Play with Me

About the Author

LESLIE KELLY has written more than two dozen books and novellas for Blaze^® and Temptation. Known for her sparkling dialogue, fun characters and depth of emotion, her books have been honoured with numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award, and three nominations for the RWA RITA^® Award.

Leslie resides in Maryland with her own romantic hero, Bruce, and their three daughters. Visit her online at www.lesliekelly.com.

To loyal romance readers everywhere.

In this economy, I know it’s got to be really tough to indulge your reading habits. I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you who keeps buying books so that I can keep writing them.

Thank you so much.

Dear Reader,

After my title One Wild Wedding Night was released in 2008, I heard from a lot of readers. Most of them especially enjoyed Tony and Gloria’s story—the last one in the collection—about a married couple trying to recapture the sizzle by playing a little game of strangers-in-a-bar.

The idea of playing sexy games is definitely an exciting one. Years ago, I was one of those readers who snapped up 101 Nights of Grrreat Sex, the book where you tore open an envelope that suggested an entire sensual scenario for you and your partner (the things we do for research). And the concept of keeping things fresh by enacting role-playing fantasies never left my mind.

So when I got the chance to contribute to the popular Forbidden Fantasies series in the Blaze imprint, I wanted to do the theme justice. Having a secret affair and indulging in lots of sexy, role-playing games sounded both forbidden … and extremely sexy. Blazingly so, in fact.

I love hearing from readers. If you would like to let me know what you think of Play with Me, please drop me a line through my Web site, www.lesliekelly.com, or visit me on my blog, www.plotmonkeys.com.

Thanks and happy reading!

Leslie Kelly

Play With Me

Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

Prologue

Columbus Day

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT your problem is?”

Reese Campbell didn’t even look up as the door to his office burst open and the familiar voice of his extremely nosy, bossy great-aunt intruded on what had been a relatively quiet October morning. Because that was one hell of a loaded question.

Hmm. Problem? What problem? Did he have a problem?

Being thrust into a job he hadn’t been ready for, hadn’t planned on, hadn’t even wanted? That was kind of a problem.

Being thrust into that job because his father had died unexpectedly, at the age of fifty-five? Aside from being an utter tragedy, that was absolutely a problem.

Battling competitors who’d figured him to be a pushover when he’d stepped in to run a large brewery while only in his mid-twenties? Problem.

Dealing with longtime employees who didn’t like the changes he was implementing in the family business? Problem.

Ending a relationship because the woman didn’t appreciate that he—a good-time guy—now had so many responsibilities? Problem.

Walking a tightrope with family members who went from begging him to keep everything the way it was, to resenting his every effort to fill his father’s shoes? Big effing problem.

“Did you hear me?”

He finally gave his full attention to his great-aunt Jean, who had never seen a closed door she hadn’t wanted to fling wide open. He had to smile as he beheld her red hat and flashy sequined jacket. Going into old age gracefully had never entered his aunt’s mind. Keeping her opinions to herself hadn’t, either.

“I heard,” he replied.

“Well, do you know?”

What he didn’t know was why she was asking. Because she didn’t want an answer. Rhetorical questions like that one were always the opening volley in the elderly woman’s none-of-your-damn-business assaults on everyone else’s private life.

He leaned back in his chair. “Whatever it is, I am quite sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Cheeky,” she said, closing the door. “You’re bored.”

No kidding.

“You’re twenty-nine years old and you’re suffocating. For two years, you haven’t drawn one free, unencumbered breath.”

He remained still, silent. Wary. Because so far, his eccentric, opinionated great-aunt was absolutely, one hundred percent correct.

Suffocating. That was a good word to describe his life these days. An appropriate adjective for the frequent sensation that an unbearable weight had landed on his chest and was holding him in place, unable to move.

As Aunt Jean said, his breath had been stolen, his momentum stopped. All forward thought frozen in place, glued to that moment in time when a slick road and a blind curve had changed everything he and his family had known about their former lives.

“You need some excitement. An adventure. How long has it been since you’ve had sex?”

Reese coughed into his fist, the mouthful of air he’d just inhaled having lodged in his throat. “Aunt Jean …”

She grunted. “Oh, please, spare me. You need to get laid.”

