His clothes look like every item was tailored for him because his body is perfectly sculpted with dips and peaks of toned muscle, from his broad shoulders down to his tapered hips, and those deep-cut oblique muscles that point to low-hanging jeans.
I’m lost in the reverie that is Colton King, and I know I’m in trouble. I’m not meant to salivate over him. I’m a professional, and he’s just a story I’m meant to write.
Shaking my head of my errant thoughts, I focus on my pastel pink yogurt and try to not imagine him without his shirt on. Even though I’ve studied all his photos with an eagle eye.
I know I shouldn’t care, but I can’t help myself. I’m naturally curious. Shouldn’t all journalists be? I try to convince myself it’s part of my job to ask questions, but deep down, I know it’s not the case with Colton.
My breath is stolen when I walk into the club. There are blue and purple strobe lights illuminating the large, open-plan space. Those wearing white, or any pale color, myself included, seem to be illuminated more so than those in darker shades.
People crowd the bar, so I forgo the area, heading toward the throng. Instead, I make my way past the dance floor and head deeper into the club where I find booths decked in dark leather.
The dance floor is bigger than my living room, and it already has bodies swaying to loud music, gyrating to the rhythm of some Latin pop star I can’t remember the name of right now.
Even though the song is catchy, I need to find Blythe and Colton before anything else. I notice a second-floor landing which surrounds the perimeter with dark railings keeping everyone from tumbling down onto the lower level.
My gaze trails along the faces. Even in the dim light, I find Colton surrounded by at least a dozen good-looking women, all draped over him. A blonde sits astride his lap and has her arms holding onto his neck, which has my stomach twisting with an unwarranted feeling—jealousy.
“There you are.” Blythe comes up behind me and offers me a friendly grin. “Come. I’ll introduce you to Colton if I can get those famewhores off his lap for long enough.” She rolls her eyes, which makes me laugh. Thankfully, I’m not the only one who doesn’t like the fact that they’re stealing his attention.
But do I want his attention on me? Or is this purely part of the job?
I follow her through the throng, and we reach the steps leading up to where the model himself is seated. The moment Blythe is spotted, the fangirls seems to scatter, except for the blonde who looks like she’s glued to him.
“I need to speak with Colton,” Blythe sneers, glaring at the half-naked woman. For a moment, they’re in a standoff, but Blythe is no match for her. Once he’s freed from the woman, Blythe turns to me. “This is Colton King,” she introduces, gesturing to him.
I thought I was ready.
I thought I was professional.
But when he stands to greet me, I know for a damn fact that I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of gorgeous male testosterone wafting from him like cologne.
Colton King is not a man — he’s sculpted perfection.
He’s over six feet, easily, and I have to tip my head back to look at him. His eyes are luminous in this dim light, and the corner of his mouth kicks up for a moment as he offers me his hand.
“Nice to meet you.” He grins, his accent thick, a smirk curling his lips, and heat emanates from him, making every inch of my body spark with unmentionable need.
“Hi,” is all I can muster as he takes my hand in his, engulfing it. He steps closer, and the hint of his cologne—masculine and spicy—hits my nostrils, and it takes all my restraint not to moan out loud.
Get a grip, I admonish myself. This is ridiculous. I can’t believe my reaction to him. I’ve never been one of those fangirls who gush over celebrities, but there’s something about Colton that makes me turn to nothing more than a puddle at his feet.
“I hear you’re doing the interview then?” he asks, the lilt in his voice, making the words sound exotic to the ear.
“Yes.” I smile, finding my voice. “I look forward to getting to know Colton King much better.” What the hell, Violet?
“You can get to know me all you like, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and I can’t tear my gaze away. He’s more handsome in real life than he is on screen. I cannot believe I just said it in that way. I’ve always prided myself on being professional, and that most definitely wasn’t. My cheeks burn with embarrassment at my stupidity.
Why am I acting like a teenage girl?
He smiles, stepping back, and I can finally breathe without him invading every inch of my personal space. To be honest, I didn’t mind it, not at all. And that’s where the problem lies.
5
Colton
I didn’t expect her to be so … stunning, alluring. Her dress hugs every curve of her hourglass figure, and the way she smiles catches my attention and holds it for a long moment. Probably too long because she turns away, lowering her gaze to the floor.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I tell her. I’m not sure why the fuck I’m apologizing, but I can’t stop myself. The words are out of my mouth before I have time to rethink them.
“Colton.” The blonde from my escapades last night—who I learned is called Tyra—comes floating back over to me, and suddenly, her presence annoys me. “Are you coming to dance?”
“In a few moments,” I tell her, not even bothering to offer her a glance because my attention is locked on the beauty before me. “What’s your name?”
“Violet,” she mumbles after a long while. Tyra sighs from beside me but thankfully disappears without more of a fight.
“Colton.” Blythe butts in, handing me my beer. “I just got off the phone with the Brazen line. They want you in the studio on Monday at five. Early shoot to catch the sunrise.”
“God,” I mutter in frustration. That’s one of the things I hate about my job, the early mornings. “I’ll be there, bright and fucking early.”
“I know you will because they’re the ones paying for your fancy apartment.” She laughs for the first time tonight. I’ve learned that Blythe is one of those women who are fiercely independent, yet they enjoy attention when it’s afforded.
I turn to Violet, who smells so good, reminding me of my mother’s infamous apple crumble with cinnamon on top. “Would you like to come to the shoot?”
Her pretty eyes widen in shock. She didn’t expect me to invite her to the shoot. But for some unknown reason, I want her there.
“I-I can’t. Work.” She waves her hand as if that’s a legitimate excuse. Perhaps it is. After all, it is on a Monday. Maybe I can get her to go out with me, for drinks, or something.
“Shit,” Blythe hisses, breaking the connection between Violet and me. “I need to go see someone. Stay here and stay away from those…” She waves her hand toward the dance floor, and I know who she means. I can’t help but chuckle at her as she disappears, leaving me with Violet.
“So,” I start, gesturing to the chair. “You’re a journalist?”
“Uhm ... Yes, I am. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” she relates, but there’s a hint of unsurety in her tone. “Sorry, I mean, I didn’t want to bore you. I think your friends are trying to wave you down.”