9 Months Later...

Midnight has come and gone, which means it is now officially the day after my 30th birthday. Once I get the guests out of here, I may make a booty call. Ha! Such a term from the early 2000s. But who wouldn't want to get laid on his 30th birthday? I'm leaning on the wall in the part of the Garden Terrace that's actually outside, my elbows resting on the ledge behind me that separates the terrace from the actual garden. Occasionally, I take a sip of my tequila, but mostly I'm allowing my eyes to wander the space and take in my guests while I stand here in the shadows.

It's been a melancholy sort of day. Thank goodness Jeffrey hadn't made a huge deal about my 30th. This fairly quiet party at the SLS Hotel in Beverly Hills is perfect. There have probably been between 80 and 100 guests here tonight. Some with whom I'm quite familiar, and others who are hangers-on. The roof is retracted since the night has been lovely for February, and I tilt my head back now to gaze at the stars. What I can see of them anyway with the light pollution from town.

Near the arrangement of sofas are two of today's most prominent politicians, laughing uproariously at each other's stories and jokes, despite their opposing points of view in Congress during the current session. Their wives stand to the side, politely engaging in conversation with the 'do-gooders', those 'ladies who lunch', i.e., the spouses of the studio heads who are even now playing darts in the makeshift game room. Jeffrey had brought in billiards tables, darts, and even some pinball machines. Through the opened walls, I watch the projectiles flying towards the corkboard, wondering if there are movie titles and synopses at which they are aiming, trying to settle on their next movies. Their competitive nature has them playing a game of some sort every time they are together, and often the stakes are high.

Near the buffet table, I spy a variety of my bandmates from my different music incarnations. They mingle well together, and I enjoy watching them tease each other. The celebration is filled with a virtual who's who of Hollywood fame and popstar celebrities, and I'm weary of most of them. Minor cast plus crew members from 'Press Release' have been invited as well, and they're the individuals wandering around with their eyes open in amazed wonder as they spot different VIPs.

Near the bar is, of course, my co-star, drinking like a fish. I'm willing to bet that Xavier hasn't moved very far from the bar all night. He's got two women hanging on him, both in tight clothing that barely covers their pubic areas. One is guiding Xavier's hand to her ass while the other is clearly grinding her own bum into the crotch of the 19-year-old. I turn away quickly, disgusted. Not that I have room to judge. At his age, I was engaging in similar cringe behavior. Someone inside takes a photo, and the flash exploding reveals her standing in the shadows too -- on the other side of the venue.

Her eyes are also on Xavier, and I remember seeing her sneaking into the young actor's trailer during filming last spring. "Sneaking" probably isn't the appropriate word. She showed up at his trailer nearly every morning that second week of filming. At the end of the day, I watched as the two left together. I'm surprised that a woman like her is willing to play second fiddle to Xavier's playmates. Watching her face carefully, I see her eyes flit away from the obnoxious actor, coming to rest on the senator. From there, her attention roams to my bandmates as they laugh and pretend to jam to the music playing. Niall squeezes the waist of his wife, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. The woman smiles, her whole face softening. The stabbing sensation I feel in my gut is merely because they are expecting their second child in the next month or so, and I'm naturally worried that she's been standing too long. At least that's what I tell myself. They are standing near Mitch and Sarah, new first time parents now, likely getting advice from Niall. I managed to find a spot of open skin for the tattooed name of their first child, and I scratch absentmindedly at the bandage that covers the fairly new ink.

I examine the woman more closely. Tonight, her hair is nearly to her shoulders, and she's got corkscrew curls covering most of her head. They appear soft, and I wonder what they would be like if I scrunched them up and released them. Would they return to their current shape? Would they frizz? Would they break apart and become more pliable? Just how springy are they? My fingers itch to touch.

Her nose is pointed and royal, and I want to bop it in its pertness. The outfit she's wearing appears to be both comfortable and fashionable. The navy blue dress is sleeveless, and the neckline is sculpted with a tiny V that dips between her breasts. A fuller skirt has two pleats at the front, and balloons out, accentuating her shapely legs. She's wearing a simple necklace with turquoise leaves attached to the beaded chain.

I make eye contact with her, raising my glass of tequila in a toast. She smiles shyly, but doesn't return the gesture. Which is how I notice that she doesn't have a drink in hand. She looks away from me, and the hurt I experience at her rejection is probably because it's my birthday, dammit. And shouldn't everyone at the party want to wish me a happy birthday?

