Gabriel
IT TAKES me two minutes and thirty-six seconds to exit the conference room, leave the hotel, and walk to the end of the block. I know because I count each second. I walk steadily and with purpose.
And if my hand trembles a little, no one fucking sees it because I’ve tucked it into my pocket. Problem solved.
Lesson one in business: to every problem there is a solution. Lesson two: never get emotional.
Never get emotional.
The instant I turn the corner, my control starts to crumble. I bobble a step. A red haze falls over my vision. Another step and I’m panting. I spy a newspaper stand and suddenly I’m kicking it.
“Fucking shit!” I give the metal stand a rough slap as well before I begin pacing.
“I had the same reaction, dude.”
The sound of Killian’s voice stops me cold. He’s lounging against a cheese monger’s shop and drinking a carryout coffee. “I kicked the shit out the garbage bin there.”
Next to the newsstand there’s a dented bin. I snort, though I can’t truly find the humor in anything. “Of all the garbage bins and newsstands…”
“You’re the one who walked to my spot,” Killian points out. I look down the street. “Where’s Libby?”
“Giving me time to cool off.” Killian laughs without amusement. “I’m not allowed to return to the hotel until I’m ready to apologize to the pap.”
“Her name is Sophie.” Don’t think of her. Don’t fucking do it. But it’s impossible to blot out what I’ve said to her. Rage flows through me again. I grind my teeth and count to ten. Slowly.
Lesson three: Act on behalf of your client, not yourself. I handled the situation like I’ve always done—decided what was best for the band. Protected them first and foremost, putting aside personal needs.
Bullshit. Everything is personal.
Oh, how I know it now, chatty girl.
It should have been a simple thing, dealing with this issue. I barely know the woman. The lines of risk are clear. She could easily upset the balance we’ve struggled to restore.
That didn’t explain why each word out of my mouth to her felt like fucking acid on my tongue. Or the way the hurt in her eyes had nearly made me physically ill. I’d barely managed to get through that interview from hell without punching a wall.
And then I’d simply left her. Walked away without a backward glance, leaving her feeling like scum, as though she were unworthy of any of us.
“Cockless git,” I mutter, fighting the urge to kick something again.
“You have to find a way to forgive Jax.” Killian takes a sip of coffee. “That’s what Libby told me. I thought I had. But he keeps finding ways to piss me off.”
Hands low on my hips, I study the scuff on my shoe. I don’t bother correcting Killian’s assumption. I’m not angry at Jax for arranging that Sophie arrive on the scene. I understand him. He wanted a testament to
what he’d done. Or perhaps he didn’t really want to die at all, but for someone to find him before it was too late.
I can’t be sure, but I’m not going to rail at him for being human. A sigh escapes me, and I run a hand over my face. I haven’t had a proper sleep in weeks, and exhaustion is catching up on me. Around us, Londoners make their way down the street toward the nearby Tube station. It’s already overcast and chilly.
A mother pushes her child along in a gray pram, and stops at a bookstore window. There used to be a picture of my mother kneeling beside me in my pram. I was probably two, and even then I had a surly expression. But my mother beamed at me as though I were her world.
I rub a hand across my aching chest.
Jax, Killian, Whip, and Rye gave me friendship when I had none, a family when mine had gone. They gave my life purpose—a job I love and experiences few people on Earth ever have. In return, I vowed that I’d always protect their interests. I’ve done a shit job the last few years. I can do better. I must do better.
I don’t want to think about Sophie Darling. But she’s infected my brain. The sound of her teasing laugh haunts me. The pained shimmer in her brown eyes as I called her “a mistake” guts me.
She’d been responsible for exposing Jax’s most private moment and the lowest point in his life. Countless times I’ve cursed the bottom-feeding scum who took those photos. To realize it had been Sophie, the woman I let hold me and ease my fears in a way I hadn’t allowed since my mum died, is more than disappointing. She’d knocked me on my arse in that interview.
I start to pace, unable to stand still.
Killian watches me, his head swiveling back and forth as he tracks my movements. “You’re not going to need us to set up a fight, are you?”
I cut him a glare. “I’m not as bad off as all that.” He holds up a hand. “I was only asking.”
When Kill John first started, I paid for my suits by winning underground fights. A bit of an oxymoron, granted, being a brawler in order to dress like a gentleman. As the years went on, I fought when I was so tense only the sweet release found in sex or pummeling the shit out of another person would do. In truth, sex has never cut it for me the way raw pain does.
“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off.
“Brenna gonna hire her?” Killian asks me.
“Of course. She put Ms. Darling in first class. Brenna wouldn’t have bothered if she wasn’t planning to hire the her.”
At this, Killian grins. “Bet that pissed you off, having to sit beside someone.”
I grunt, unable to tell him the truth. Best fucking flight of my life. He starts to laugh. “Damn, Brenna is evil.”