“Jeez, can’t you bake or knit or something like a normal great-aunt?”

She ignored him. “Have you gotten any since that stupid Tate girl tried to get you to choose her over your family?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued. “You’ve got to do something more than deal with your sad mother, your squabbling sisters and your juvenile-delinquent brother.”

He stiffened, the reaction a reflexive one.

“Oh, don’t get indignant, you know it’s true,” she said. “I love them as much as you do, we’re family. But even apples from the same tree sometimes harbor an occasional worm.”

The woman did love her metaphors.

“So here’s what you do.”

“I knew you would get around to telling me eventually.”

She ignored him. “You simply must have an adventure.”

“Okay, got it. One adventure, coming right up,” he said with a deliberate eye roll. “Should I call 1-800-Wild Times or just go to letsgetcrazy.com?”

“You’re not so old I can’t box your ears.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “The one time you boxed my ears as a kid, I put frogs in your punch bowl right before a party.”

An amused gleam lit her eyes. “So do it again.”

Reese’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Be wild. Do something fun. Chuck this cautious-businessman gig and be the bad-ass rebel you once were.”

Bad-ass rebel? Him? The guy most recently voted Young Businessman of the Year? “Yeah, right.”

He didn’t know which sounded more strange—him being that person, or his elderly great-aunt using the term bad-ass rebel. Then again, she had just asked him when he’d last gotten laid—a question he didn’t even want to contemplate in his own mind.

She fixed a pointed stare at his face. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten who I had to bail out of jail one spring break. Which young fellow it was who ended up taking two girls to the prom. Or who hired a stripper to show up at the principal’s house.”

Oh. That bad-ass rebel. Reese had forgotten all about him.

“The world was your playground once. Go play in it again.”

Play? Be unencumbered, free from responsibilities?

Reese looked at the files on his desk. There was a mountain of order forms, requisitions, payroll checks, ad copy, legal paperwork—all needing his attention. His signature. His time.

Then there was his personal calendar, filled with family obligations, fixing his sister’s car, talking to his brother’s coach … doing father stuff that he hadn’t envisioned undertaking for another decade at least.

All his responsibility. Not in a decade. Now.

It wasn’t the life he’d envisioned for himself. But it was the life he had. And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

“I’ve forgotten how,” he muttered.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, then the elderly woman, whose energy level so belied her years, laughed softly. There was a note in that laugh, both secretive and sneaky.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, forget it.”

She feigned a look of hurt. “Me? What could I possibly do?”

He knew better than to be fooled by the nice-old-lady routine. She’d been playing that card for as long as he could remember and it had been the downfall of many a more gullible family member. “I’m going to leave a note that if I am kidnapped by a troupe of circus clowns, the police should talk to you.”

She tsked. “Oh, my boy, circus clowns? Is that the best you can come up with? I’m wounded—you’ve underestimated me.”

“Aunt Jean …”

Ignoring him, she turned toward the door. Before she exited, however, she glanced back. “I have the utmost confidence in you, dear. I have no doubt that when the right moment presents itself, you will rise to the occasion.”

With a quickly blown kiss and a jangle of expensive bracelets decorating her skinny arm, she slipped out. Reese was free to get back to work. But instead, he spent a few minutes thinking about what Great-Aunt Jean had said.

He didn’t doubt she was right about the fact that he was bored. Stifled. Suffocating. But her solution—to go a little crazy—wasn’t the answer. Not for the life he was living now. Not when so many people counted on him. His family. His employees. His late father.

Besides, it didn’t matter. No opportunity to play, as she put it, had come his way for a long time. Not in more than two years. The word wasn’t even in his vocabulary anymore.

And frankly, Reese didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

1

Halloween

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN a routine flight.

Pittsburgh to Chicago was about as simple an itinerary as Clear-Blue Airlines ever flew. In the LearJet 60, travel time would be under an hour. The weather was perfect, the sky like something out of a kid’s Crayola artwork display. Blue as a robin’s egg, with a few puffy white clouds to set the scene and not a drop of moisture in the air. Crisp, not cold, it was about the most beautiful autumn day they’d had this year.

