Chapter Five: Lucky You
I sat in the interviewer's chair and tried to rub the growing headache out. The lights trained to make us look good on camera were so overwhelmingly hot that I wanted to change into a different outfit. Wardrobe wanted this designer in the shot, so it promoted their new line, but man, sweater material was just too much for this room setup. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing to calm down. I recited the questions in my head to ensure I thoroughly memorized them. I usually hated doing pre-set interviews like this, but it was a blessing today. After a hangover day yesterday, I was not at the top of my game. I swear I was still sweating tequila a full 24 hours later. Even after drinking my weight in water yesterday, I still felt the aftereffects.
Thoughts of Wednesday trickled into my mind, and I swear I could smell that tropical coconut cologne that drove me wild. I may or may not have stalked a department store this morning, sniffing all the colognes there to find that smell. Fantasies of a faceless, dark-haired beach god serving me tropical drinks in pineapple cups with those little umbrellas and asking me if there was anything else he could do to please me plagued me night and day. I wish I could remember his face because the imprint his touch left on my skin drove me to use my vibrator more than once last night. I didn't regret anything from that night, but I really should have gotten his number or, better yet, his name.
"Oh, there you are, beautiful." A deep voice said next to me. My eyes snapped open at the familiarity, and I met with a pair of icy blue eyes. As soon as I saw his face, memories began to resurface. I recognized his cologne, his voice, his face, and his eyes. He was the man from last night! My chest rose and fell with heavy, bewildered breaths as my brain processed the mystery standing before me. Clarity smacked me in the back of my head. Not only was he the man from last night, but this man was none other than Grant Dawes. How I hadn't recognized who he was the night at the bar was beyond comprehension. I both loved and hated my drunk ass self for not knowing. I've drooled over this man's stats and followed his career since he started. I instantly sprung to my feet, smoothing out my skirt. I shyly smiled as I extended my hand, trying not to show my inner fan girl, "I'd prefer Letty but for you..."
I raked my eyes over his body and bit my lip, making it obvious I was checking him out the way he had. The man gave me a knowing smirk, gently taking my hand, "I'm Grant Dawes."
My smile fell for a moment, but then I recovered. Of course, my mystery man from a night of orgasm-induced madness would be the same person I was interviewing today. Grant's eyes danced with amusement as I put two and two together before he spoke again, "I think it's my lucky day. I usually hate these interviews, but I think this will go smoothly."
He leaned in, his breath tickling my ear. In a sharp tone, he whispered, "You stole my lucky jersey, little thief."
I pulled my hand out of his, feeling the coldness from his lack of touch. If it was Grant's lucky day, this had to be my unluckiest. A million thoughts ran through my head, and I questioned whether or not I should continue with this interview. Wasn't this a journalist's conflict of interest? I mean, could I sit through an entire interview without picturing him on top of me, pounding into my core? Shit, my panties were wet just thinking about the intense pleasure our night together gave me. I fanned my face to cool my warming cheeks. I opened my mouth to apologize, but what came out was a breathy, "It was payment for my broken blouse."
The make-up artist on set suddenly appeared beside us, "Wow. I need to powder you a bit more! The lights must be making you sweat. Your whole face is red from the heat."
Grant grinned from ear to ear and stepped back with a swagger that screamed confidence. Had he done that on purpose? Was he knowingly messing with me right now? That look flipped a switch in me; if our one-night stand didn't affect him, it wouldn't affect me either. I was a professional, and no one else knew the questions like I did. When the make-up artist finished, I gestured to the other chair beside mine, "Mr. Dawes, you will be sitting here."
"Please call me Grant." He glanced at me as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. Images of me popping the top button off when I ripped open his suit jacket two nights ago had me clenching my thighs. Stop it, Letty! I could do this! I can be professional.
"Shall we sit? It will take them a bit to do the photo op, so I'll go through the questions as soon as the camera person is ready."
Grant's gaze slid over me as I adjusted in the adjacent seat. When I cleared my throat, his lips tipped up, and I nervously glanced his way. My eyebrows pulled together, and I averted my gaze to the crew. The cinematographer gave me the countdown from 5, then flicked his pointer as if saying Action.
I looked toward the camera, reciting my opening lines, then turned back toward Grant. "I'm joined here by Grant Dawes, two-time Stanley Cup and Lady Byng Memorial trophy winner. How are you today?"
Grant smiled easily at my question. "Great. Thank you for inviting me to this interview."
I masked my expression with a polite and professional smile. " It's a pleasure to have you here. The Olympics have kept you away from the NHL for a while, but from what I understand, you might make our city your last stop."
"Yes, I did finalize a three-year contract with the Hot Shots. I'm excited to start this new step in my career." Grant's lip tipped up on one side, giving a sexy, lazy grin. I noticed his hand gripped the arm of the chair so tight his knuckles were white. The juxtaposition between his laid-back expression and the tension in his body was confusing.
"I'm sure the fans are excited to see you on the ice in October. Are you prepared for opening day?"
Grant shifted in his chair slightly, and I glimpsed his thigh muscles straining under his slacks. I crossed my ankles to smother the need I felt at the apex of my legs. Maintaining professionalism took more work than I thought it would. Grant leaned forward. His neck muscles were stiff, making his usually fluid movements seem boxy. "Hockey is a team sport. It takes time for a team to learn how to work together. I look forward to working with these amazing players as a colleague rather than an opponent."
"Teamwork makes the dream work," I mused, then remembered the setting and continued with the questions: "Before heading off to train with the Olympic team, you were two points away from earning the Art Ross trophy; how disappointed were you not to be able to add it to your achievements?"
I looked into Grant's eyes and saw a brief moment of frustration. I realized too late that the question was removed from the approved list just this morning. I had been too focused on the mystery of Grant before me to remember. I opened my mouth to speak again, but he plastered on a strangely carefree smile, "As disappointed as any other person would be. To be the player with the greatest total points in the regular season is an amazing accomplishment, one I hope to have the opportunity to achieve. So that is all you need, right?"
Suddenly, Grant was up out of the chair, throwing his sound equipment into the seat and walking away. I stood to follow him, but my mic wire got caught on the arm of the chair, and I bounced back into the seat. By the time I was able to untangle myself, Grant was gone. I sighed, rubbing my throbbing temples in frustration. I had warned Horatio that this would be the outcome. It was my fault for going off script, but still, he answered the question. We could have moved on to the next one and edited out the mess up. It wasn't like this was live! My annoyance extinguished any leftover desire I had for that man. This was my job, and he was messing up.
"At least we got the photo op done. He normally won't stay for that," the photographer mused. I tried to be optimistic, but this failed interview meant I had to spend extra time with Horatio. That alone made me internally scream. I just hoped I had enough to pull some print-worthy article out of thin air.
An assistant walked over with a bottle of water, opening the top as they went, "Mrs. Kerns, you need to drink--"
The assistant tripped over a camera wire, and in slow motion, I watched the water bottle erupt all over me and drop open-side down into the photographer's just-packed and open camera bag. Instantly, the photographer and I pulled out equipment to find the card holding the digital photos, and a flurry of apologies flooded out of the assistant's mouth. I watched the photographer pull a sopping-wet memory card from its storage pocket.
"Tell me you can dry that out and recover the photos."
The woman grimaced, "Maybe, but the water spilled directly on it, so no guarantees."
I groaned in frustration, "Unluckiest day ever."