I think of all the shit Sophie gave me. A smile tugs at my mouth but promptly dies when my brain reminds me that I just broke any hope of her wanting to be near me again.
“Fucking hell.” I pin Killian with a glare. “She’s hired. We both know this. Regardless of her past, I’ve seen her portfolio and her social media work. She’s good. And the rest of the boys want her along as well.”
“Shit.” Killian looks off.
“You’ll be working closely with her.” Something stirs in my chest at the thought of seeing Sophie day in and day out. I push it down deep. “Which means you will treat her with the bloody respect a trained professional deserves.”
“Yes, sir.” Killian gives me a salute.
I’m already turning back toward the hotel. “We have a FaceTime meeting with a new sponsor at four.”
“What sponsor?” he calls back.
“Some guitar pick company,” I say over my shoulder.
“Damn it, Scottie, ten years and you still can’t remember which picks I prefer? Details, man.”
I know which one, but it’s just too easy to aggravate Killian. “A sponsor is a sponsor. Don’t be late.”
Halfway back to the hotel, I text Brenna.
GS: I assume Ms. Darling is staying on?
She answers quick enough: Yes. No thanks to you. Next time, discuss your concerns about my staff in private.
I bypass a man with two poodles who sniff at my ankles.
GS: Understood. Where is she now? Brenna: Why?
My jaw muscles pulse.
GS: I want to welcome her aboard to show no hard feelings. Brenna: You can text her for that.
I really loathe when Brenna is pissed at me. Life becomes that much harder, and she is an expert at making me work for my transgressions.
GS: Did I happen to mention I’m meeting Ned later tonight?
Ned is a local promoter and a scummy little shit who has a propensity to hit on Brenna. Unfortunately, the man is also in charge of the best venues, and I have to deal with him whenever we tour London. Brenna doesn’t.
GS: I was thinking of inviting him out with us instead.
I almost smile, imagining Brenna fuming right now. Little dots appear and then her answer.
Brenna: Asshole. Jules took her out to lunch at that gastropub down the street.
GS: A little early for lunch, isn’t it?
Brenna: Seriously? Translation: she took her to have a much needed drink on account of you and Killian acting like dicks.
Ah, guilt. I had become unacquainted with the emotion over the past decade. Experiencing it now, I cannot say I enjoy the sensation. At all.
Tucking my phone in my pocket, I pivot and head back down the street.
It isn’t hard to locate Sophie and Jules in the pub. They’re bright spots of color in a sea of old wood paneling. Tucked away at a corner table, the two women have their heads close together, Sophie’s white blond hair like moonbeams besides the full flower of Jules’s tight fuchsia curls.
Their backs are to me as they nurse pints of Guinness—the breakfast of champions, as Rye often lovingly refers to the rich stout.
“I’m not gonna lie,” Jules is saying. “If you’re expecting praise or kind words from him, it’ll never happen. He’s just not that kind of boss.”
“He isn’t going to be my boss at all,” Sophie mutters, taking a long drink. Creamy white foam lingers on the soft curve of her upper lip before she licks it away, and my cock grows heavy.
Hell.
“Don’t kid yourself,” Jules says. “He’s everyone’s boss. Even the guys.
What Scottie says goes. But don’t worry. He’s not a tyrant. He’s just…”
I can’t help but lean in a little, wondering what she’ll say. They haven’t seen me yet, and I’m not about to make my presence known now.
“Exacting,” Jules settles on.
Sophie snorts inelegantly. “He’s an arrogant assmunch.” Lovely.
“And why the hell does everyone call him Scottie? The name doesn’t fit him at all. Beelzebub would be better.” Sophie spreads her hands in exasperation, and I struggle not to snort.
Jules laughs into her glass. “Girl, I thought the same thing. According to roadie legend, Killian and Jax came up with the name when they were all starting out. It’s some joke about Star Trek.”
“I was preparing to study engineering,” I say, startling them both. They whirl in their seats, mouths agape.
“Scotty was the Enterprise’s engineer,” I continue, rounding the table to take a seat. “Star Trek was on, and Rye pointed out that I shared a last name
with Scotty. That was that. Little bastards started calling me Scottie, but with an –ie so people would be able to tell us apart.”
I give the women a dry look as if the whole business is tiresome, but the dark truth is that I never tried to put a stop to the name. It had cemented my inclusion in their group, and I’d never been a part of one before. It was the first time anyone had thought to give me a nickname that wasn’t meant as an insult.
The second time I was given such a nickname was on a plane with the gorgeous, chatty girl who currently sits glaring at me as if I’ve spit in her beer.
“Sophie. Jules.” I give them each a nod.
