Page 12 of The Publicity Stunt

Slowly, Hol takes back the empty glass and hands it to the bartender. “We’re gonna need more coffee beans,” she tells him.

He goes on staring at me like I’ve grown a set of horns.

“She just caught her husband cheating with the nanny,” Holly says and the man forces a sympathetic smile my way. The second he walks back into the kitchen, Hol turns her attention back to me. “Okay, what’s wro—”

“I just ran into Parker.”

At first her expression remains stoic. Her brown eyes narrow into slits and there’s a long, drawn-out pause. “What do you mean, you ran into Parker? Where?”

“Outside. A few blocks away. He spotted me.” Even as I say the words, I’m struggling to believe them. My heartbeat thumps underneath my skin and I reach into my purse, pulling out one of the hundred sample micro perfume bottles I keep stashed inside. Floral Lavender. Perfect.

“Spotted you? Are you sure he wasn’t following you?”

I scoff and spray the liquid on the side of my neck. “For eight years? I don’t think so. No, this was definitely a run-in.”

Hol leans against the case of whiskey bottles, nodding and mulling over my words. “How are you feeling?”

Her question drives a cold wedge between my ribs. How am I feeling? Shocked? Scared? A bit of both? I’ve spent a long time trying to forget him and all that happened. But now he’s back. I’m terrified that I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about him or that stupid scar on his eyebrow or the way he called me “Chere.”

“I don’t know. He seemed pretty shocked to see me too—”

“Oh, fuck my life.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, honestly.” I brush off her remark with a wave of my hand. “This is New York. People run into people all the time—”

She cuts me off abruptly. “No, not you. Just shut up and don’t turn around.”

Of course, I turn around.

“April!” Holly hisses.

With my back still toward her, I squint and scan the area. “I don’t get it. What am I not supposed to be looking at?” All I see are a few crowded tables, a couple of guys arguing over something “football” and—holy mother of God. My mouth gapes.

If Henry Cavill and Tom Hiddleston decided to have a six-foot tall trench coat-wearing baby, this man would be it. Short black hair, just long enough to run your hands through, and cheekbones that could probably cut through steel.

Goddamn.

His blue eyes flick to us and I spin around to face my sister. “Oh my God, who is that?” I’m whispering like his existence is some sort of secret. It should be. The guy’s way too pretty to be real.

Holly just glares at me. “Don’t.”

“Hello, love.” The man’s deep voice splices through the space between us and he takes a seat next to me. Wait … he knows her?

“This how you plan on paying off your med school loans? Bartending?”

Red heat flushes Holly’s cheeks and she says, “Just on Sundays. On Tuesdays I home-deliver homicides.”

Pretty Boy chuckles and turns his gaze toward me. “You must be the other Moore. The tolerable one.” His thick British accent cuts through the air like a freshly sharpened knife, “Pleased to meet you.” Taking my hand, he plants a very polite, gentlemanly kiss over my knuckles. “I’m Theo Carter.”

My brain doesn’t even process the words coming out of his mouth. It’s too busy picking up my jaw from the floor.

“Have you really got nothing else better to do?” Holly snaps at him.

“Rude.” Smiling, he turns his attention back to her. “I’ll have an old-fashioned, by the way. If you can manage it.” There’s a smoothness in his voice that’s kind of intimidating.

“Suuure.” She leans forward. “Would you like that with or without my spit in it?”

Ugh, Holly. Gross. I cringe.