Misadventures with a Super Hero by Angel Payne

Author:Angel Payne
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781943893539
Publisher: Waterhouse Press

Chapter Nine

EMMA

I emerge from my office, but I’m still in a fog. A giant, pink-tinted bank of the stuff—and for once, I don’t fight. I’m like one of those cartoon girls with birds and stars swirling around my head—or in the anime version, with my pupils turned into bulging hearts. Maybe that’s a good thing. If everyone’s gawking at my eyes, they won’t notice my knees have turned to taffy—another write-off, considering I don’t need them anymore.

Knees aren’t important when a girl can just float through life.

Okay, not Life, capital L. It’s only life right now, all lowercase. It’s not like Reece marched into my office and shut and locked the door with a ring in his hand.

Though the man did show how magical he can be on his knees…

And incredible. And passionate. And giving. And bold.

Stealing my breath. Demanding my surrender. Blowing my mind.

Yeah, even now. Especially now—a comprehension that has me gripping the frosted-glass countertop at the front desk for support. I actually glance down, confirming I’m truly and solidly planted, though the pastel cloud still lingers. The stratosphere into which Reece Richards launched me with the power of one word.

“Us.”

I run a finger along my lips after whispering it. I can feel the contact, meaning this must really be my life. Not a dream. Not a bizarre alternate world in which Reece Richards isn’t a tabloid darling and a world-class rogue and hasn’t just snuck out of the executive offices in the back elevator with a dorky smirk on his lips and my Pentatonix tour sweatshirt tied around his waist—hiding the crotch he’s just soaked while pleasuring me.

Holy wow, that pleasure. Right before he brought on the wizardry. The sincerity. The honesty.

The word that changed everything.

“Us.” I dash it off again, almost in a song, while clicking into the guest-services log from one of the front desk terminals. Fershan is also at the desk, though he’s talking on the phone at the other end. Observing the lobby is busier than usual, probably due to the bored tour group members deciding to drink their night away in the bar, I stay put in case he needs any backup. Besides, a good song starts playing. A classic. My spirit as buoyant as the tune, I start quietly singing along with the anthem.

“I got me a Chrysler, it seats about twenty, so hurry up and bring your—”

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?”

I shut off my metaphorical microphone somewhere between “jukebox” and “money” before stammering, “Yes? I mean, good evening, ma’am. I’m so sorry. I was pulling something up, and then—”

“Singing?” The blonde, a stunning mix of classic Catherine Deneuve and Gwen Stefani, adds to the exotic factor with her French accent. I gawk a little longer as she lifts one side of her flawless crimson mouth in a droll smile. “What would the world be without songs, n’est-ce pas?”

“Valid point.” My response is polite but guarded. Why is this creature, in her black cashmere dress and red-to-black ombré fingernails, making my skin prickle and

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