Free Addicted To Him (Man Season) by Mila McClung

 
    CHAPTER
ONE
     
    Seven o’clock at last! Tegan had waited breathlessly, as she did every weekday, to see him exit his studio,
slide into his sleek silver Jaguar and ease away from the curb, his black hair
flying like a proud stallion’s mane in the breeze. ‘He’ was Fleet Westcott,
millionaire, possibly billionaire, some said, owner of the high tech motion
picture production company, Westcott Limited. He was like a dream with his
perfect tan, finely tailored suits and carefree smile. How many times had she
imagined that smile aimed towards her as she stood in the florist shop,
endlessly arranging the bouquets for extravagant office parties and
anniversaries? Just once she wished he would step through the double glass
doors, take one look at her and be caught in her clinging vines forever.
    But that was a silly fantasy, brought
on by novels and movies and her ridiculous imagination. Tegan St. Clair knew who she was, and who she wasn’t. No jaded billionaire was ever
going to find her fascinating, or even worth speaking to, for that matter.
    She sighed, wrapped up the last
bouquet and stored it for its scheduled delivery. Then she grabbed her purse
and yelled towards the back: “Kerry, I’m going now!”
    “Wait!” a man’s voice answered. Kerry
Randall stepped out from the storage room, a tall, grinning blond. “Why the rush? You never seem to want to stay and chat
awhile. Am I losing my appeal?”
    She laughed. “No,
of course not. I’m just in one of my depressions, I guess; been
listening to too much Beethoven or something.”
    “No, I’ve got your number, darling,”
he said, shaking his head. “You’re pining over that Westcott doll again. I do
that myself, you know. He is a looker!”
    She stared at him. Then she shrugged
her slender shoulders and smiled. “Ha! Maybe we should go round the corner and
drown our miseries in a pint or two?”
    “Lovely idea! Just let me close up!”
    The Pig’s Tooth Pub was a
neighborhood hangout and a Burbank legend. Most of the salaried workers
from the shops and studios stopped in for a brew now and again – not to mention
a select few of the elite and famous.
    When Tegan and Kerry entered they were welcomed like old pals, and ushered to a booth of
distinction, one usually reserved for the moguls who ruled over the companies
up and down the street.
    “Well, I feel just like Mr.
Westcott!” Kerry laughed as he was poured a fresh pint of beer.
    “Do you now?” A deep voice asked.
“That’s funny. I don’t recall you being in my family tree.”
    Tegan and Kerry, and half the room, turned
round to see the real Fleet Westcott standing in the doorway. Tegan gasped, unbelieving that he could be that close,
finally, after months of faraway glimpses. He did not disappoint her. He was
more handsome than any photo she had seen of him, even the ones when he was
younger and trying to carve out an acting career. The ebony hair dusting his
brow, the finely executed features of his aristocratic face, and the body of
some forgotten Greek god, framed in the finest Armani trappings. And his eyes –
she’d never been sure until that moment what color they were – but they were
blue, a luscious, deep azure tone. When they flashed a glance at her, she
froze, unable to breathe.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Westcott,” Jim, the
proprietor, offered. “I didn’t expect you. You haven’t been in here since you moved
your studio into that old building down the street.”
    “Sure, I know. No harm done.” He
turned to Kerry and Tegan . “May I join you?”
    Kerry grinned. “Help yourself.”
    He did, taking the part of the booth
closest to Tegan . As he sat down, his hip grazed hers
for a second. She stiffened, felt the need to stifle a childish squeal. He
smiled at her; her heart clinched up in a ball, began to beat wildly.
    “So, you work around here?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “He’s talking to you, Tegan .”
    She looked at Kerry, who was egging
her on with encouraging