Walk of Shame
Page 27

I was wrong, I realize. First kisses aren’t always a disappointment.
Sometimes they’re perfect from the very start.
A second ago my hands were shoving him away, and now they’re greedily pulling him to me, my fingers on his lapel, needing his mouth against mine, harder, hotter. More.
He makes a low growling noise, and I realize that kissing Andrew Mulroney is nothing like it’s supposed to be.
Apparently the man is fastidious and uptight in all things except this, because his kiss is unapologetic and carnal, disregarding the fact that we’re in the middle of a sidewalk at the crack of dawn and that we don’t even like each other.
Maybe it’s that last part that makes the kiss so good, each of us just trying to best the other, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, even as we struggle the entire time to get closer.
My hands tangle in his hair, his hands find my waist, and the kiss gentles slightly as we try to catch our breath without breaking contact.
It’s the snap of a camera that finally disrupts our obsession with each other’s mouths.
I pull back, my eyes blinking in confusion before turning toward the sound of the camera, just as I hear another fast series of clicks, followed by a “Holy shit!” from the photographer when he sees Andrew’s face.
“What the fuck?” Andrew snarls, taking a step toward the photog. “Who the hell are you?”
The short, portly man, who smells like coffee and sports greasy hair, gives a self-satisfied laugh. “Doesn’t matter who I am, man. What matters is that you’re not Brody Nash.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, smoothing a hand over my mussed hair. It’s not the first time I’ve had my picture taken by desperate paparazzi on a slow celeb news day, but it’s definitely the first time I’ve warranted someone outside my apartment building.
“Someone saw you and Brody Nash leave together,” he told me.
“So?” I ask.
“So I thought maybe his fiancée would find it interesting,” the smarmy man says with an indifferent shrug. “Guess I got it wrong. At least I got his, though.” He holds up the camera and looks Andrew over. “You have any idea how hard it is to get the Divorce King on camera?”
Andrew’s face is murderous, and his eyes look too bright. Not at all like himself. I step between the men before Andrew can do something that will result in the pig pap pressing charges.
“Let him go,” I murmur, placing a placating hand on Andrew’s chest.
He glances down at my hand and takes a deep breath. “Is it always like this around you?”
I wince, knowing that the paparazzo following me home from the club has done nothing to elevate Andrew’s opinion of my lifestyle.
“Not really.”
“Print those pictures and you’re dead,” Andrew says over my shoulder to the retreating photographer.
The man shrugs. “I won’t print shit. But you can bet I’m gonna sell ’em to someone else who will print them.”
The man darts across Park Avenue, well out of Andrew’s angry reach.
Andrew swears vehemently under his breath, running his hands through his hair, and I reach out a hand to calm him, but he steps back. “Just . . . give me a minute, Georgiana.”
Georgiana. Even now, after he’s just had his tongue down my throat, I’m Georgiana. It makes me want to smile, even in spite of everything.
Then Brody’s striding out onto the sidewalk. He comes up short when he sees the murderous look Andrew and I both shoot him.
He laughs and holds up both hands. “What’d I do?”
“You’re engaged?” I ask.
His eyes go wide, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks a little unsure of himself. “Look, Georgie babe, it’s just—”
“I let you kiss me,” I say angrily.
It’s not until Andrew’s head whips around to look at me that I realize my mistake. “I mean—I—Andrew, wait—”
He takes another step back, his eyes shuttering as his face resumes its usual impenetrable icy mask. He lifts his hand to a temple as though warding off pain, then drops it. “I’m late,” he says curtly, turning away.
And because I know there’s nothing more disastrous in Andrew Mulroney’s life than being late, I let him go, watching helplessly as the distance between us increases with his determined steps.
Brody whistles. “Damn. What was that about?”
“Shut up, Brody. Who are you engaged to, anyw—Actually, you know what?” I hold up both hands. “I don’t even care. Just leave.”
“Georgie—”
“Leave,” I say, my tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. Maybe Andrew Mulroney is rubbing off on me.
Brody gives a tired sigh like I’m the troublesome one, and bends down to kiss my cheek. “Call you later?”
I give him a look.
He laughs. “Or I’ll let you cool down first. See ya, babe.”
Unbelievable.
I don’t even register whether Brody walks away, hails a cab, or what. I’m too busy watching Andrew’s retreating figure get smaller and smaller until he disappears.
Well . . .
Damn it.
Now what?
Andrew

MONDAY AFTERNOON Andrew tried mightily to pay attention to his phone conversation, to listen to what Liv Dotson was telling him, even as he rummaged through each and every one of his desk drawers in search of aspirin he knew wouldn’t be there.
There was a reason he took such good care of himself, and it was so he could avoid feeling the way he did right this moment: like absolute shit.
Damn Georgiana Watkins. Damn Brody what’s-his-name. He had half a mind to blame them both for the headache that was currently crushing his skull.
That slimy paparazzo too.
As for the kiss . . . he wasn’t thinking about that. At least, he wasn’t letting his brain think about it. His body, though—he wasn’t sure it would ever forget what it had felt like to finally, finally give in to his want for her.
He’d been fantasizing about the moment for weeks.
It had exceeded expectations.
“Anyway, I’m really just so sorry about how this worked out,” Liv said as Andrew gave up and closed the last drawer. “I feel like you wasted your time.”