The guys in the tower were cheerful, the Lear impeccably maintained and a joy to handle. Amanda Bauer’s mood was good, especially since it was one of her favorite holidays. Halloween.

She should have known something was going to screw it up.

“What do you mean Mrs. Rush canceled?” she asked, frowning as she held the cell phone tightly to her ear. Standing in the shadow of the jet on the tarmac, she edged in beside the fold-down steps. She covered her other ear with her hand to drown out the noises of nearby aircraft. “Are you sure? She’s been talking about this trip for ages.”

“Sorry, kiddo, you’re going to have to do without your senior sisters meeting this month,” said Ginny Tate, the backbone of Clear-Blue. The middle-aged woman did everything from scheduling appointments, to bookkeeping, to ordering parts, to maintaining the company Web site. Ginny was just as good at arguing with airport honchos who wanted to obsess over every flight plan as she was at making sure Uncle Frank, who had founded the airline, took his cholesterol medication every day.

In short, Ginny was the one who kept the business running so all Amanda and Uncle Frank—now 60-40 partners in the airline—had to do was fly.

Which was just fine with them.

“Mrs. Rush said one of her friends has the flu and she doesn’t want to go away in case she comes down with it, too.”

“Oh, that bites,” Amanda muttered, really regretting the news. Because she had been looking forward to seeing the group of zany older women again. Mrs. Rush, an elderly widow and heir to a steel fortune, was one of her regular clients.

The wealthy woman and her “gal pals,” who ranged in age from fifty to eighty, took girls-weekend trips every couple of months. They always requested Amanda as their pilot, having almost adopted her into the group. She’d flown them to Vegas for some gambling. To Reno for some gambling. To the Caribbean for some gambling. With a few spa destinations thrown in between.

Amanda had no idea what the group had planned for Halloween in Chicago, but she was sure it would have been entertaining.

“She asked me to tell you she’s sorry, and says if she has to, she’ll invent a trip in a few weeks so you two can catch up.”

“You do realize she’s not kidding.”

“I know,” said Ginny. “Money doesn’t stand a chance in her wallet, does it? The hundred-dollar bills have springs attached—she puts them in and they start trying to bounce right out.”

Pretty accurate. Since losing her husband, the woman had made it her mission to go through as much of his fortune as possible. Mr. Rush hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy the full fruits of his labors, so in his memory, his widow was going to pluck every plum and wring every bit of juice she could out of the rest of her life. No regrets, that was her M.O.

Mrs. Rush was about as different from the people Amanda had grown up with as a person could be. Her own family back in Stubing, Ohio, epitomized the small-town, hard-work, wholesome, nose-to-the-grindston-’til-the-day-you-die mentality.

They had never quite known what to make of her.

Amanda had started rebelling by first grade, when she’d led a student revolt against lima beans in school lunches. Things had only gone downhill from there. By the time she hit seventh grade, her parents were looking into boarding schools … which they couldn’t possibly afford. And when she graduated high school with a disciplinary record matched only by a guy who’d ended up in prison, they’d pretty much given up on her for good.

She couldn’t say why she’d gone out of her way to find trouble. Maybe it was because trouble was such a bad word in her house. The forbidden path was always so much more exciting than the straight-and-narrow one.

There was only one member of the Bauer clan who was at all like her: Uncle Frank. His motto was Live ’til your fuel tank is in the red and then keep on going. You can rest during your long dirt nap when you finally slide off the runway of life.

Live to the extreme, take chances, go places, don’t wait for anything you want, go out and find it or make it happen. And never let anyone tie you down.

These were all lessons Amanda had taken to heart when growing up, hearing tales of her wild uncle Frank, her father’s brother, of whom everyone else in the family had so disapproved. They especially disliked that he seemed to have his own personal parking space in front of the nearest wedding chapel. He’d walked down the aisle four times.

Unfortunately, he’d also walked down the aisle of a divorce courtroom just as often.

He might not be lucky in love, but he was as loyal an uncle as had ever been born. Amanda had shown up on his Chicago doorstep three days after her high school graduation and never looked back. Nor had her parents ever hinted they wanted her to.

He’d welcomed her, adjusted his playboy lifestyle for her—though he needn’t have. Her father might hate his brother’s wild ways, but Amanda didn’t give a damn who he slept with.

