Greatest Distraction (Distracted #1) (11 page)

The longer I stood on the carpet with all the questions and calls from reporters, the more I found myself actually excited. There was a buzz in the air unlike anywhere else.
I’d wanted to get away, to re-find a ‘me’ that I could recognize. What better place, or way, to do so? Sure, I didn’t live the life most twenty-somethings would in my position; hell, forget twenties – I didn’t live the way most
people
, all people, would if they were in this situation. But that was okay. I was determined; I found myself in this city, at these events once, I would do it again.

Smiling a final time, I held up a hand to indicate I was done. I turned, almost laughing at their disappointment, and was greeted by the doorman, doing his job by ushering me inside. I thanked him, yet frowned when he held his eyes downcast.
Ah
, I thought, remembering one of the biggest reasons this scene had bothered me so badly. Moving closer to the man, I whispered softly to him, though he never looked at me.

“Thank you,” I repeated, continuing when he merely nodded. “Never drop your gaze – they’re just people. This is just a place, and it’s all just money.”

The man’s eyes snapped to mine, full of surprise and maybe sadness. I, too, was surprised. He was awfully young, entirely too young to be abused by this crowd. He couldn’t be over twenty-one, but since I was often mistaken for a junior in high school, perhaps I wasn’t the best judge of age. Squeezing his arm, I turned away, anxious to look around. It took a lot of effort to steel myself against the pity I’d felt for the doorman, though. I hated the ‘I’m-better-than-you’ attitude the money crowd always had.

“Stop it,” I said aloud, scolding myself. I was here to have fun, not
to emotionally ping pong back and forth like I was bipolar. My brain was about to argue on, deliberately ignoring my mouth’s command, when I finally entered the Grand Foyer. My breath caught in my throat and I pressed a hand to my chest.
Wow.

I’d been to the Radio City Music Hall before, generally to see a show on the Great Stage. The other areas though, were often used for venues like these, and were almost always booked. I’d only seen a lot of them in passing, too distracted to pay much attention. I was getting a good look now, that’s for sure.

It was two stories, but stood much taller, breathtaking in its … richness. That’s the only word that could work as a description for it. Gold and cherry wood filled the space with elaborate tapestries hanging on the walls. A staircase adorned an entire side of the room, elegant and strangely reminiscent of
Beauty and the Beast
. I had the craziest urge to climb it, just so I could feel pretty walking back down. Tables and chairs were pressed along the walls, looking plush and inviting in a perfect color of purple that coordinated well with the scheme of the standard décor. A fully stocked bar, complete with alcoholic ice sculptures, was tucked neatly under a balcony from the second floor. Factor in the soft lighting and the romantic music playing softly, and it was just this shy of a dream.

The only downside to this visual Utopia were the people; they were everywhere. Men in fancy tuxes and suits mingled with perfectly put together women who looked like the millions they probably had. Waiters in bright red jackets, assumedly dressed to be distinguished from the guests, mingled in between and around the many who stood talking to offer drinks and small hors d’oeuvres. I had to give credit to the serving staff – they moved like it was choreographed, completely in sync with the world around them.

As I stood gawking, someone knocked into me, effectively breaking the spell the room had on me. I started to move, to turn, to give the person who’d so rudely pushed me forward a few inches a piece of my mind, but I stopped when that someone spoke.

“Pardon me. I’m so sorry, I was distracted.”

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, left completely useless and looking (and maybe feeling) like a fool.
Shit, this can’t be happening to me.
But it was. I easily recognized the voice – hell, who am I kidding? I couldn’t forget it. It was
him,
the laughing man from the Atlanta airport. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit! What the hell was he doing here? And, oh god … I treated him like I was a stone-cold bitch. Maybe if I stood really still, he’d just got away.
“I can’t see you, you can’t see me,”
a voice sing-songed in my head.

“Are you alright?” came his voice again, closer than before. He’d put his hand on
the small of my back and I shivered involuntarily as his body heat warmed me.

