrets. I’d like to be digging into her deepest fantasies, but there’s time for that.

  “Start with the first thing that pops into your head,” I toss out.

  “Having to be perfect,” she says, deadpan.

  I frown. “In what way? When you take on the persona of a character?” The guess is my first of many.

  She shakes her head, puts her long arm around the pillow, and picks at the fringe. “Jumping into different characters is the reason I love the job. Pretending I’m a scientist, a mother, a sister, friend, famous rock star. All of that is thrilling. Telling the story . . . that moves me. I love being a part of bringing a story to life.”

  “What makes you think you have to be perfect?”

  “The tabloids. Talk shows. Media. Press. The directors. My nutritionist, stylist, physical trainer, even my agent.”

  “Tracey?” I cringe. “Sky, I get the impression Tracey expects nothing more than your happiness.”

  She huffs and sips at her drink. “Maybe. Hell, I don’t know anymore. Trace makes a shit ton of money off me being the exceptional A-list actress. Doing the right commercials, wearing the elite designers, setting the bar for her other clients. It’s an endless cycle.”

  “Okay, and what don’t you like about all of that?”

  “Everything. I hate doing commercials. I hate not being able to pick out my own dress. Why do I have to wear Valentino when I saw a cool vintage dress off the rack I like?” She furrows her brow, and her lips flatten into a thin line.

  “Why do you feel you have to?”

  “It’s expected of me. When I walk a red carpet, I’m rated on my dress, the cost of the jewels I’m wearing, whether or not I look fat in the garment, who’s on my arm for the evening, what shoes I’ve chosen, what color my nails are, how my makeup is done, and lastly, if my hair looks good, is natural, cut right, styled right, shining the right way. I just want to go to an event one time and enjoy the premiere of one of my movies and think . . . damn, that was a fun movie to make. Celebrate my achievement, slap the backs of my costars and other people who made a story come to life. It shouldn’t matter what I’m wearing or how I look wearing it. The focus should be on the art, what was created. But it rarely is.”

  It hits me like an avalanche on a sunny mountain. “You detest the limelight.”

  Her gaze shoots to mine, and she sucks back the shot. I smirk, knowing I’m correct without her confirming it. I take my shot down my gullet, and the fiery liquid coalesces in my stomach. Instead of asking for my glass, Skyler brings the bottle and fills mine and her own once more before setting the square bottle back on the table. I inspect the green tinge and bubbled glass around the liquor, waiting for her to respond.

  She runs a hand down her thigh, which has me thinking back to how toned and tight those thighs are bare. I adjust my position, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, giving my cock some room. “Why don’t you have a man in your life?” I wonder out loud, genuinely curious. A woman like her . . . alone. It’s almost blasphemous.

  Skyler scowls and lifts the glass to her mouth. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  I laugh out loud, take the shot, set the glass on the table, and lean back against the couch, stretching out my arms wide and making myself at home. I watch as she takes in my body from the top of my brown hair to the four-day scruff I’m sporting on my chin and upper lip. Bo thinks I’m copying his vibe but made a point to also tell me it looked good. I, of course, ribbed him for checking out a man and told him he was gay and to fuck off.

  “For starters, I haven’t seen you in the smut mags with a man on your arm since that blond pretty boy, Rick Pettington.”

  Her expression contorts into one of irritation. “Ugh! I wasn’t really with Rick. His agent called my agent and asked for a favor. He needed to be seen with someone of my status for an upcoming role. Basically, I boosted his reputation by going out with him a couple of times and attending one black-tie event. After that, he got the role he wanted and jetted off to film. He texts me once in a while.” She shrugs nonchalan
tly.

  I try to ignore the fact that the pretty-boy douchecanoe still texts her. “Interesting,” I state through clenched teeth. “Did the same thing happen with Johan, the model you were seen everywhere with for a year?”

  This time, her face pales. “Eighteen months. And no. Not at all.” Her voice cracks, and her eyes tear up.

  “Shit! I’m sorry, Sky.” I scooch across the expanse and put my arm around her. At first she’s rigid, but eventually she relaxes and leans in.

  “I don’t want to talk about Johan.” Her tone is filled with unease, and that’s not where I want her to go right now.

  “Sore spot?” I state rather lamely, since it’s obvious.

  “He used me in more ways than I’m prepared to discuss right now.”

  I swallow and fight back the urge to growl, instinctually knowing it won’t help her feel any better. Instead, I rub her shoulder and inhale her fruity scent. Unintentionally I set my nose against the crown of her head and breathe in her essence more fully . . . audibly.

  “Did you just sniff me?” She pulls away, her face only six inches from mine.

  I smile. “I could lie and say it was coincidence.”

  She snorts. “You sniffed me.” She shoves at my chest, but I don’t let her get far. “Gross!” Sky tosses out in jest.

  I crack up laughing and pull her closer because I can’t stop touching her. The shots are hitting me, and I’m losing my inhibitions as fast as a drunk college girl loses her bikini top during spring break in Miami.

  She brushes away a stubborn lock of my hair that has fallen over my forehead. “Why is it so easy to talk to you when I can’t seem to say anything of value to anyone else?”

  She presses her hand to my cheek and I lean into it, rubbing my scruffy chin on her palm.

  “Tickles,” she whispers, and gets a couple of inches closer.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you find yourself again.”

  “My muse.” The words leave her lips on a gasp as I curl one hand into her hair and cup her baby-soft cheek with the other.