My Rock Star
“Holy shit,” I curse under my breath because no. No way is he here, in my freaking grocery store of all places.
On instinct, my lungs quit working, just in case he has some ear-related superpower and can hear me breathing from across the produce section. Ducking into the dairy aisle before he can spot me, I end up hip-checking an endcap stocked with tortilla chips and knocking the whole thing over in a magnificent display of awkward. My furry boots pop a few of the bags as I try to save the rack from crashing to the floor. And I do save it—yay me—but I also manage to slip and land ass-first in a pile of crushed blue corn.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and plead with the grocery gods to take pity on me. If they’re just and merciful deities, an aching tail bone and bruised ego are the extent of my humiliation. If they’re the smite-y type, then the hottest guy I’ve ever known—intimately—has just witnessed my epic fail.
“Hey, are you okay?” a deep male voice asks from right in front of me.
Yep. Definitely smiteful.
See, I know that voice. It’s the voice of the guy who obliterated my comfort zone last year. The guy who saw my bitter, post-breakup self in the audience and somehow knew a one-night stand with a rock star was exactly what I needed. Or maybe he just saw a vulnerable girl with a flashing red target on her crotch. I don’t know. It’s not like there was much conversation. Or any, really. His dick, on the other hand, spoke volumes.
Resisting the urge to look at him, I keep my eyes clamped shut. If I don’t acknowledge the situation, that means it’s not actually happening. Right?
Warm fingers gently grip my chin and tilt my head back. “Can you open your eyes for me, gorgeous?”
So much for this not happening.
Get it together, Evie.
Blinking my eyes open, I flinch back.
Holy crap. I knew he was close, but I didn’t expect him to be within kissing distance. Doesn’t he know how dangerous that is? Doesn’t he remember the way my lips latched onto his and didn't let go until he fell asleep and I hightailed it out of his hotel room? Doesn’t he…
Wait— Does he? Searching his eyes for a spark of recognition, I find…nothing. He has no idea who I am. This man’s seen me naked and contorted in positions I hadn’t even known were possible until that night…and he doesn’t remember.
I should be offended, right? Sure, I’m bummed that the sex I still reminisce about every night didn’t even warrant a dent in his memory, but you know what? More than anything, I’m relieved. As far as he’s concerned, he and I are strangers and I’m just some klutz who can’t turn corners without harming innocent food products.
It’s the best possible scenario. Really, it is. The pressure to be cool and sexy has been lifted off my shoulders. Those things may come naturally to him, with his badass mohawk, eyebrow piercings, and jeans so low I can see the delicious V between his hips. But for me—a mere mortal in yesterday’s yoga pants and my ex’s oversized sweatshirt—cool and sexy are distant, unattainable goals.
And that’s fine by me, because now I know he won’t be comparing everyday Evie to the wanton sex goddess he turned me into that fateful night a year ago. I haven’t been her since.
“There she is,” my rock star says, flashing a sly grin. “You had me worried. I was about to perform mouth-to-mouth.”
Not the least bit flustered or turned on by the picture he just painted, I say, “Okay.”
Wait, no. That doesn’t answer his question, does it? Did he even ask a question? All I remember hearing is “mouth-to-mouth.”
He chuckles as he stands and helps me up. Back on my feet, I thank him for his concern and go about slapping crumbs off my backside. When I happen to notice he’s still standing there, watching me practically spanking myself, I arch an eyebrow at him.
“So, yeah… Thanks. Again,” I say and wait for him to carry on with his business. He doesn’t.
Instead, he nods at my crumb-covered ass. “Do you need help with that?”
“That’s very”—pervy—“sweet of you, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“If you insist.”
A disgruntled store employee shows up with a broom and an industrial-sized dustpan, and I apologize profusely for making her job suck worse than it usually does. Grabbing the red basket I’d dropped when I fell, I make my way to the produce section, which is where I was headed before I saw him.
It’s my best friend’s birthday, so I’m cooking her dinner. Well, attempting to, at least. She’s a vegetarian, and since I’m not big on that particular food group, myself, I’m a little out of my depth. I pick up a zucchini—or maybe it’s a cucumber—handling it like an alien object deserving of caution.
“Is it stiff enough?”
The maybe-zucchini slips from my hand, landing on a pile of similarly phallic green things, and my head whips in the direction of the tall drink of sexy I can’t seem to shake.
“I—I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Your cucumber,” he clarifies, sort of, plucking it off the pile and waving it around. “They’re no good once they’ve gone soft. The hard ones feel much better in your mouth.”
We are still talking about vegetables, right?
He trades my cucumber for one that’s noticeably larger. “Here. Feel this one.”
Dumbstruck, I let him place it in my open palm. There’s a nice heft to it, and I curl my fingers around it, squeezing to assess its firmness. Looking at the size of it in my grip, it occurs me that he just handed me a cucumber roughly the same thickness and length as his cock. And now the memory of mounting and riding that thick, long cock has me pressing my thighs together. His eyes drop to my lap, letting me know my attempt at finding some relief didn’t escape his notice.
“Yeah, um… No. That is, it’s good." Clearly, I've lost the ability to string words together in a way that makes sense. Dropping the cockumber—I mean cucumber—in my basket, I shuffle over to the tomatoes.
What exactly is going on here? Because I’m pretty sure he’s messing with me. I’m not imagining that, right?
Then dread creeps in… Maybe he does remember me.
“My name’s Scott, by the way,” he says, trailing behind me.
Nope. Definitely doesn’t remember.
And, of course, I know his name—Scott Dylan Rollins—but I don’t tell him that. I also don’t tell him there were posters of him hanging in my old bedroom until I left for college three years ago. Or that we’ve slept together. I definitely don’t tell him that.
“I’m E—“ I almost say Evie, because that’s what everyone calls me—and the name he cried out each time he came—but I reconsider. The last thing I want is to trigger any conveniently dormant memories, so I go with my full name, instead. “I’m Evelyn.”
“You should give me your number, Evelyn.”
“And why would I do that?” Aside from the fact that, holy shit, Scott Rollins wants my number.
“Because it’d take me too long to try random ten-digit combinations until I hit on yours.”
Yeah, right. The thought of a world-famous rock star putting that much work into trying to contact me is laughable.
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble for someone like me,” I say, holding out my hand for his phone.
“Don’t sell yourself short, gorgeous.”
Easy for him to say. Selling myself short is my favorite pastime.
Some crazy impulse comes over me, and I can’t help myself. Right in front of him, I scroll through the names on his contact list. With few exceptions, they’re all women. Dozens and dozens of women, no doubt more worldly and sexually gifted than I’ll ever be.
“Are you sure I won’t get lost in the crowd?” I ask, simultaneously praying I will and hoping I won’t.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”
After flashing a wink and an adorable smirk, he saunters off, leaving me staring at his ass and wondering what the hell just happened.
* * *
Lying in bed, I’m willing my brain to shut off and let me sleep, when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. The unfamiliar number has my heart racing, and it takes my trembling fingers three tries to pull up the waiting text.
My breath hitches on a gasp.
An impossible image fills the screen, of me, asleep, with my head on Scott’s shoulder and his lips pressed to my forehead. Before I can process what I’m seeing, another text comes through.
I found you, Evie.