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Leanne Simmons and Callum Davidson are complete opposites. As soon as they meet they know they won’t get along. However, for the sake of their TV show they agree to put their differences aside, but it’s not as easy as they think.
For one, there’s the unexplainable physical attraction they can’t seem to shake. And for two, everything out of their mouths seems to rub the other the wrong way.
Leanne wonders how she can be attracted to such a careless, narcissistic playboy.
Callum wonders why he can’t get a girl who dresses like a boy out of his head.
In Air Kiss readers will get to experience first-hand the trials and tribulations of the pair during the early days of Running on Air.
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“I’ve never seen you this nervous,” Paul commented as he ran his attentive gaze over me. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
The bloke was my best friend, but man, sometimes I hated how perceptive he was. I thought I was doing a good job of covering my nerves. Obviously, I wasn’t.
“I’m fine,” I told him and kept walking. We were on our way to an informal interview for an up-and-coming reality TV series, showcasing a group of freerunners from London. And yes, being that parkour was my life, I wanted to be a part of that group so badly it practically seeped from my pores. Maybe that’s why I was so on edge. I couldn’t remember a time when I wanted something more than this.
Paul was friends with some of the guys involved, and when they contacted him in their search for people to come on board, he was kind enough to put my name forward, too. That was Paul for you. Always thinking of others. He was the nicest person I knew, if not a little quirky. Anyway, it was too bad we didn’t have romantic chemistry, because he would’ve made the perfect boyfriend.
Paul chuckled, the sound deep and attractive. His blue eyes made a distinct contrast with his bright auburn hair. “You look like you’re about to shit a brick.”
I tugged on the hem of my T-shirt. “Can you blame me? I’m about to meet Trevor Cross, Callum Davidson, and James Khan. They’re like, the holy triumvirate, the frickin’ parkour Gods of London. I know they’re your buddies, but to me, they’re these illusive mythological creatures only few have had the fortune to know.”
“Okay, you’re building this up way too much in your head. They’re just normal blokes. When you meet them, you’ll see.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. In my world, those three were spoken about but rarely seen. If you were lucky, they might show up when you were at the park one day. I’d watched them from afar several times but never had the nerve to introduce myself. They were like those obscure indie bands with cult followings, who only played secret gigs that spread through word of mouth. Or graffiti artists known solely by their name and work.
They had this aura of untouchability.
I shrugged as I glanced up at Paul. “Yeah, maybe.”
He grinned and teased as he poked me in the arm. “If anyone else knew there was such a soft centre underneath that tough exterior, you’d lose all your street cred.”
I poked him back with a lighthearted threat. “It’s a good thing you’re too much of a loyal friend to ever tell.”
He winked. “I’m pretty fantastic, aren’t I?”
I chuckled at his playfulness and focused back on where we were headed. We were meeting said “holy triumvirate” at a café on the South Bank. Paul wanted to take a taxi from the Tube station to avoid being late, but I insisted on walking. I needed the extra time and fresh air to get my shit together. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived, my shit still hadn’t found itself. Fortunately, I put up a good front. Paul was the only one who knew me well enough to see through it.
I spotted them before they saw us, sitting at a table chatting casually. They were just like Paul described them, three regular blokes. Trev Cross was fair-skinned, dark-haired and light-eyed, while James Khan was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, his hair shaved short. Then there was Callum Davidson. He had honey-brown hair, piercing green eyes, and ink covering every inch of his arms and neck. I was sure it extended to the rest of him as well, but since he was clothed, I couldn’t see.
More’s the pity.
I was a sucker for tattoos.
His arms were attractively muscular and he had the cheekbones and jawline of a catwalk model. I watched as he pulled a pair of black Ray-Bans from his pocket and slid them on, shielding his eyes from the sun. He might as well have been in slow motion, with “Sexy Boy” by AIR for background music, what with all the fluttery fangirl feelings I was having
“Hey!” Paul greeted as we approached, drawing the attention of the three.
All eyes came to us and those aforementioned nerves caught in my throat. I felt like I was meeting the Queen. My hands grew clammy and my stomach flittered with butterflies.
The pale, blue-eyed one stood first and pulled Paul into an enthusiastic man hug. “Paul! Good to see you,” he said before turning to me. “And you must be Leanne. I’ve heard great things. I’m Trev.”
With the attention of all of them on me, I felt a wave of self-consciousness. I wore a pair of black jeans, a white T-shirt, and my favourite Asics trainers. It was what I wore most days, because I was a low maintenance sort of gal. I didn’t really wear makeup and kept my hair cut short. In fact, I was pretty sure the last time I wore a dress was my tenth birthday party. Because of this, people often mistook me for a lesbian, which was a ridiculous stereotype because I had lesbian friends who were more glam than half the straight girls I knew.