Perfectly Imperfect(6)

By: Harper Sloan

“I’m sorry, Willow. I have to take this,” Randy explains and moves to help me stand.

“Allow me,” I hear spoken from my other side, stopping me before I can move from my position seated on my bottom with my hands ready to push off the ground. The smooth rasp of his voice wraps around me. Those two words were said low, but with sympathy, and cause me to snap my eyes from the horrified ones of Mr. Buchanan and over to where that sinfully deep voice came from.

I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room, let alone someone who must have been sitting just a few chairs down from where I had been before my crash to rock bottom. Literally. He moves to stand before I can see his face, but his denim-clad legs hit my vision. All I can see is two muscular thighs molded in dark-wash denim as if they were made for the man. As he moves closer to my body, I feel something like electricity lightly zapping my skin.

If his face matches what I can see, I can only imagine how good looking he is. God, I really am surrounded by perfect people. Even Randy Buchanan at his ripe age of sixty-two has a body I’m sure he spends hours a day in the gym to keep looking that way. I don’t even need to see this stranger’s face; with a body like that, he could be a troll and still be closer to perfection than I’ll ever see in myself. Is it too much to ask to see someone, anyone, who doesn’t look like they were made from a mold?

Great, just what I need; another witness to this repulsive scene my checkers of a day fated to suck created.

“It’s all right, Mr. Masters. I have it. Won’t take but a second, right, Willow?” Mr. Buchanan asks, bending to assist me from the floor. Where I still haven’t moved.

“That might be, Rand, but it looks like you're needed elsewhere,” the man, Mr. Masters, continues. He raises one hand from the side of his body and points over toward where the receptionist is still trying to get my attorney’s attention and then bends at the waist to offer me his hand.

I get my first glimpse of the man behind that voice.

The foreign feeling of pure lust coils so tightly that it steals the breath straight from my lungs.

My cheeks flame once again as goosebumps fire across my skin when I realize just who has been witness to my living nightmare. Oh. My. God. Mr. Masters?! The one and only, Mr. Kane Masters. Sexiest Man Alive, most wanted actor around, the object of lust for maybe every woman in the whole entire WORLD! Good God! It can’t be. There’s no way that … no … oh, crap. I was wrong; this day could and did get worse.

“I … please … I’m so sorry,” I whisper meekly. Please, God, open the ground up and swallow me whole. Just end it now. “Please, don’t worry about me … oh, God.”

“Willow, was it?” he asks, reaching out and pulling me off the floor with his hands hooked under my armpits. Am I sweating there too? I feel like I am. Holy crap, is he touching my pit sweat? “Are you okay?” he questions, continuing to assess me. Did I nod? I might have … or maybe I’m just gaping at him like the freaking idiot I am. “Do you need medical assistance?” he continues when I don’t say a word.

“I—I’m—crap, I’m okay. Only what was left of my pride was damaged.” I don’t say anything else, but duck my head to avoid his penetrating gaze and kneel on the floor to start grabbing whatever I can within reach, stuffing everything hastily back into my purse.

“Kane, if you would follow me, I can take you back to Steven’s office while he’s busy,” I hear the receptionist say, closer this time. I’m sure if I were to look, she would be right next to us.

I don’t look, but I can tell he doesn’t move. His presence isn’t something I can ignore, and it just makes me gather my things a little quicker. What is wrong with me? Or a better question is what is he doing to my body? Every inch of my skin feels his presence like a physical touch. Please, just leave. Don’t stay. God, please don’t stay.

“Are you okay, Willow?” The concern is evident in his tone, and it’s the only reason I pause long enough to look up and meet his eyes. That and the way my name sounds so sinful and erotic from his lips. His blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean Sea, don’t hold an ounce of sympathy. They’re imploring me with unasked questions, but the concern written all over his face is exposed. For me. That look, something I haven’t seen in a long time from anyone other than my two best friends, stops me still.