As if right on cue, my phone alerts me to a message and I almost jump to read it.

Becca: I’m so sorry.

—Becca—

Seriously, I could watch Josh Warden forever. Even from outside the store, peeking through the window in between the gaps of the displays, it’s enough to satisfy my longing. He signs whatever is placed in front of him and smiles at his fans and female admirers. Okay, that last one I’m not too thrilled about, but whatever. It’s still Josh and I’m still close enough that I could smell him. Not that I am. That would be weird. The point is I’m here… he just doesn’t know it yet.

The air conditioning pricks my skin when I step inside the store and my luggage gets caught in the doorway. I struggle aimlessly, my cheeks warming as I make a fool of myself. “I got it,” someone says, holding the door open long enough for me to pull through my bag. I smile, thankful, only to realize it’s Chris. “You finally made it,” he says, pointing to someone who takes my suitcase and disappears. Chris leans in closer. “Does he know you’re here?”

Chris had been the one to contact me a couple weeks ago, not knowing Josh had already invited me to Portland. But Chris’s invite came with a private plane and an extra four hours with Josh. I’d be stupid to say no, so I agreed, on the condition that we surprise Josh with it.

I shake my head and look over at Josh, my heart racing at the sight. He smiles at the two girls in front of him, but it’s neither genuine nor forced. It’s definitely not the way he smiles at Tommy, or at me, and that realization sets off something deep inside me. He quickly moves on to the next person in the line—a younger kid. He signs a board, a magazine, a shirt and the back of a phone, all with the same smile on his face, and gosh, he’s beautiful.

Chris places something around my neck, pulling me from my daze, and I look down to see a lanyard with the tag: Becca (Warden).

Becca Parentheses Warden.

Becca Warden.

If I were ten, that name would be scribbled all over my notebook.

“You ready?” Chris asks.

After a nod from me, he leads me through the crowd with his hand on the small of my back while my heart picks up pace. We stop at the side of the table, where Josh is in the middle of talking to a fan. He glances up quickly when he feels our presence, but quickly goes back to the kid in front of him. He picks up a pen and starts signing the board, but he pauses halfway through, his eyes narrowing.

Then he looks up. Up. UP.

This time, nothing stops. Nothing. Not even him. His chair tips backward, his table forward, and the next thing I know, I’m wrapped tightly in his arms, my feet barely touching the floor, while the world falls away around me.

24

—Joshua—

warmth

wɔːmθ/

noun

1. the quality, state, or sensation of being warm; moderate heat.

2. enthusiasm, affection, or kindness.

3. Becca

I’ve done a lot of difficult things in my life. Raising Tommy on my own was one them. So is trying to balance my work with being a dad. But, sitting next to Becca for two hours, her scent invading my nostrils, driving me wild, and feeling her warmth next to me while wanting to throw her down on the table and make out with her face (What? She’s hot!), and not being able to do so is pretty high up on the list. So is not punching every fan that looks twice at her. Occasionally, the roles get reversed and it’s a girl on the other side of the table. Some want shirts and posters signed, a few want body parts. That’s when I really feel Becca’s warmth—like lasers shooting from her eyes and into the side of my head. Kind of adorable, kind of hot, but mainly funny. Besides, she messed with my mind—told me she wouldn’t be here—and now I get to enjoy messing with hers.

I sign what’s in front of me: boards, shoes, stomachs, cleavage. Whatever. And take pictures with whoever wants them. Time ticks by slowly. So damn slowly I fight the urge to fake a sickness and leave with Becca. Go back to the hotel and you know… talk.

*     *     *

Stepping out through the storeroom doors and into the alley is like breathing in fresh, cool air for the first time in days. I take Becca’s hand and pull her into me until there’s no space between us and I hold her. Memorize her. Find and lose myself in her. “I missed you,” I tell her, squeezing her tighter.

She laughs. I don’t hear it, but I feel her shoulders bounce and her breaths warming my chest. Too soon, the door opens and my teammates join me. I introduce them to Becca just as the limo pulls up. Becca hops in first, and I follow, sitting closely next to her. I rest my arm behind her, and that’s all I do because anything more could possibly get me arrested.