One that he was waiting for me to answer. Apparently, with little patience, given that he was squinting at me like I was an unfortunate problem to solve. Which made no sense; he’d come up to me.
He shifted his weight, long thick thigh muscles moving beneath well-worn jeans. I pushed down a flush of heat and focused. Maybe the guy was embarrassed. That had to be it.
I gave him my public smile. Polite. Friendly, but not too friendly. “Yes, I’m Emma.”
His nod was perfunctory, and he started to pull out his phone. “I—”
Oh hell. He wanted a picture. It happened all the time now, and usually, I was happy to comply. Except I had just gotten off a thirteen-hour flight and was gritty and tired. Even my hair hurt. More importantly, it would attract attention. Attention I couldn’t handle on my own if people crowded me. Having lived through that sort of experience once before, I was terrified of it happening again.
“I’m afraid I don’t pose for selfies outside of controlled functions,” I cut in before his request could make things more awkward. “But I’m happy to sign something if you have a pen?”
My words froze him, his hand still in the act of tugging the phone from his jeans pocket. But then he blinked, a ghost of a bemused smile haunting the corner of his well-shaped lips. “You think I want an autograph?”
Sharp prickles of utter horror exploded along my skin.
“I . . . ah . . .” Shit. “No?”
“No.” He pulled his phone out and flicked it on. “I’m here to pick you up. For Amalie Osmond.” Not quite hiding that tiny smug smile, he handed me the phone. “Just wanted to show you the confirmation email.”
Oh, God, please let the ground swallow me up and take me away. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I assumed . . .”
“I gathered as much.”
I might have imagined the glint of amusement in those frost-green eyes; the rest of his strong features remained granite. Which served to fluster me even more.
“It’s just . . . when people approach me these days, it’s usually for the purpose of an autograph or picture.”
“I get it.” The corners of his lips twitched. Once. “It happens.”
I could safely say this particular scenario had never happened. For the first time in years, I felt like the gawky, shy kid I’d been for so long and fought so hard to get past. I had a choice here. Either succumb to embarrassment and retreat or brazen it out and play a little. I sucked it up and forced what I hoped was a breezy smile. “You have no idea.”
Oddly, he grunted, as if struggling to refrain from commenting. An awkward pause pulsed between us, then a thought occurred to me, and I stood up straighter. “Wait. You didn’t use the right name.”
His brows lifted in an imperious way that I was certain had worked to get his way multiple times before. Not today, Mr. Swagger. I returned the look with equal measure.
His brow lowered a fraction, and his mouth definitely twitched. “So . . . you’re not Emma Maron?”
Har.
My gaze narrowed. “There is a specific code name my drivers use when picking me up.”
Clearly, he didn’t like being called my driver. But how else was I supposed to explain? Technically, he was my ride. Or maybe not. “It’s a simple security procedure.”
The hardness around his eyes softened. “You’re right. Security is important.” His gaze turned inward as he scratched the back of his neck, obviously flustered. “Shit . . . I don’t remember any . . . ah! Right.” Wintergreen eyes pinned me with a triumphant look. “Maria.”
Relief flooded through me. I didn’t want this guy to be a potential stalker or killer or whatever. Truth was I didn’t want to have to worry about any of those things. Yes, I loved acting and loved that I had made it this far, but there were times—such as every moment I was out in the real world—that I wanted nothing more than to shed that skin and just be plain old me, who no one knew or noticed.
Now that he’d passed my test, he turned his attention to the baggage carousel, the stern scowl firmly back in place. “You have bags?”
“I’m going to assume that was a rhetorical question.”
He lifted a brow, that deadpan expression not cracking.
Tough crowd.
“Okay . . .” I exhaled. “Um, I’m sorry, but what is your name?”
Mr. Broody blinked, as though he’d shocked himself by forgetting to give it to me. “It’s . . . Lucian.”
“Are you sure about that?” Okay, I couldn’t help myself. He was so serious; seeing him crack around the edges sent an odd little thrill through me.
Lucian’s dark brows snapped together. “You think I don’t know what my own name is?”
“You hesitated.”
Lucian grunted, setting his big hands on his narrow hips.
“And I don’t know . . . you don’t look like a Lucian.”
“Really.”
It was kind of fun needling him. He fell for it so easily.
“Lucian wears white linen and loafers. Offers you a mint julep before selling you an antique chifforobe.”
“He sounds like a hoot. Tell me—what should my name be, then?”
“You’re more of a Brick. Surly ex–star athlete with a big chip on his shoulder who hides from the world and drinks away his pain.”
He blinked again, his head jerking just the slightest bit, as though I’d landed a direct hit.
Then again, maybe I’d imagined that, because he merely gave me another bland look, and that lovely hot-cream voice rolled out in the same insolent drawl. “As much as I’d love to hear more of this Cat on a Hot Tin Roof revival you’ve got planned, Maggie, the bags are coming out.”
Flames licked over my cheeks. God, he had my number. When nervous, I tended to fall back on imagining the world as a play or movie. It had been a while since I’d watched the movie version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but truly, Lucian had that sullen yet oh-so-hot Paul Newman thing going on. How could a girl be blamed for getting sidetracked?
“Right.” Suppressing a sigh, I headed for the carousel, and he fell into step beside me, his steady gait easily matching my more rapid one. Clearly, I wasn’t going to outdistance him, so I slowed, my heels clicking on the shiny linoleum.
“Which ones are yours?”
“Oh, I can grab . . .” His steady stare had my words trailing off with a sigh. “The aluminum Fendi ones with the red straps.”
Without a word, Lucian—and really, he was far too big and gruff to be a Lucian—turned and began hauling my bags off the conveyor belt. When he set the last of them down, he shot me another look.
“These all of your bags?” he said, as though I’d brought a trousseau. There were only four.
“Unless I’m suffering from sudden amnesia, yes, those are all of them.”
“Hmm.”
Two grunts and a hmm. Lovely.
“I like to be prepared,” I felt compelled to say.
He gave me a sly, sidelong glance. “Didn’t have a pen handy, though.”
“A pen?”
“For that autograph I wanted.”
Argh.
“If you’re going to ask for an autograph, Brick, you should approach with pen in hand.”