Page 1 of Popular (Private: The Extended Edition #5)

J.T.

I’ll admit it.

I’m not complaining.

I’m simply saying.

Noting.

Putting it in the Captain’s Log – for my fellow Trekkies out here – or secretary notes – for my business crowd companions – or even the side panels – for my fellow comic book warriors like my best friend who is seething that I’m on a tropical resort vacation with his wife who just so happens to be my other best friend.

This is really fucking unexpected.

Even for me.

“ You’re here alone… ” confirms the brown eyed beauty at the same time she leans one arm onto the outdoor-beach side bar top, “but you’re not alone ? You’re waiting for someone?”

Waiting seems like an oversell.

Brynley Winters Wilcox – the spouse to my aforementioned best friend as well as business associate – said she’d meet me down here.

Eventually.

She insisted on a mimosa-induced nap first.

Which I couldn’t argue with.

I mean…I probably could’ve.

I’m quite persuasive.

Especially in the boardroom where it matters.

I’ve initiated and closed more deals than I’ll ever get credit for – since it’s technically not my name on the enterprise – so I guess a more accurate statement would be that I opted out of arguing with her.

Afterall, the chick’s been on a long, warp speed, put everyone else first journey for quite a bit.

It’s about time she’s given an uninterrupted moment alone to rest and rub one out.

And I’m only privy to the last bit of information because I swear to the Gorn Captain that woman lives to make other people squirm.

Or maybe just me and Wes.

Or maybe just Wes.

Definitely Wes .

She’s been doing it since the day they met.

Er.

Sort of met.

They’ve got an unconventional love story.

And honestly?

It gives me hope that someday I can have my own.

That strange complications in that department can be character builders and not just relationship enders.

Rather than regurgitate any of that unnecessary info – and it is so unnecessary to a total stranger – I simply angle my baby blue “Don’t Phase Me, Bro” t-shirt covered torso to better face her and casually shrug.

“Not really waiting for someone so much as just here in case they decide to show up and join me.”

“Is the someone who might show up to join you your wife?”

“Fuck no.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Definitely no.”

“Best friend you secretly wish were your girlfriend or wife?”

“Contrary to some rumors out there…still a cosmozoan sized no.”

The long, tone legged, tattered jean shorts wearing female leans in a bit closer prior to inquiring, “ Boyfriend? ”

“No,” is quickly followed by me gesturing to my attire, remembering the last time a stranger poorly guessed my relationship preferences, “but is it the color?”

“The shoes.”

My hazel stare instantly slips down to examine my denim blue boat footwear. “The style?”

“The tassels.”

Alright.

Maybe Bryn was right.

Maybe those really do only belong on expensive curtains and stripper titties.

“So, what I’m hearing…” the straw fedora sporting bombshell slowly begins, pulling my gaze back up to hers, “is that you’re a free agent?”

“Correct,” escapes in an airy chortle.

“Unrestricted or restricted?” Her teeth steal an anxious bite out of her glossed, wide bottom lip. “Like you can feel free to explore the market to your career’s content or like there’s someone waiting by the phone to match an offer?”

There’s no stopping surprise and amusement from growing on my tan face. “Sports metaphors?” Mirth effortlessly deepens. “At a Star Trek convention?”

My nameless mystery lady sassily shoves a hand on her hip. “I’m complicated.”

“ You’re perfect, ” automatically leaves me as though someone else is now piloting my mouth.

Her long nose bashfully crinkles during her objection, “Far from it, Imzadi .”

It’s impossible not to lightly groan in gratitude at the overly geeky, obscure nickname that means beloved.

That label is simultaneously the sexiest and sweetest shit anyone’s ever said to me.

Also?

The most impressive.

Non-canon is so easy for too many people to overlook.

There’s still value in most of it.

Especially that novel.

I forgo the instinct to insist she’s anything other than flawless in order to feed my starving curiosity. “You read the book?”

“ Listened. ” Unexpected excitement rips through her expression. “I mean who could pass up the opportunity to hear Riker, read Riker, for a Riker based novel even if it wasn’t considered part of the actual franchise universe at the time.”

Am I dreaming?

Did I too drink a shit ton of mimosas on the flight here and am now in an alcohol-infused deep sleep?

You know what?

If I am?

Leave me here.

Let me die in this perfect fucking fantasy where I’m with the woman of my dreams who not only speaks my language but looks at me like I truly am her Number One.

Like it’s me who she wants to help run her crew rather than just being another red shirt member on board.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreaaaammmeedddd of listening to him narrate a Sloan Mathers’ novel,” spews the sexy stranger.