Well, shit. I'm not going to ignore this slight. Swerving away from the wall, I head for the bar, asking for a bottle of Dom Perignon and two glasses. Turning to where she had been, I see she's no longer there. Fuck. How did I miss her? Where did she disappear to? Swinging my head towards Xavier, I can instantly tell that she's not with him. Narrowing my eyes, I think about her ability to blend into the background tonight at the party. Earlier, I'd only spotted her because of a camera flash.

My gaze wanders the space, and I spot the tail of her poofy dress just peeking out of one of the far booths. Squinting, I try to ascertain whether or not someone is with her, but I don't see anyone else in the booth. Skirting dancers on the mosaic tiled floor, I nod to a few friends on my way to the table. Without asking (because I'm pretty confident I know how she would react), I slide into the booth next to her. Not across from her. Nope. She could escape then. This way, she's trapped with me.

Uh. That sounds stalkerish. And downright rude. I'm going to shrug that off, though. She has that aura around her. The one I have at parties. It's the vibe that says, "Back the fuck off!"

Instead of kicking at me and screaming for me to leave, she compresses herself against the back wall and turns slightly towards me as I place a champagne flute in front of her.

"Pardon me. I don't think we've met. My name is Harry, and it's my birthday tonight, and someone has to share this very expensive bottle of Dom Perignon with me." The whole time I'm talking, my fingers are twisting the metal wrapper off the bottle, carefully preparing to release the cork in such a way that it doesn't blind anyone. I deem it a good sign that she doesn't draw in a deep breath and scream for help. Pouring a glass of the alcohol for her, I slide it in front of her where she stares at it as though it contains alien piss.

Once I've poured myself a glass, I lift mine towards her, "So, happy birthday to me!" And I wait patiently until she picks up her own glass before clinking in a toast.

We each take a sip, and she looks at me warily, as if she's unsure what I'll do next. So I choose to behave unexpectedly, leaning back against the bench and closing my eyes as I take in a cleansing breath. Silently, I sit this way for a long while. A seriously long while. And as I sit there next to her with my eyes closed and my head tilted back, there's something about her presence that leaches the tension and stress and even the gloom from my shoulders. The longer I'm there in the quiet next to her, the calmer I feel.

When I'm completely relaxed for the first time all day, I open my eyes and fix her with my gaze. "How did you do that?"

She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Tipping her glass to empty the contents into her mouth, she gestures for me to pour her another. I'm intrigued by her. Peace and harmony emanates from her every pore, and all I want is to find out if this energy exists in all aspects of her life.

When she speaks, her husky voice sends shivers up my spine, and I immediately want to hear it in my ear while I'm thrusting into her. "Happy birthday, Harry," she rasps, her volume just above a whisper, and I'm confident she's not purposely trying to sound sexy. She just does. Touching her glass to mine, she sips the expensive drink. "I'm Olivia."

"Olivia?" I query, "Did you know I wrote a song once about Olivia?"

Her coquettish smile says that she does indeed know I wrote such a song, and it's almost like I can read her mind. Because what she's thinking right now is how she knows that I live for her. I long for her. Olivia.

"Is this how you wanted to celebrate your birthday, Harry?" she asks me, and I'm taken by surprise. This wasn't a topic I expected, but she is apparently one of those who goes right for the jugular.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well," she sets down her glass, her fingers playing over the stem, and I can't help but notice that she doesn't wear jewelry on either ring finger. "I ask because you don't seem to be enjoying yourself. Earlier you appeared to have fun talking with people, introducing them to each other, listening to their stories. But about an hour ago, you collapsed into yourself, separating from everyone else."

The hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Not because she'd been observing me all night, but because she is dead right. "And I suspect," she continues, "that you would have preferred a quiet dinner with just a few friends tonight instead of a giant party."

I scoff, hoping to put her off the scent. It's rather disconcerting to have a stranger see through me so completely. "This is a much smaller party than Jeffrey wanted to throw. Way more lowkey."

"Yes. He cares about you, and he wanted the whole of Los Angeles to know how much. And you're a good friend for letting him host a giant party for you."

"'Letting him'?" I snort, "As if I had a choice. He was bound and determined. No stopping him."

She tilts her head to the side, "And do you think that means he doesn't know you? That he doesn't really know you?"

Woah. How was she doing this? Was this some parlor trick? Cause I am pretty good at keeping my motivations and thoughts hidden. I've had almost half of my life to get really good at not letting others know what's happening in my head. How could she possibly know all of these things?

