Celeb Crush (2 page)

It’s that bright open smile that does it.  Or those eyes.  And that warm husky voice.  Yes, there are a butt load of hot blonde guys, in L.A. alone.  But they don’t have the burning charisma that Luke does.  That fire in his piercing golden green eyes.  Everything about him is fascinating and completely effortless:  his intensity, his talent, and his God-given good looks.  It all translates into magic on the big screen.  You could spend a lifetime staring at him, and still not get over how stunning he is.  True story.

Golden Boy is looking a little disheveled right now, with his red-rimmed eyes and unshaven Hollywood jaw.  How is it that guys just look hot and tortured when they haven’t showered or shaved? A girl would never be allowed to get away with that, right?  I don’t, at least.

“Hey, what took you so long?”  He scowls, moving to the side to let me in.

“Don’t start with me,” I mutter, shoving my backpack into his hard stomach as I push past him.

I quietly survey his beautiful suite for damages.  Well, it’s not too bad as far as celebrities tantrums go:  a few things tossed about, some broken bottles—oh, that huge mirror above the antique-looking desk is completely shattered.  Except I don’t think it was just a plain mirror; looks like there was some kind of design on it.  I bet it was expensive.  I’m guessing every item in this room is.

“You’re going to have to pay for that, you know,” I say, pointing at the destroyed mirror.

“I can afford it,” Luke replies flatly.

So not the point, but try explaining that to a twenty-three year old millionaire movie star.

He drops my backpack on an uncomfortable-looking black leather chair, and grabs an open bottle from the bar.  I watch his strong tanned throat working as he takes a long swig.  “You look like shit,” he rasps out, leaning back against the bar.

“Back at you,” I snap, irritated that I do look worse than he does.  And I showered recently.  Didn’t I?  I march over to him and hold my hand out demandingly.

Luke arches an eyebrow at me, raising the bottle out of my reach.  “You don’t happen to have any Ex-Lax, do you?  Because I’d really rather not almost shit myself to death.  Again.”

He’s talking about an extreme situation.  I would not usually pour a laxative in someone’s liquor bottles if I wasn’t trying to save said someone’s life from alcohol poisoning.  Now that I think about it, I used a
lot
of the stuff.  He probably could have shit himself to death.

“Don’t exaggerate,” I say with a fake laugh.  “I warned you that I was going to do it, and you puked it up before it could take effect.  No harm.  It’s not my fault that you thought I was bluffing.”

I sucker punch him in the gut.  He grunts and lowers his arm, and I snatch the fancy bottle out of his grasp.  I take a delicate sip and choke as the liquid burns a path down my throat, and sets my chest on fire.  “I thought you could afford the good stuff,” I gasp, tears springing to my eyes.

Luke bares his straight white teeth at me in a pirate grin.  He rescues the vodka from my nerveless fingers.  “You’re a lightweight, Andi.  This
is
the good stuff.”

His face suddenly clouds over, and without warning, he hurls the bottle at a wall with the force of a major league pitcher launching a fastball.  The bottle doesn’t break, but there is a distinct cracking sound—and a dent in the wall where the bottle hit.  Crap.

I openly study hit taut expression.  I know that look.  When he gets like that, only sex or violence will calm the storm in those green dragon eyes.  And I’m way too tired and annoyed to go find him a fast—but uncomplicated—hook up.

I grab another bottle from the bar and throw it at the wall.  It makes a very satisfying thud as it harmlessly bounces off, and bounces onto the thick carpet.  Shucks.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I swipe a fragile crystal tumbler, and deliberately drop it on the marble floor of the bar.  It shatters into about a billion shards with a musical tinkling sound.  “This is fun,” I say unenthusiastically.  I pick up a lovely onyx vase and contemplate its weight in my hands.  “How much do you think this is worth?”

Before I can break it, Luke takes the vase away and sets it back on the table.  Smirking, he concedes.  “Alright, you made your point.  Damn, you really can suck the fun out of anything.”

“Thanks.  It’s what you pay me for.”  Yawning, I head toward the comfiest-looking chair and curl up in it.  “So, what’s with you?  What’s with the celebrity meltdown?”

