I swallowed hard at the idea of handcuffs. “I'm not entirely against the idea of kissing you, but if you're going to do it, just do it. Don't tell me you're going to—”
He moved swiftly, hooking one arm behind my back so I couldn't fall off my chair or get away. His lips were on my mouth, his face in my face, and the kiss felt as right as anything had ever felt right in my life.
Fireworks.
He gathered my lower lip between his and gently sucked as his breath warmed my face. People were still tapping silverware on glasses and encouraging people to kiss. The room swam around me, and it seemed like everyone was kissing, in the beautifully-decorated banquet room, with soft music playing and the scent of flowers and fresh bread in the air. How could you not kiss in a room like that?
Dalton pulled away, quickly looking down, as if embarrassed.
I looked at his hand on my knee and found my own hand on top of his, squeezing his thick fingers. I loosened my grip, and at the same time, he flipped his hand to be palm up, holding my hand tenderly.
His voice husky, he leaned in toward me and said, “Thanks for letting me tag along with you today.”
“Thanks for running into my bookstore. Why were you running, anyway?”
He winced. “Stupid reporters.”
“Was it just the usual Hollywood stuff, or did you do something scandalous?”
“You mean like crash someone's wedding?”
“I guess you don't have to tell me.” I squeezed his hand and reached over with my free hand to take a sip from my second glass of wine. “I am a woman, though. And we're curious. Why don't you just tell me what's happening, so I don't have to sneak off to the ladies' room and scan through the gossip sources on my phone?”
He looked away, gazing at the newlyweds while displaying a breathtaking profile. Strong jawline, thick dark hair. That chin dimple was probably insured for a million bucks. Ugh. Even his ears were the cutest things ever, with all his cartilage folds being a thousand times more handsome than the ears of regular folks.
Where was that evil photographer? Why was he not getting more evidence of my once-in-a-lifetime handsome actor date?
I took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh—audible by accident.
Dalton turned to me with an intense look, the kind I'd seen him do on TV about a thousand times, right before he delivers a bombshell of a line.
Those gorgeous lips of his began to move. “Let's just be two souls tonight. Two souls who are made of stardust, and found their way back to each other, the way they were destined to.”
Gulp. “And?”
“Let's wait for our table number to be called, go stand in line for roast beef, and never let each other go.” He squeezed my fingers.
The way he was looking at me. The effect he was having on my whole body, from my swollen ladylumps to my actual freakin’ heart. Two souls made of stardust? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I reached for my wine and tossed it back.
Nodding, I said, “Tonight, we are two souls.”
To my relief, our table was called next.
Dalton jumped up and threw his hands in the air. “Table Seven gets lucky!”
The non-English-speaking gentleman at our table gave him a high five.
I turned and looked for my mother at a nearby table, and she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. She had her suitcase-sized purse open and was showing Aunt Gracie some pages torn from a magazine. Was she redecorating again? This did not bode well for Dad’s beloved recliner.
Dalton grabbed my hand, and we got in line for the buffet.
“This is just like crafty,” he said. “Craft services. That's the on-set catering. Here's a tip, in case you're ever working on a production: make friends with whoever's in charge of craft services. They'll give you advance notice when they're putting out the jelly beans, so you can get to them before the grips.”
“Grips?”
“Yes. They're the biggest guys on a production, and they ransack the table like Vikings.”
I handed Dalton a plate and started filling mine with salad, keenly aware that all the women at the buffet were staring at Dalton and all the men were giving him the manly version of side-eye.
Well, of course they were staring. The man was magnificent, like a racehorse, and as he loaded up his plate, I fantasized about brushing his hair. His hair wasn't very long, but it was thick and slightly wavy. The last guy I'd dated had been a balding cop with a shaved head, and I used to have these strange dreams about him suddenly sprouting long, bushy hair. I'm ashamed of how shallow that makes me sound, but it is what it is, and I like me some thick hair to grab onto. To run my fingers through. To…
He was staring at me. Oh crap. He knew I was fantasizing about his hair. I gave him a big smile, even as I guiltily wondered what the curly bushes around his hot dog stand felt like.
“Those bread rolls look so good,” he moaned. “Oh, they're killing me. Seriously, just… Peaches, could you get between me and those rolls before I do something I regret?”
He reached for the rolls in slow motion.
“You’re allergic to bread?”
Eyes wide, he said, “Slap my hand away. Do it!”
I wasn't sure what was going on, and had the suspicion he was making fun of me, but I slapped his hand anyway.
He sighed and moved down the buffet table, seemingly more relieved as we left the piles of fresh rolls and butter packets behind.
“Low-carb is tough,” he said.
“Tell me about it. That's why I was up on that stool today, putting tape over the vent. We share a cooling system with the other units in the building, and I swear the bakery shoves cupcakes right into the cold air return.”
Dalton laughed. “That's what you were doing?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, I was just standing on a stool, hoping some drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man would come in and catch me in his arms.”
He stopped laughing and smiled. “Hunk of a man?”
“That's your last compliment of the evening. I shouldn't have even…” I shook my head.
We were at the end of the line, and he tugged my elbow, steering me over to a quiet corner, away from everyone but the waitstaff.
We were both holding our plates of steaming food, but he backed me into a corner, took my free hand, and placed it on his abdomen. I felt hard bumps under my fingertips.
I breathed out a sigh. “Is that real?”
He gazed down at me, shuffling forward so that his legs were mixed with mine, one of his gorgeous, probably-muscular-as-hell legs between my own soft, plump limbs. Our lower bodies touched as my hand slid up along his gray dress shirt, over the bumps and ridges of muscle. I could feel his deep, calm breaths.