“
Erm…” I started, swallowing hard. “I’m fine.” My voice was soft, really soft, and almost … meek? Oh boy. Why did I care what he thought of me? It was just latent guilt for not being nice. Yes, that’s what I was feeling. Mmhmm, definitely.

The man hadn’t moved, his hand still resting on me, but he didn’t speak. Instead, we both just stood there silent
ly, in the entry of an event with people looking at us. I was thinking how I hoped he couldn’t see the stupid goosebumps on my arms. As for him, I had no idea what he was thinking and I was too proud to turn to see if I could read his face. Alright, fine, maybe it wasn’t my pride. Maybe it was my shared DNA with a farmed chicken or something – free ranged, not caged.
“Bwock, bwock bwock,”
the snarky voice in my head chanted.
Geez, maybe I need medication to shut these voices up or something,
I thought, smirking when the voice immediately shut up. Score one for the Ryen in charge!

“Well, well, well,” the laughing man finally said, breaking the silence
as a camera flashed. Unable to stop myself, I spun, his hand dropping back to his side, my back cold because of the lack of his warmth. I wanted to avoid eye contact, avoid falling into them and getting lost, really I did. I had no good explanation for why I let mine lock with his. Nope, no good reason at all.

They were just as green as I remembered, twinkling brightly with amusement. It was obvious that Mr. Man smiled a lot – he had smile laugh lines
, I hadn’t seen them before – which were even more pronounced as his face split into a huge grin. Of course, his doing so made that damned dimple show back up.
Well, hell.

I shook my head, hoping it’d clear it, and let my gaze travel down his body.
He looked good, really good, in his expensively tailored, black Armani suit. He’d paired the ensemble with a soft emerald tie, forgoing the classic bow tie of his peers. It was clear he took great care of his body, filling out the jacket and white button-down shirt. He didn’t have any fold-over fat; I know, I looked. Realizing it looked like I was staring at his package –
hmmm,
I thought appreciatively – I brought my gaze back up to his. Fuck he was sexy –there, I admitted it – and I especially liked that he’d kept his stubble. Drool.

“Well?” I asked
snarkily, angry because I was embarrassed over being caught on package watch. Schooling my expression, I remained determined to ignore the blush I knew was coloring my face, probably now matching the gown I was wearing.

“Well, not much. Seems that jet plane didn’t take you too far
… or were you just waiting for me?”

“You wish,” I said, ignoring his smirk and continuation of the song. The laughing man merely chuckled and stepped forward. We were now close enough that I could feel him. His nostrils flared – which was way hotter than it sounds – and his breath was warm as he exhaled. His eyes never left mine as he bent forward so his lips w
ere just shy of touching my ear.

“Yes, I do.” His words sent the butterflies in my stomach into high gear.
I shit you not, I almost
swooned
.

Straightening immediately, he grinned, adjusting his jacket before offering me his arm. Gentleman? My eyebrows rose but I slipped my hand to grip his elbow before he answered my unspoken question.

“I’m buying you a drink,” he stated simply, quickly starting to speak again before I could interrupt him. “I know … you can buy your own – you made that clear – but it’s an open bar. Plus, there are reporters here, and everyone is staring at us.”

“So it’s a free drink?” I asked, grateful he’d started moving us in the direction of the ice sculptures. People
were
staring at us, which I’d known, but hadn’t really noticed until I saw how their eyes followed us as we walked. “This is
not
a date.”

“No. When it’s a date, you’ll know. I’ll be paying then
, too.” He sounded so confident that I was a sure thing and it irked me. It was definitely time to knock this guy down a peg.

“Not that there will
be
a date anyway. You’re not my type.”