Following my lead, Luke collapses on the leather sectional sofa, leaning his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling.  He emits a harsh sigh as he runs his hands through his short blonde hair.  “I take it you’ve heard about my near miss.  It was close, Tiger.  Too damn close.  Jesus, those little kids—I could’ve killed them!”

There is real torment in his voice, so I force myself to think before I reply.  Sometimes I say things that are completely inappropriate.  Like right now, I almost make a tasteless joke—I don’t want to say about what because then I’d sound like a monster.

“But you didn’t,” I say finally.  “And even if you did—Luke, it wouldn’t have been your fault.  The assholes that ran you off the road would have been responsible.”

“That’s not how they’d spin it, though.”  A cynical smile touches his mouth.  “The paps would crucify me.  They already hate me because I’m…uncooperative.”

I hesitate, pulling my knees up to my chest, and wrapping my arms around them.  “Maybe Jessica is right,” I say, referring to his scary publicist.  “If you let her leak your location a few times, they might be less aggressive about tracking you down.  Do you know how much a candid picture of you is worth right now?”

“Do you?” he shoots back.

“I do.  I could probably pay for the rest of college with one shot…”  I trail off, pretending to consider.

Luke straightens up to mock glare at me.  “Don’t even.”

I bite back a smile, resting my chin on my knees.  “You know, I still have that picture of you covered in Nate’s Baked Alaska.”

“And I still have that signed confidentiality agreement,” he counters.

“Touché.” 

He chuckles, and I’m relieved to see some of the tension leak from him.  But then he turns serious again.  “I’m not going to make myself accessible to those bloodsuckers just so they’ll back off my ass.  That’s like giving in to the terrorists.”

I roll my eyes at him.  “Terrorists.  What’s the big deal?  You take pictures with your fans all the time.”

“That’s different.  My fans own a piece of me; they helped get me to where I am.”  Luke gives a muffled groan.  “What the hell am I gonna do about this?  I feel like I’m walking around with a target on my back.”

“You could quit acting.”

“Hell, no!”

“…he says indignantly,” I murmur.

He glares at me.  “Yeah, I’m fucking indignant!  I worked my ass off to be here.  No way am I quitting.”

“Then cooperate a little.”  I shrug at him.  “Don’t be so mysterious.  Join some social media sites; take a few selfies.  Anonymously submit a few photos of yourself to the tabloids.  That way you control the when and where.”

Luke is silent for a moment, mulling over my advice.  He slumps back on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest.  “Maybe,” he says reluctantly.

“I’m only repeating what Ivan and Jessica have been telling you forever.”

“Yeah, but you’re a lot cuter.”

He suddenly grins at me, that stunning movie star smile, potent enough to burn the panties off the most unsuspecting sleep-deprived girl.  Even my heart flutters a little, and I’m totally immune to him.

“Have Nate set you up,” I tell Luke through another yawn.  “He’s got legions of followers.”

My eyes are burning.  I’ll just shut them for a bit.  Then I’ll…

“Hey, wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

I open my eyes to find Luke standing above me, an amused smirk on his gorgeous face.  I groan and slowly sit up, my joints making popping noises as I stretch.  “I wasn’t sleeping,” I mutter.

Luke chuckles at my grumpy tone.  “I’m gonna take a shower.  If you’re so tired, take a nap in my bed.  After you wake up, we can grab something to eat.  Sound good?  Andi?”

“What?”  I keep my eyes unnaturally wide.  “Yeah, whatever.  Did you take your pain meds?”

“Are you kidding?  Alcohol and pills don’t mix.”  With a wink, Luke starts walking away, throwing over his shoulder, “Get some sleep!”

Yeah, like it’s that easy.  Grumbling to myself, I slowly get to my feet.  I would love to fall face first onto the sofa, but I need to clean up in here a little.  There’s not a whole lot I can do without any cleaning products, though.  I toss the bottles in the trash and use towels from the bar to sweep up the glass.  Then I drag myself to Luke’s room to assess the damage.

