Kiss me under the Hollywood sign

Chapter 8

A thousand stuttering apologies were poised on my trembling lips, ready to explode out in a waterfall of embarrassment. But before I could let loose this flood of awkward words, Daniel's grip loosened ever so slightly.

And down I went, folding up like one of those cheap lawn chairs. I must have looked like a newborn giraffe trying its first steps. There I lay, all tangled and twitchy, with this soggy towel thing on my head looking like a dunce cap. I peeked up at Daniel through the dripping bangs of my soggy towel turban, bracing myself to be scorched by Daniel's no-doubt furious glare. I saw instead that he had thrown back his well-coiffed head and was bellowing with mirth.

"Well well, Ms. Watson," he chuckled, wiping a tear. "Ain't you a lively one. Most assistants pass out from excitement at the sight of me, not fling themselves into my arms like a clumsy amateur ballet dancer working up a sweat."

Ouch, that sarcasm stung something fierce. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole. But something sparked inside - a tiny flame of sass.

"Maybe if your water dispenser wasn't on the fritz and these floors didn't hate high heels so much, things would've played out differently, Mr. Hunter," I said, brushing off and trying to find my dignity.

"Feisty, aren't we?" he drawled, a hint of amusement lingering in his drawl. His tone was like the lazy buzz of a fly circling the office on a hot summer day, flitting from topic to topic without alighting for long. "I like that. Now, let's get you cleaned up before you short-circuit the entire office with that... creative headwear."

He gestured towards my soggy hand towel with a smirk, his long fingers unfurling as lazily as wilting petals. Briefly, I considered throwing it at him, imagining the splash it would make against his perfectly sculpted jawline. But the image of myself being plastered on TMZ as "The Towel-Throwing Assistant" quickly doused my mood like a cold shower.

The room felt stifling, the air thick and close. I mumbled some sheepish response, forcing my lips into a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. Daniel chuckled again, the sound echoing in the oversized room. This guy laughed a lot. Maybe a little too much, and too loudly.

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart," he said, his voice softening to a throaty purr. "Accidents happen. Especially around me, it seems." His eyes flickered down my mismatched outfit with curiosity, taking in the details like a nature documentary pausing on some bizarre species.

"Right, about that coffee..." I mumbled, forcing the friendliest grin I could muster. This morning had gone from bad to bizarre, and it wasn't even eleven o'clock yet. One spilled drink and I was already flushing more shades of red.

Daniel let out another chuckle, long and low like a rumbling train. You'd think he'd never seen espresso arching through the air before. "Don't give it another thought, sunshine," he replied, eyes twinkling. "I've certainly caused my fair share of mishaps over the years."

He glanced down at my lone pump, soaked and squelching. "Though footwear problems seem to find you an awful lot. Why don't you raid my sister's closet and find something dry? My sister, Diana, leaves a few things here. You might find something that fits and doesn't come with a built-in ankle breaker."

I stared at him, stunned. Was he really suggesting I pilfer his famous sister's wardrobe like I was Cinderella herself? I wonder if in his world, the line between professional and peculiar blurred faster than an impressionist painting.

"Your sister's clothes?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

I parroted dumbly. Daniel just shrugged, like borrowing Diana Hunter's designer duds was an everyday occurrence.