All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) (11 page)

After a few very steamy minutes, I slowly pull away. I catch Niles at that magical moment when his eyes are still closed and his lips are swollen and shiny; it’s a sight I’ll remember forever. Those lips—the lips that sing to millions of people across the world—were just on mine. And the person who owns them was just vulnerable putty at my hands.
My
hands.

Talk about inspiration.

“You’re a freaking awesome kisser,” I say, straightening my hair. “Now, let’s get to work. Let’s write.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Raise the Roof

“It’s getting chilly,” Niles says. “You can either come keep me warm or we can go in.”

I glance at my watch. It’s one fifty in the morning, and I am on an absolute creative bender. I’m sitting at the little table where we had dessert and Niles is sitting in a lounge chair he pulled up next to the table. I wave my hand at him in dismissal.

“Whatcha working on?” he asks, trying to peek at my screen.

“As if you don’t know.” I flash him a quick smile. He looks cute as hell right now. And definitely chilly. He’s huddled up on the chair, with his arms pulled into the body of his shirt so the sleeves hang limp. His laptop is resting in his lap, his phone balancing on his knee. I’ve hardly looked down at him since our writing sesh began, but I’ve heard him tap at the keys a few times and record stuff with his phone. I hoped he would sing a few verses, but all he did was speak. And maybe hum a little. It was hard to tell without completely staring.

“You’re certainly being productive over there,” he says. “I see lots of words on your screen. You’re beating me.”

Ugh. As much as I love hearing his voice, I’d
so
love for him to be quiet for just a second more. I’m seriously in the middle of a huge scene, and am really feeling my groove. I keep typing, without looking up.

“So dedicated,” he says. “I like that.” He chomps his teeth, as if he’s a tiger or something. “
So hot.
” He’s totally taunting me, but I refuse to let him derail my streak.

I put my finger to my lips. “Shushy a minute. I need to get this out.”

My scolding must work because he falls quiet, aside from the bang his laptop makes when he closes the lid and the creaking of the chair as he wiggles around. He sneezes and I realize that’s the first time I’ve ever heard him do so. Of course, I find it totally precious, because even his sneezes have a beautiful “voice” to them. I bless him and keep right on typing.

He’s quiet again, but starts the wiggle process all over after another few minutes. I feel kind of bad. Just a few more paragraphs, though, then this scene will be done and he can have all of my attention he wants.

“
Kal-lie
,” he finally says, in a super-loud whisper.

Ugh, hang on. I’m so close. So close.

“Kallie? You with me?”

“One sec, Niles,” I whisper back, still typing.

“Why did you get divorced, Kallie? What went wrong between you and Bub?”

Well, dang.
Now
he has my attention.

I reluctantly press Save and spin around in my seat until I’m facing him.

“Bub? You mean Brad?”

“I don’t care to say his name.” He says this with childish flair. I can see
someone
sure gets goofy late at night. And I like it.

“Oh, right. Bub. Gotcha.”

“So?” he asks. He sits up straight and throws one leg over each side of the chair. He sets his laptop on the floor and motions for me to come sit between his legs. When I do, he guides my shoulders until my back is against his chest and my temple is against his chin. He rubs both of my arms, which eliminates the goosebumps I had from the chill, but sparks new ones just because of his touch.

“So, what? What do you want to know?”

“What happened? Marriage is a huge commitment and you two bailed. There must be some pretty big reasons.”

I think about this. Almost every single person in my circle—family, friends, acquaintances, former coworkers,
everyone
—wanted to know “what happened.” So, I’ve been asked this many, many times, but have yet to come up with a good answer that doesn’t either trivialize our reasons, or invite further discussion.

“It was a combination of things, I guess. But nothing huge like cheating or spousal abuse or anything.” Niles spins a section of my hair around his finger, lets it go, then does it all over again.

“That’s good. So, you just, what? Fell out of love?”

“I suppose so. Of course it’s not that simple. It didn’t happen overnight. It was just a great big storm of boredom and disconnect and being in two very different places. I mean, he’s complacent and I’m not. He’s into simplicity and I like a little excitement. We never did anything fun together and we stopped taking the time to learn about each other. Over time, we—I—fell out of love. And by then, we were at the point of no return. In my opinion, anyway.” I wish I could see behind me so I could read Niles’s expression.

“So, was Bub on board? Or did you break his heart?”

I sigh. “I broke his heart. But now that we’ve split, he’s being a total ass, so I’m pretty sure he’s over me.”

“No, he’s not. He just doesn’t know how else to treat you right now.”

Since we’re on the topic of home stuff, I remember that I’d better let Niles know just how much the hive is buzzing over his recent trip home with me. A heads-up mostly, in case Brad’s rage and Katherine’s big mouth prompts
US Weekly
to call him and say, “Hey, we heard you’re kissing fans on running trails in Smalltown, USA. Care to comment?”

I drop the bomb, fully expecting Niles to wig out, but he barely seems to care. Instead, he shrugs and says with conviction, “So, Bub is calling your best friend, asking about you? Yeah, he is so not over you.”

“Okay, whatever, but didn’t you hear me? Aren’t you worried about being ‘caught’ with a fan?”

“Not as much as I’m worried about you ending up back in the arms of your ex-husband.”

Wait, what? He’s worried? That I’ll go back to Brad? Huh. That seems like something only people who are a real “thing” worry about. I don’t know what he has planned for us, but I do know one thing for sure . . .

“I have no interest in going back to Brad, Niles. That chapter is closed.”

