I Want You To Want Me

My best friend recognized the international rock god before I did, but by then it was too late. I’d already slept with him.

In my defense, I’d gone out to the club to support my brother’s music career, and Adam stopped by the merch table shrouded in a hoodie, sporting grungy jeans and a threadbare T-shirt from a long-forgotten AC/DC concert. How was I supposed to recognize him?

God, it gets worse.

When he asked me what I do, I half lied, “My company’s developing a perfume.” I couldn’t tell him I research boner pills on laboratory mice. Besides, it was true that a coworker had tossed me a vial of some experimental fragrance as I left work. It smelled nice so I tried it on.

Adam leaned in. “What’s it like?”

I scooted over. “I’m wearing it.”

Gaze locked on mine, he lifted my wrist and brushed his sensuous lips across my skin, breathing in whatever chemical I’d loosed on him. Just like that, an electric charge sparked up my arm. I sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes dilated black, like this intense desire had surged back toward him.

“Mmm,” he said. “You smell intoxicating.”

I must have, because he flirted with me, bought me beers… invited me back to his place. I knew I shouldn’t go home with him. We were perfect strangers. But God, I wanted to. I wanted more. I wanted him. I thought he wanted me, too.

So when my best friend ran an image search the next day, proving the guy I’d hooked up with was THE Adam Copeland, I had to ask: How had I, a biochemist from suburban New Jersey, attracted that sexy out-of-reach rocker?

And what the hell was in that perfume?