“You’re right. I don’t.” Smiling effortlessly continues. “But I’m willing to find out.”

“Tempting.”

“I like that you’re tempted.”

“I like that there’s something to be tempted by.”

Surprise over her retort momentarily renders me speechless.

“Back to my free-agent status question…” Her fit frame noticeably sways a bit closer. “You’re…what…exactly?”

Reluctance to respond is non-existent. “ Unrestricted. ”

“Perfect.”

“You still are.”

She only barely manages to bat away her giggle before stating, “I now pronounce us a fake couple.”

Nodding in appreciation of her mirthful nature is attached to an equally playful, “ Salud. ”

“You speak Italian?”

“You understand Italian?”

“I understand many languages.”

“And I speak many languages.” Another innocent shrug escapes. “Job requirement.”

“Same.”

Huh.

Wonder what my new fake girlfriend does for a living.

Oh!

And her name.

Still haven’t gotten that yet.

Interestingly enough this situation is beginning to mirror that whole wake up drunk and married to a stranger in Vegas thing.

Although, I’m not drunk – or at least I don’t think I am.

And we’re not married – just a couple for the sake of a good laugh, I guess.

And we’re definitely not in Vegas – which is fine by me since I prefer South Haven Island anyway.

The female in front of me flicks a strand of her long, dark brown hair away from her face and smoothly informs, “You may kiss your fake BAE.”

Befuddlement and levity yet again amalgamate in my expression. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

“Kiss you?”

“Kiss me.”

“As in…kiss you?”

“Yeah,” she relocates the hand on her hip to the edge of my shirt where it lightly tugs me forward, “as in put your face on my face kiss me.”

“You’re joking?”

“No.”

“You’re serious?”

“That’s the opposite of joking last I checked.”

Bewilderment runs rampant throughout my complexion and voice alike, “ Actually serious? ”

“ Next Gen not getting a season eight serious.”

The lowering of my jaw occurs of its own volition.

“Look, the Data level truth is that my ‘doesn’t accept no for an answer unless I’m dating someone else’ ex-boyfriend is about one role credit scene away from us right now, so I’m gonna need you to kiss me to full thrusters that point home.”

Okay.

Not what I was expecting.

However, if I’ve learned anything in my life as the right-hand man to one of the richest men in the world, it’s that the best things rarely are.

It’s how Wes got Bryn.

Spock got Uhura.

Grayson got Gordon.

Perhaps this is how I get her .

My one and only.

And she feels like she’s meant to be my one and only.

Which is something I’ve never felt before.

Which is also probably why my soul is screaming it’s more than ready to take “fake it ‘til you make it” up to the penthouse level.

“Okay,” airily along with awkwardly slips past my lips, “uh…you want a quickie?”

“Maybe later in a bathroom,” she good naturedly giggles. “I haven’t done that shit since that biker back in Camelot.”

All my flabber instantly becomes gasted.

Did she really just fucking say that?!

Out loud?!

To me?!

“ Kiss me, Imzadi, ” she commands in a slightly more seductive tone. “Kiss me like I’m Troi and you’re Riker and we both would rather die a thousand deaths than live a minute longer without the other.”

Haste would need a neck brace over the speed at which my mouth descends hers.

From the first touch, possessiveness possesses my entire system.

Pushes me to run both sets of fingers up the nape of her neck.

Bury them in her thick locks.

Roughly pull her into me as my lips spread hers in a demand to prove the point she requested.

To guarantee that it’s not simply fulfilled but done to the point of no contest.

Granting my tongue permission to taste the sweetness lingering on hers unleashes a beast I didn’t even realize existed.

Banished is the poster boy of perfection I have to be in every boardroom, every conference call, every charity convention and in his place reins something much more primitive.

Almost feral.

Completely foreign.

Shy swirls swiftly shift into sharp, savage lashes determined to scribble my name across her heart.

Spirit.

Soul.

Soft whimpers slipping loose are attached to her manicured nails sliding underneath the edge of my t-shirt to latch onto my lower abs for support.

Stability.

Sanity.

Fuck.

Both?

It feels like both.

I need it to be both.

Uncertainty that I want her to have either is what pushes me to press my tongue harder.

Faster.

Snatch away any and all opportunities to have thoughts.

Or ideas.

Or air.

Or anything that isn’t fucking me.

All of a sudden, a loud throat clearing hits our ears; however, we don’t immediately separate.

We continue to hang on for dear life, chests ceaselessly heaving, desperate to soothe the internal burning, foreheads lightly resting against one another, relying undeniably on each other for strength.

I just had the best kiss of my entire life.

And I don’t even know her name.