“You have two kids. That chapter will never be closed. You’ll be seeing each other at functions and events forever, really. It’s not just a divorce, and you both move on. This is a totally different ball game.”

Hm. This is some pretty insightful reasoning for someone who has no kids. “True. But let me put it this way: the
book
that we created by having kids together will never be closed. But the chapters focused around the marriage between Brad and me have been written . . . and read. Trust me.”

Niles goes quiet, and while I further contemplate his supremely obvious insecurity about my reuniting with Brad, he starts kissing my neck.

“Have you ever thought about moving to New York, Kallie?” he whispers.

His kisses are seriously messing with my mind, but I’m pretty sure he just asked me if I’ve ever considered moving to New York. Which I haven’t. Ever.

“No, never have.”

“Sounds like maybe a great place for you to be, what with a successful author career and now most likely a movie. Plus, it would make sleepovers a whole lot easier.”

My stomach drops through the roof and straight down to the basement. Is he seriously saying that he wants me to move to New York? And have sleepovers with him? Like
sleep
-overs or let’s-finally-get-it-on-overs? Either way, it’s kind of sounding like he wants to spend a bunch of time with me. Beyond this summer.

“The girls,” I breathe. The way his warm mouth moves all over my neck and ear, I hardly remember I even have a pulse, let alone children.

“We have good private schools here.”

“Brad.”

“Bub can fend for himself.”

“He’d never let me take the girls away from him.”

By this point, Niles has wiggled around so he can easily reach my lips with his. His tongue wastes no time plunging into my mouth and his hands are groping everything that’s in reach.

When he pulls away, my head is spinning. “You seriously confuse me,” I say.

“You
make
me confused.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“I know.” He launches himself off the lounger and stands up to collect his computer and cooler and whatever else he can carry. I watch the way he moves, the way his hair blows in the wind, the way his watch peeks out from his sleeve every time he extends his arm. I want to be that watch, close to his pulse, feeling the warmth of his skin. I want to be the one keeping him on track, guiding him through his day.

I also want to pull him back down next to me and get him to open up. Tell me about Robbyn and what happened to split them up. Was he sad? Is he now? He doesn’t seem to be, but maybe he’s just rude to her, as he said, because he doesn’t know how else to treat her. Maybe he still loves her, or maybe he’s starting to fall pretty hard for me and he doesn’t know how to handle such conflicting emotions. But then why is he suggesting I move to New York, for crying out loud? Does he see a future for us?
Could
there be a future for us? The thought of it makes me shiver right down to my core.

“You gonna help me, lazybones? Early morning tomorrow. We should get some rest.” He hands me a chair and we make our way toward the elevator. He looks so tired and it really dawns on me how much exertion it must take to be up on stage in front of people most nights. Even though the adrenaline surely kicks in, it has to be draining to be “on” all the time. Then, there’s the physicality and emotional aspect of it. I know how drained
I
feel when I write a scene that has a lot of emotion in it—I can’t even imagine how he feels singing emotional songs while running around on a stage. I feel awful for keeping him up so late.

We share an elevator with five other people on the way down to his floor. If any of them know who he is, they’re either totally over the fact that they live in the same building with him or they’re giving him some space, because no one does anything other than nod in our direction. And Niles does nothing to hide the fact that we’re together. He must not think these people run the risk of “exposing” us.

Or maybe he’s just too tired to care.

After another trip to the roof for the table, it’s almost two thirty in the morning and neither of us has showered or brushed our teeth in what seems like days.

“Okay if I shower?” I ask. “I know it’s super late, so I can wait ‘til morning, if you want.”

“Of course.” He motions toward the bathroom. “Make yourself at home.”

I venture into his bathroom, which is as tidy as everywhere else in the apartment. He’s got a stack of fluffy towels and washcloths on a little cabinet, so I help myself, wondering again about his laundry. How does he have time? Where does he go? I somehow don’t see him sitting in the laundry room in the basement of his building, sorting through baskets of lights and whites and darks. He must have a “person” who does this stuff for him. Lucky person.

I pull back his shower curtain and feel oddly jealous of the walls that get to see him naked all the time, when I have yet to. I marvel how one minute he feels like a normal guy, and the next minute I remember he’s an international performer. And I’m about to get in his shower.

Once the water’s warm, I hop in and check out his products. He has one shampoo, one bar of soap, and one drugstore facial wash. That’s it. I so wish I were a guy. Totally unfair that he can look that awesome with such little help.

I make every effort to speed through my shower since I’m usually a twenty-minute-plus type of girl. Poor guy is out there waiting his turn, and he has a day like today to do all over again tomorrow. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror post-shower and panic, wondering how I’m going to face him with wet hair, blotchy skin, and no makeup. I decide that I, at least, need to put on mascara, then I take a deep breath and burst out into the hallway, a plume of steam trailing behind.

I peer across the hallway into his bedroom (which, for the record, he never did show me). The small lamp next to his bed is pretty dim, but I can make out his light gray walls, steel gray comforter, and a long dresser with a TV on top. I also see Niles, lying on his bed, on his stomach, with his face buried in his pillows and hair scattered across his forehead. He’s totally passed out.

Should I wake him or let him rest? He’s got to be totally gross, but maybe guys don’t care about that as much as girls. Every night we’ve spent together, I’ve felt completely guilty about not properly washing my face and putting on eye cream. Sounds vain, maybe, but not taking care of your face is like sending breakouts and wrinkles a personal invitation to wreck your life. I decide that if it was that important to him, he’d have turned on the TV or found a way to stay up, so I let him sleep.