The laughing, smoking
-hot man held my arm as he helped me onto a bar stool. Climbing on the one next to me, he ordered our drinks – gin and tonic for him, vodka-cran for me. Just as he started to turn toward me, he stopped, looking like he was deep in thought.
Okay, so he’s also an odd duck
, I thought until he instructed the barman to pour Grey Goose for mine, instead of the house brand he’d been grabbing. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped open. How did he know that? Unable to contain my curiosity, I gave in and asked.

“Am I wrong?” he asked in answer to my question. Ugh, I hate
d when people did that.

“No.
And don’t answer a question with a question. It’s rude.”

“About as rude as your little speech about Peter, Paul
, and Mary in the airport?” He was challenging me, the arrogant asshole. When I remained silent he spoke again. “Chuck’s my friend. I asked what you drank and he told me. Easy.”

It didn’t take rocket science for me to figure out that ‘Chuck’ must’ve been the guy behind the booze at the airport. I
wasn’t responsible for the words that escaped me. “Are you stalking me? If you are, I’ll warn you now I’m not the best stalkee… ask the paparazzi. I’m boring. They learned that a long time ago.”

“You’re certainly
not
boring, Ryen Macek. And, no, I’m not a stalker,” he snorted, raising his glass to his lips. I stared, momentarily distracted by the move and his mouth. So distracted, in fact, that it took a hot minute to register that he’d used my first and last name … both of which I hadn’t given him. For a second I panicked.
He really is stalking me! Should I drink this? Date rape drug! Just say no to candy from strangers!
My mind was reeling with overreactions and the cautions mothers pass on to their children.

The man beside me started to laugh, almost like he could hear my inner freak out. Still
, his chest rumbled, to the point he was almost completely doubled over with his humor. Finally he came up for air, tears in his eyes.

“Jesus, you should see the look on your face!” Most of my panic had faded, especially as he’d been reduced to giggling like a
Tickle Me Elmo doll. When he could talk again he held up a hand, giving me the Boy Scout salute. “I promise I’m
not
a stalker. Or a psycho. I do not plan on kidnapping you, really. I’ve lived in New York for the last decade; I recognized you from the papers after … anyway,” his words trailed off and he waved the thought away.

“After my father died,” I finished for him. Sure, it wasn’t something I enjoyed talking about, but it wasn’t as fresh and didn’t stab me in the heart like it used to. I did appreciate his tact,
however. “Thanks for clearing that up for me, though.” I lifted my glass toward him in acknowledgement and took a sip, cautious with the colored liquid. Last thing I wanted was to dump it on myself.

“Yeah,” he said, copying my gesture with his own cocktail. “Anyway, you looked familiar at the airport, but it wasn’t until mid
-flight that I realized who you were.”

“Glad you know who I am
… I haven’t the slightest idea who you are,” I replied, doing my best to not seem as nervous as I was. Hadn’t I thought that if I’d met him in New York I would’ve entertained the idea of a date? Or…
“Don’t go there,”
the voice in my head screeched, but it was too late. Yep, white-hot sex. Oh, that thought did things to me.

“I’m Brian
Ranucci,” he introduced himself, extending his hand to me for a handshake. I took it, ignoring the feelings of excitement that zinged through me from his touch.

“Brian?” No. That just wouldn’t do. With that name, he’d completely blow even a fling between the two of us o
ut the window – not that one had been offered, but all the same. Brian and Ryen? No, just no. That’s as bad as the couples that are Wesley and Lesley or Jessie and Jessica … You just know it’s going to end badly, after a few months of non-stop razzing from every person you’ve ever met. Maybe I could just give him a new name? Bob? Sebastian? Max? Liam – oooh, all Liam’s are hot, right?

“Yes?” he asked, snapping me out of my mental ramblings. I was confused until I realized I’d said his name like it was a question.

“I’m not calling you Brian. I’m going to change your name,” I informed him, not caring if he liked it or not. If he didn’t then he’d leave me alone. If he did, or it didn’t bother him, he’d stick around and I’d get to stare at him a little longer. Either way, win-win.