Page 11 of Galata and Nutmeg
Courtney may have hit the nail on its head when she called him a washed-up has-been with his most recent drunken bender in a nightclub resulted in him being arrested and spending a night behind bars. His agent (aka his mother, Ada Korkmaz, she herself once a semi-famous singer from the early ‘90’s) contacted Brynn in an effort to curb the PR nightmare. Of course, I already watched it all go down on Page Six and Fame and No-sense website (Pippa Ellis seems to know more about Kaan’s life than even he does) and just about every other gossip, so the cat’s already out of the bag. But that’s where we come in. To painstakingly put the cat back in the bag, which can almost never be done without getting scratched.
I walk through the foyer and wave at our concierge, Simon. He seems a little more flustered than normal. “Where have you been, Meg? Brynn’s been looking for you. You’re late for a meeting on level six!”
Level six means this meeting is in the big conference room, which means it’s a big-name client, which means the meeting with the BFD, Mr.DirtyRockstar himself, has already started!
Once in the elevator, I shrug off my jacket and glance at myself critically in the mirrored wall. My deep auburn locks are no longer the tidy curls that they were when I left home, thanks to the gale force winds outside. I quickly twirl them up into the modern girl’s go-to, a messy bun, securing it with two clips from the bottom of my knock-off designer book tote. The rest of me looks on point and more than ready to meet with the man himself. I’m wearing a semi-sheer polka dot blouse over a black slip tank, paired with shortened black trousers and my pre-requisite black 5-inch heels to add some desperately needed height to my 5’2 stature.
I’m not nervous, I never get nervous, but I need this meeting to go smoothly. Plastering a smile on my face, the elevator doors open. I step into the conference room and straight into what appears to be a raging fight!
Brynn is leaning against the conference room wall, eyebrows raised with mouth agape, while a very sophisticated, older woman decked out entirely in designer clothes, and an intensely beautiful man square off like fighting cocks.
I let myself soak in the magnificence of this man and for a moment I’m jealous of his white V-neck tee as it pulls tautly against his chiselled pecs. I’m not going to lie, my lady bits tingle as I stare at the low waistband of a pair of wrecked denim jeans that fit him inallthe right places.
It’s the one, and only, Kaan.
He was always good-looking with a boyish charm that could win over even the most disapproving parent. But, now, whether it’s his maturity, or perhaps it’s all the sex, drugs and rock’n’roll he’s indulged in since Seven of Crows first burst onto the scene over a decade ago, the Kaan Korkmaz standing before me is more masculine, more dominant, and, if my lady bit tingles are to be trusted, more sinful than any man I’ve ever crossed paths with!
His dark hair is no longer coiffed into a stylish quiff from his Seven of Crows days; now his curls are tousled and sun-streaked, pulled away from his exquisite face by a headband, allowing me to linger on the smouldering intensity in his bronze eyes, partially hidden behind thick lashes. I watch his full, pink lips, buried in more than a few days’ worth of dark stubble, as they form foreign words. I already know from his file, and from every gossip magazine in the world, that he’s speaking Turkish, but to stand in front of him as he and his mother argue back and forth, the language takes on a melodic strain and I’m frozen, mesmerised by the sound. Muscles flex under his chiselled jaw in frustration as they argue, and he rubs at his almost perfectly-formed nose, except for what appears to be a new, barely noticeable crook, in frustration.
Oh yes, he definitely has thatdirtyfactor about him.
What might that stubble feel like against my fingertips?
To hell with that, the real question is, what might those lips feel like against my skin?
“Enough!” He slams his fists down on the table making me jump. I’ve walked into worse meetings, but not many. I slowly shuffle inward, trying not to bring attention to myself while the fireworks blast around me.
“You can’t force me into rehab when there’s nothing fucking wrong with me, mother!” He turns to leave and, not realising that I had snuck into the meeting, barrels straight into me, knocking me over.
In a tangled mess, I reach out to grab the closest thing to me, which just happens to be the solid wall of man. The rock god himself. I latch on like one of those spider monkeys, and he yips as he tries to shake me off. In a last-ditch effort to rid himself of me, he twists left and right, and I start to give up my grip, sliding down his torso, lower and lower,until I am sitting on his ankles. I finally let go and look up to see all 6’3” of pure muscle falling towards me. I scramble back but it’s too late. Kaan lands on me with a thud. “Shit! Sorry, Red!”
I am now flat on my back with 180 pounds of Kaan lying on top of me. Teenage girls all over the world would pay big bucks to be in my position, or any other position Kaan may suggest. But even if my lady bit tingle is now a full body buzz, he’s a client and Brazen employees don’t get to tingle with clients.
Still, as he lies on top of me, the anger blazing in his eyes seem to soften as they meet mine. I gulp and inhale expecting the tangy scent of his cologne; instead, I get an eye-watering waft of cigarettes and alcohol, enough to make me wish I could take another shower to wash the smell off me.
Despite his dour expression and his somewhat overpowering odour, he has an almost boyish quality up close. I quickly scan his face and notice freckles. Freckles!
Maybe there is a little potential for my truffle to be ruffled, after all.
Then, as if my hands have a mind of their own, they reach up and touch his face. “I like your freckles!”
Did I just tell Kaan I like his freckles?
Did I just touch Kaan’s face uninvited?
Thank God he doesn’t seem particularly worried about my hands. He rolls off me and stands up. I have to crick my neck to look up at him now. Jesus, he’s tall! “I’m usually asked to cover them up.”
He puts his hand out to me and I grab it. “Freckles are all the rage right now.”
Shut your mouth, Meg!
He wears a perplexed expression, and I feel heat burn through me under the scrutiny of his eyes, as he pulls me to my feet. “Is that so?”
“I know people who have had them tattooed onto their face.”
“People are pretty fucking stupid if you ask me!”
I straighten my blouse and purse my lips in fake disapproval. “I don’t think anyone asked you, did they?”