From day one, he had assumed a somewhat-parental role and harassed her into going to college. He’d made sure she went home for obligatory visits to see the folks. But he’d also shown her the world. Opened her eyes so wide, she hadn’t wanted to close them even to sleep in those early days.

He’d given her the sky … and he’d given her wings to explore it by teaching her to fly. Eventually, he’d taken her in as a partner in his small regional charter airline and together they’d tripled its size and quadrupled its revenues.

Their success had come at a cost, of course. Neither of them had much of a social life. Even ladies’ man Uncle Frank had been pretty much all-work-and-no-play since they’d expanded their territory up and down the east coast two years ago.

As for Amanda, aside from having a vivid fantasy life, when she wasn’t in flight, she was as boring as a single twenty-nine-year-old could be. Evidence of that was her disappointment at not getting to spend a day with a group of old ladies who bitched about everything from their lazy kids to the hair growing out of their husbands’ ears. Well, except Mrs. Rush, who sharply reminded her friends to be thankful for their husbands’ ear hair while they still had husbandly ear hair to be thankful for.

“Well, so much for a fun Halloween,” she said with a sigh.

“Honey, if sitting in a plane listening to a bunch of rich old ladies kvetch about their latest collagen injections is the only thing you’ve got to look forward to …”

“I know, I know.” It did sound pathetic. And one of these days, she really needed to do something about that. Get working on a real social life again, rather than throwing herself into her job fourteen hours a day, and spending the other ten thinking about all the things she would do if she had the time.

Picturing those things, even.

She closed her eyes, willing that thought away. Her fantasy life might be a rich and vivid one. But it was definitely not suitable for work hours.

Problem was, ever since she’d realized just how dangerous she was to men’s hearts, she really hadn’t felt like going after their bodies.

Her last relationship had ended badly. Very badly. And she still hadn’t quite gotten over the regret of it.

“What a shame. Mrs. Rush would have loved your costume.”

“Oh, God, don’t remind me,” Amanda said with a groan.

It was for the benefit of the ladies that she’d worn it. Mrs. Rush had ordered her to let loose on this one holiday trip.

Gulping, Amanda glanced around, hoping nobody was close enough to see her getup. She needed to dart up into the plane and change because while the old-fashioned outfit would have made her passengers cackle with glee, she didn’t particularly want to be seen by any of the workers or baggage handlers on the tarmac. Not to mention the fact that, even though the weather was great, it was October and she was freezing her butt off.

The Clear-Blue uniform she usually wore was tailored and businesslike, no-nonsense. Navy blue pants, crisp white blouse, meant to inspire confidence and get the customer to forget their pilot was only in her late twenties. Most customers liked that. However, the older women in the senior-gal group always harassed Amanda about her fashion sense. They insisted she would be one hot tamale if she’d lose the man-clothes and get girly.

She glanced down at herself again and had to smile. You couldn’t get much more girly than this ancient stewardess costume, complete with white patent-leather go-go boots and hot pants that clung to her butt and skimmed the tops of her thighs.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a 1972 commercial for Southwest Airlines.

As costumes went, it wasn’t bad, if she did say so herself. Shopping for vintage clothes on e-bay, she’d truly lucked out. The psychedelic blouse was a bit tight, even though she wasn’t especially blessed in the boob department, and she couldn’t button the polyester vest that went over it. But the satiny short-shorts fit perfectly, and the boots were so kick-ass she knew she would have to wear them again without the costume.

“Now, before you go worrying that your day is a total wash,” Ginny said, sounding businesslike again, “I wanted to let you know that the trip was not in vain. I’ve got you a paying passenger back to Chicago who’ll make it worth your while.”

“Seriously? A sudden passenger from Pittsburgh, on a Saturday?” she asked. This wasn’t exactly a hotbed destination like Orlando or Hartsfield International. Mrs. Rush was the only customer they picked up regularly in this part of Pennsylvania and most business types didn’t charter flights on weekends.

“Yes. When Mrs. Rush called to cancel, she told me a local businessman needed a last-minute ride to Chicago. She put him in touch with us, hoping you could help him. I told him you were there and would have no problem bringing him back with you.”