I decide to turn the tables on her. "And you? Why did you come tonight? You clearly don't enjoy being in the spotlight. Nor have you been mingling and chatting up the VIPs in the room."

A smile crosses her face, and I see that she's decided to let me think I have a victory when really she knows as well as I do that I'm dodging the question she asked. Her eyes say, It's only a reprieve. And I shiver, hoping that she wants to ask me more questions. In bed preferably.

The way she talks to me and about me makes me hot. I haven't known anyone else in my life with whom I've connected so quickly on such a deep level. All I can think about now is burying myself deep inside her while my fingers test out the springiness of the curls on her head. Wondering if perhaps she screams when she comes, or if she merely whimpers and stoically gives herself up. Desperately I want to find out. I want to know if she quakes with desire when my tongue is on her clit. If she grabs at my hair while I pound into her. If she leaves marks on my back in her eagerness. Her passion runs deep, and if she were to decide to give herself to me, I'd be able to see that fervor firsthand.

"I'm here tonight for two reasons. One is Xavier. The other is Jeffrey," she breathes out, and I can't help myself. Reaching for one of her corkscrew curls, I try it out, scrunching it in my fist as I pull her closer to me by tugging on the lock of hair in my hand. She obliges, leaning forward until our lips are separated by a mere sliver of empty space. Her tongue darts out, and my eyes capture the pink tip just before my lips follow suit. As far as kisses go, this transcends every first kiss I've ever experienced. Mouths stay closed as we brush gently across each other's skin before pressing our lips as closely together as possible.

I'm confident she will consent to a taste of each other, and I run my tongue along the edge of her lips, begging for entrance. Just when she starts to open for me, there's a loud screech and the sound of breaking glass. I rip my mouth from hers as she starts to stand up even though she's trapped in the booth with me,

"Let me out," she pushes at my chest, and I'm at a loss for a moment because I think she's upset about the kiss. "Harry," she says reasonably and calmly, breaking through the haze she induced with the promise of her lips, "That was Xavier. I need to make sure he's okay."

Oh. Duh. That's right. She's here with another guy. Moving out of the booth, I watch her ass as she saunters away, heading straight for my drunken co-star.

"Get the fuck off me, bitch," Xavier squeals, pushing away one of the slags that had been hanging on him. He's slurring his words and looking like he's ready to punch someone. That's when Olivia arrives at his side, putting her hand on his arm. He calms instantly, turning to her with a look of bewilderment on his face. She says something to him quietly, and he nods.

I'm not sure what's going on, but it's my party, so I should probably find out. Heading in their direction, I have to take a detour when I see Olivia steering Xavier to the exit. She's got her phone to her ear, and I have to wonder who she's calling at this time of night. The boy's mother perhaps? God knows he needs a mother hen.

His personal assistant, Meg, breaks away from the crowd at the food table, joining the exodus. Olivia nods to Meg, and there's an unspoken agreement between them. I'm completely baffled. Following them, I see Olivia hailing a taxi.

"I have a driver tonight," I say loudly enough for her to hear me and turn. "You can take my car." I don't know why I've said this. Should I just let her walk out of my life with her date like this? Just a moment ago, we'd been on the verge of some serious snogging.

"Can you come with us?" she asks, "When he's this far gone, he sometimes passes out in the car, and we'll need help getting him into his house."

I don't even hesitate; nodding, I wave for my driver to come around to the front. He's on duty in the VIP parking section. He stubs out his cigarette and climbs behind the wheel. I hold the door for Meg who climbs in first to steer Xavier into the seat of the SUV. As soon as he's seated, the boy buries his face in Meg's chest, snoring loudly. She wraps her arm around him, settling back into the seat quite comfortably.

Shouldn't his girlfriend be doing that? I wonder, but then I decide it's really none of my business. Besides, it's becoming increasingly clear that Xavier has no girlfriend. Certainly not Olivia. The relief I feel is overwhelming and way too sharp considering I've just met her. It's not like I was going to ask her out myself. The only thing I planned was shoving my tongue down her throat and playing a little tonsil footie.

When Olivia climbs into the back seat of the SUV, I plant myself next to her. The driver closes the doors and returns to his spot, asking for an address which Olivia efficiently supplies. The trip to Xavier's house is silent, and it's not even remotely a 'comfortable silence'. I'm too busy contemplating how I could have made a move on this woman after having just met her. It's not like me. If I see a possible companion, I have them vetted multiple times these days before we even speak, much less swap spit. I cannot believe I've let my guard down so quickly for a woman I don't know.