ships passing in the night

Chapter 3: Blame the Champagne

"Seriousness is too boring to the playful human condition. A heart of stone that has a long face can never express love."

- Michael Bassey Johnson

//

Holy shit. This isn't happening.

A familiar, ridiculously tall man stood amid the crowd, laughing leisurely, drinking champagne and basking in all his Greek god glory. This time, however, instead of being in a sweaty dress shirt –which Jinny didn't ever mind– he decked in a well-cut black-and-white suit, complete with cufflinks and an unmistakable Rolex. His soft, dark brown hair was slicked back, with a few loose strands falling to his forehead, framing his handsome face. To top it off, he had one button, just one button, undone, showing off his gorgeous collarbones, as if to indicate he was serious, but not that serious.

Jinny nearly cussed out loud. A plethora of questions emerged in her mind – Why is he here? Why here? Why now? What even? She could already feel the heat rising to her cheek with every second that she stared at him. Even without him standing right across her, she had spent the entire week trying to brush off the thought of them making love in his bed, with him moaning her name in that sultry voice of his–

Shut up, shut up. She could make an exit. The engagement party had been going on for a good thirty minutes now. She could tell them that she got sick, an agonizing stomachache from the hors d'oeuvres, that she needed to bolt away right that minute. Or, even better, she could tell them that she had work, yes, she'd left her laptop with the concierge earlier on. The LA branch of her company was ten minutes away, she could easily–

Just as a floodgate of irrational getaway plans clogged up her mind, a man bumped against her, causing her six-inch heel to be caught in her long, chiffon party gown, and her glass of champagne to shatter on the carpet.

//

Kellan turned his head to the rather distinctive sound of glass shattering on the ground. For a split-second, a familiar pair of deep, searching eyes met his. Eyes that he would recognize anywhere. Eyes that occasionally came back to mind as he was working the bar all week. Eyes he gazed at as he–

He felt an all-too-familiar burn in his loins. Kellan took pride in being a man of immense self-control, but a girl in a breathtaking, chiffon dress with her hair up in a romantic chignon and loose curls framing her beautiful face, who only one week before was lying beneath him on his bed – even the most restrained of men had their weaknesses.

Besides, he thought to himself, no rule against speaking to a woman at a party.

Jinny was crouched on the floor, frantically using a napkin to soak up the glistening beads of champagne and desperately praying that he hadn't noticed her even though their eyes met for a fraction of a minute, no, second–

"Jinny, are you okay?" Whitney fussed, getting on her hands and knees to help wipe the champagne and collect the glass pieces. "This is why I told you to be careful with those ridiculous heels! I told you we were going to have lots of drinks and..."

"Are you okay, Jinny?"

Jinny's breath hitched at her throat as a familiar, deep baritone called her name. She slowly, almost guiltily, looked up, eyes meeting his. Then he smiled, that charming, warm, reassuring smile that appeared in her thoughts all week, that could wordlessly get her to do anything, absolutely anything.