Perfect. A paying gig, and she could make it home in time to attend her best friend Jazz’s annual Halloween party.

Then she reconsidered. Honestly, it was far more likely she would end up staying home, devouring a bag of Dots and Tootsie Rolls while watching old horror films on AMC. Because Jazz—Jocelyn Wilkes, their lead mechanic at Clear-Blue and the closest friend Amanda had ever had—was a wild one whose parties always got crashed and sometimes got raided. Amanda just wasn’t in the mood for a big, wild house party with a ton of strangers.

Being honest, she’d much prefer a small, wild bedroom one—with only two guests. It was just too bad for her that, lately, the only guest in her bedroom had come with batteries and a scarily illustrated instruction manual written in Korean.

“Manda? Everything okay?”

“Absolutely,” she said, shaking the crazy thoughts out of her head. “Glad I get to earn my keep today.”

Ginny laughed softly into the phone. “You earn your keep every day, kiddo. I don’t know what Frank would do without you.”

“The feeling is most definitely mutual.”

She meant that. Amanda hated to even think of what her life might be like if she hadn’t escaped the small, closed-in, claustrophobic world she’d lived in with the family who had so disapproved of her and tried so hard to change her.

She had about as much in common with her cold, repressed parents and her completely subservient sister as she did with … well, with the swinging 1970s flower-power stewardess who’d probably once worn this uniform. When she’d stood in line to get doused in the gene pool, she’d gotten far more of her uncle Frank’s reckless, free-wheeling, never-can-stand-to-be-tied-down genes than her parents’ staid, conservative ones.

She had several exes who would testify to that. One still drunk-dialed her occasionally just to remind her she’d broken his heart. Yeah. Thanks. Good to know.

Even that, though, was better than thinking about the last guy she’d gotten involved with. He’d fallen in love. She’d fallen in “this is better than sleeping alone.” Upon figuring that out, he’d tried to make her feel something more by staging a bogus overdose. She’d been terrified, stricken with guilt—and then, when he’d admitted what he’d done and why, absolutely furious rather than sympathetic.

Making things worse, he’d had the nerve to paint her as the bad guy. Her ears still rang with his accusations about just what a cold, heartless bitch she was.

Better cold and heartless than a lying, manipulative psycho. But it was also better to stay alone than to risk getting tangled up with another one.

So her Korean vibrator it was.

Some people were meant for commitment, family, all that stuff. Some, like her uncle Frank, weren’t. Amanda was just like him; everybody said so. Including Uncle Frank.

“You’d better go. Your passenger should be there soon.”

“Yeah. I definitely need to change my clothes before some groovy, foxy guy asks me if I want to go get high and make love not war at the peace rally,” Amanda replied.

“Please don’t on my account.”

That hadn’t come from Ginny.

Amanda froze, the phone against her face. It took a second to process, but her brain finally caught up with her ears and she realized she had indeed heard a strange voice.

It had been male. Deep, husky. And close.

“I gotta go,” she muttered into the phone, sliding it closed before Ginny could respond.

Then she shifted her eyes, spying a pair of men’s shoes not two feet from where she stood in the shadow of the Lear. Inside those shoes was a man wearing dark gray pants. Wearing them nicely, she had to acknowledge when she lifted her gaze and saw the long legs, the lean hips, the flat stomach.

Damn, he was well-made. Her throat tightened, her mouth going dry. She forced herself to swallow and kept on looking.

White dress shirt, unbuttoned at the strong throat. Thick arms flexing against the fabric that confined them. Broad shoulders, one of which was draped with a slung-over suit jacket that hung loosely from his masculine fingers.

Then the face. Oh, what a face. Square-jawed, hollow-cheeked. His brow was high, his golden-brown hair blown back by the light autumn breeze tunneling beneath the plane. And he had an unbelievably great mouth curved into a smile. A wide one that hinted at unspilled laughter lurking behind those sensual lips. She suspected that behind his dark sunglasses, his eyes were laughing, too.

Laughing at her.

Wonderful. One of the most handsome men she had ever seen in her entire life had just heard her muttering about groovy dudes and free love. All while she looked like Marcia Brady before a big cheerleading tryout.