No mess, thank god.  But look at that absolutely decadent king-sized bed.  The covers are turned town, and the snowy white sheets call to me.  I have to see if the mattress is as comfortable as it looks.  I’ll just sit on it for a few seconds because I’m dying to know.

Heaven.  It’s like sitting on angels.  Damn it, I don’t care if Luke had sex on this bed.  I am freaking tired.  I’ll just sleep above the covers.  I’ll worry about…zzz…

I wake up degree by degree to a dark room.  I am so supremely comfortable that it takes me a while to realize I’m half-lying on someone, my hand resting on a warm bare chest and one leg slung across a hip.  Strong arms are wrapped around me, trapping me against his side.

I realize immediately who it is, though I have never been in his arms like this before.  I know his soap and sun scent.  Who else is it gonna be—the maid?  Ugh, I can’t believe he climbed into bed with me.

This is awkward.  I gently try to extract myself from his embrace without waking him.  He mumbles incoherent protests, and tightens his hold on me.

“Luke, let go,” I whisper, struggling to disentangle myself.  God, his arms are like steel bands.  Ooh.

Nope.  Can’t enjoy it.

“Mmm, don’t go,” he murmurs huskily, still asleep.  “I’ve finally got you in my bed.”

Hm.  I wonder who he thinks I am.  I pinch his side and he grunts, finally letting go and rolling over the other way.  Relieved, I scoot off the bed, falling to the floor in my urgency to get away from my half naked boss.

I cannot believe that just happened.  The last time I slept in the same bed as someone else was two years ago, with Bran—my traitorous ex.  And I’ve never been a cuddler.  In fact, I’ve been told that I kick and punch in my sleep.  I never believed it until Bran set up a camera, and aimed it at our bed to catch me in the act.  In the video, I can be seen shoving and pushing at him, lying sideways so I can kick him completely off the bed.  That explained the fresh bruises he would always sport in the morning.

Oh, well.  I find a bottled water and some aspirin and leave it on the night table for Luke, just in case.  I grab my backpack from the living room and lug it into the bathroom with me.  A long hot shower sounds like just the thing to clear my foggy head.

I take my time in there, but Luke is still fast asleep when I come out.  Look at him.  He’s too beautiful to be real, with his face half illuminated by the soft glow coming from the bathroom light.  The reckless smirk he usually wears is gone, and he actually looks kind of sweet and almost vulnerable.  His long dark lashes touch the top of his cheeks and his sharply defined lips are parted as he breathes deeply, in and out.  Cute.  Sometimes it hits me that I’m one of the privileged few that get to see Lucas Greyson in his unguarded moments.  It’s crazy to think how many people would literally kill to be this close to him.  The thing is, even when you get to know him, he’s still larger than life.  Even if he wasn’t famous, he’d still be important.  Some people are just born magnetic and fascinating, the way others are born predisposed to diabetes and cellulite.

I make myself leave before I start ogling his boxer-clad body.  I’m only human, after all.  This guy is a work of art, and I’m just appreciating it.  It would be a crime not to.

I text Ivan to let him know that the situation’s been defused, and that I need to get back home as soon as possible.  He calls me back fifteen minutes later, thanking me profusely.  I start to feel like I’m kind of amazing, especially when he tells me I can hitch a ride on a client’s private jet.  I love private jets.  They are the only way to fly, in my humble opinion.

I stand at the foot of the bed, admiring Luke one last time before I go.  I’ve mostly learned to ignore his looks, but sometimes—when he smiles, or when the light hits him just right…he just takes my breath away.  Platonically speaking, of course.

I write him a note so he doesn’t freak out when he wakes up and finds me gone.  Then I give myself a pat on the back for a job well done.

Goodbye, Paris.  It’s been weird.

Chapter 3

I am in a good mood.  I just took my last final today, and I’m pretty sure I aced it.  Now I’m on my way home and I’ve got serious plans to devour all the contents of the giant food basket Luke and Nate sent me as a congratulations.  It’s filled with my favorite snacks, and I will eat them all as I watch screener copies of movies that haven’t even been released yet.  Another perk of working for a celebrity.