Getting over your first crush seems impossible - especially when he's the star of the world's biggest movie franchise.
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Jess Wheeler is happily single and perfectly content with her simple life in Hemlock Landing, South Carolina, where all she kn...
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"I-I..." My voice leaves me in a breathless rush, because goddamn.
Bay looks downright pornographic, standing in the doorway with just a towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist that leaves little to the imagination. His California-tan skin gleams with droplets of water, and I almost lose count of his washboard abs. I knew actors usually had to get fit to play roles in big action movies, but describing Bay as fit would be the biggest understatement of the century. God-like, is more accurate.
I'm ashamed at how long it takes for me to find my senses again, and finally I stutter, "E-emergency? What happened?"
"I don't know. I was taking a shower, and suddenly water just started bursting out of the wall." He runs a hand through his hair, which is still a little sudsy with soap. I pretend not to notice the way that his muscles–all one million of them–ripple with the simple gesture. "Eventually we figured out how to shut off the water, but... It was really bad."
"Bad's an understatement," Nigel adds from where he's lounging in the lobby. "You're looking at quite a bit of damage." There's a distinctly British frown on his face, and I notice that his own shirt is drenched with water.
"Shit! Shit, shit," I mumble, shoving past Bay as the severity of the situation strikes home and disperses the "OMG, hot boy!" fog in my brain. Sure enough, I can see rivulets of water running down the restored wooden stairs like tiny rivers, and I start to climb them two at a time.
"We tried the best we could," Bay adds breathlessly as he hurries to keep up with my panic-lengthened strides. "It just took a while for us to find the right spout, and then—"
When I round the corner, I let out a horrible scream that shatters through the air and cuts Bay's semi-apology short. Because no fucking way: this simply cannot be happening right now.
The small room, the one that my mother and I painstakingly renovated last summer to radiate small-town, southern elegance, now resembles the Titanic more than it does an actual bathroom. Dozens of towels are piled and lined up at the edge of the doorway where Bay and Nigel seem to have attempted to create some sort of dam to block the flow, but the effort was clearly futile. Water continues to gush out of the bathroom, running onto the historic wooden floor that makes up the hallway and the rest of the bedrooms. Even as I stand here, my tennis shoes are slowly soaking up water like a submerged sponge.
I stare mindlessly at the damage, mouth agape in horror, and a million thoughts zoom through my head so quickly that I don't know which one to latch onto first.
How much will this cost to repair? How quickly can they fix it? How did this even happen? Will guests still be able to stay in the rooms? Will Bay still be able to stay in his room?
"I'm so, so sorry. I will do whatever I can to fix it, I promise." Bay sounds so apologetic, so guilt-ridden, that I nearly feel bad for him. But then I remember who I'm talking about, here. The multi-millionaire actor extraordinaire that probably laughs when he gets a speeding ticket and spends more time on yachts than public transportation. What does he care about the small business that my mother and I have been struggling to keep running for years? And why is he pretending to care now, when he had no trouble leaving years ago?