“Guess I should have worn my bell-bottoms and tie-dyed, peace-sign shirt,” he said.

She feigned a disapproving frown. “Your hair’s much too short, and not nearly stringy enough.” Tsking, she added, “And no mustache?”

The sexy smile was companion to a sexy laugh. Double trouble, either way you sliced it. “I hate to admit it, but I’m not a Bob Dylan fan, either. I guess I really can’t turn on, tune in and drop out.”

“What a drag! If you say you can’t play ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ on the guitar, I’m afraid I’m going to have to shove you into the engines of that 747 over there.”

He held both hands up, palms out. “Peace! I really do dig the threads, sister,” he said. “They’re pretty groovalicious.”

“Ooh, how very Austin Powers of you.”

Wincing as if she’d hit him, he muttered, “Do chicks really go for dudes with bear pelts on their chests?”

“Not this one,” she admitted with a laugh, liking this stranger already, despite her initial embarrassment. “Obviously, if you own a calendar, you know today’s Halloween.”

“Yeah, I heard that somewhere. That could explain why I passed a group of Hannah Montanas and Sponge-Bobs walking down the street on my way here.”

“I don’t know whether to be more sad that kids have to trick-or-treat in the daytime, or that you know who Hannah Montana and SpongeBob are.”

“Nieces and nephews,” he explained.

The affectionate way he said the words made her suspect he liked kids, which usually indicated a good nature. One point for the hot guy.

Correction, one more point for the hot guy. He’d already scored about a million for being so damned hot.

She also noted that he’d said nieces and nephews … not kids of his own. Single?

He glanced around at the other small planes nearby, and the few airport employees scurrying around doing the luggage-shuffle waltz. “So, nobody else got the invite to the costume party?”

Just her. Wasn’t she the lucky one? “I was supposed to be picking up a regular passenger and she made me promise to dress up. This is definitely not my usual workplace attire.”

“Rats. Here I was thinking I’d suddenly been let in the super-secret club. The true reason charter flights are so popular. You’re saying it really is just to miss the long lines at security, and have some travel flexibility? It’s not the hot pants and go-go boots?”

She shook her head. “‘Fraid not. But don’t forget, you also get to drink more than a half-cup of warm Coke and eat more than four pretzels.”

“Well, okay then, we’re on.”

Amanda suddenly sighed, acknowledging what she’d managed to overlook. For just a minute or two, she had been able to convince herself that some sexy, passing stranger had noticed her and come over.

Passing by on a private, secured tarmac? Don’t think so.

He wasn’t some random passerby, she just knew it.

“Oh, hell. You’re my passenger.”

“If you’re headed for Chicago, I think I am.” He stuck out his hand. “Reese Campbell.”

Cursing Mrs. Rush and Halloween and that stupid vintage clothing store on eBay, she put her hand in his. “Amanda Bauer.”

Their first touch brought a flush of warmth, a flash of pleasure that was unexpected and a little surprising. The handshake lasted a second too long, was perhaps a hint more than a casual greeting among strangers. And while the exchange was entirely appropriate, she suddenly found herself thinking of all the touches she hadn’t had for so long, all the inappropriate ways that strong, masculine hand could slide over her body.

Instant lust. It was real. Who knew?

She stared at him, trying to see the eyes behind the sunglasses, wondering if they had darkened with immediate interest the way hers probably had. Wondering what she might do about it if he returned that interest.

Get a grip.

Amanda regretfully tugged her hand away, pushing it down to her side and sliding it over her satin-covered hip. Her fingertips quivered as they brushed against the bare skin of her upper thigh and she suspected her palms were damp.

Forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath, she managed a smile. “Well, thanks for choosing Clear-Blue Air. We …”

“Love to fly, and it shows?”

It took her a second, then she placed the old Delta slogan. Her smile faded. The guy was way too hot to also be quick-witted and flirtatious. She could handle one at a time—it just became a little more distracting when they were all wrapped up in one extremely sexy package.

You can handle him. No sweat. Just stay professional.

Professional. While she was dressed for a love-in with the local beatnik crowd and this guy was both gorgeous and freaking adorable. Right.