The freckles scattered across Jules’s cheeks start to stand out in sharp relief as her pale brown skin goes ashy gray. “I…ah… That is…I was explaining to Sophie that…”
I put her out of her misery. “It’s all right if you want to flee. I won’t hold it against you.”
Jules jumps up, grabbing the massive green hobo bag she’s constantly hauling around.
Sophie sits straight, her brows rising. “Hey! She doesn’t have to go anywhere. In fact, you should go.” She points her finger at me like a weapon.
“No, no,” Jules says, already backing away from the table. “He’s right. I totally want to flee.”
And she does, nearly creating a breeze in her haste. Sophie sits back with a huff, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “God, it’s like you’re Darth Vader or something.”
I missed you. The unwanted thought doesn’t even make sense; it’s been less than an hour since I last saw her. But that doesn’t change the feeling that I’ve been granted clemency just by sitting here with her.
“We’ve already established that I’m the engineer of this production,” I say lightly. “And you’re mixing space dramas.”
Her nose wrinkles, and she looks away, giving me her profile. I use the moment to steal her Guinness and take a sip. It’s room temperature, thick and dark and perfect. Truly the breakfast of champions.
“Hey!” she snatches the glass from me. “Get your own.”
She makes a point of wiping the rim with a soggy cocktail napkin. “Do you fear I might have cooties?”
“I’m surprised you even know that word.” “I know quite a few.”
I’ve missed sparring with her most of all. Sophie is…fun. When was the last time I had any fun?
“Which reminds me…” I lean in close. “While I do enjoy anal play with a woman now and then, I have never munched an ass.”
Sophie chokes on her beer, sending droplets of it across the battered table, as her cheeks flame scarlet. Trying not to grin in victory, I hand her another napkin.
She glares at me as she dabs her chin. “If you’re here to try to talk me into going home, don’t bother. I’m staying, and you can’t do anything about it.” She lifts her chin as if to say, So there!
I sit back in my chair. “You were right, you know.” When her brow wrinkles, I go on. “Business is personal. I simply hadn’t thought of it as such until you put it that way.”
Her expression goes darker. I nudge the beer glass out of her reach, and she rolls her eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile on her lips. It strikes me that my day is already better just for seeing it. Weakness. I don’t want any. But some things are stronger.
Honor. Honesty. Need.
“I have hated those pictures and what they represent as much as I hate what happened to Jax,” I tell her quietly.
Anger melts off her face, and she stares at me with wide, pained eyes.
“No,” I correct. “I hated them more. They created a monument to that ugliness. That…” My throat closes, and I have to clear it. “Pain.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You’ll never know how sorry.”
“I believe you. I know what it is to lose yourself in a job. We were all spinning out of control before Jax. There were days I’d wake up and not remember what country we were in. Because everything was a blur of having fun and believing the crap lines people fed us. I understand the lies you tell yourself to get through the day.”
“I can’t imagine that of you.”
“Chatty girl, you spin castles on social media. I spin them for the music business. The suits, the mannerisms, the whole fucking façade is part of the arsenal. Back in that room, you saw it full force.” My finger touches a drop of beer. “I reacted out of an old anger.”
When she answers, it’s soft and hesitant. “Are you sure it’s old anger and not fresh?”
I meet her gaze and am hit anew with that strange punch of sensation just beneath my ribs. Pain, resentment, remorse, tenderness, it’s all jumbled together, making it difficult to settle on one emotion. I want to tell her I’m sorry for hurting her. I want to send her away so I don’t have to experience this discomfort.
She is dangerous because I cannot control her. And she is utterly beautiful, like molten glass that tempts you to touch even though you know you’ll be burned.
But for all that, there is one emotion I do not feel. “I am not angry with you.”
When she nods, an awkward jerk of her little chin, I reach into my billfold and pull out a few pounds. My fingers are unsteady as I drop the money on the table. “Do the tour,” I tell her. “I will not stand in your way but welcome you as a valuable asset to the band.”
Then I flee, just as desperately as Jules did minutes before. Because I’ve just consigned myself to months of hell and temptation.
 |
Sophie
WE’RE STAYING in London for a week, so I work with the guys, combing through their social media and making adjustments. In other words, adding myself as admin to all their accounts and acting as them from time to time.
And I take pictures. All the time. It isn’t difficult with Kill John as the subject matter. All the guys are exceedingly photogenic. I’ve often wondered about fame. It’s rare to find famous people who aren’t photogenic, even if they aren’t classically attractive. Why is that? Is it the gloss of fame that makes them more compelling? Or is it something within them that draws the eye and facilitates fame?
Whatever the case, shooting moments with Kill John is a pleasure. Not that it’s without a few struggles.
Killian is still fairly pissy with me. He gives me a glare as I take a picture of him laughing with Jax while they work through a chord progression in a studio they’ve rented for the week. “Do you mind?”
“Nope.” I snap another shot. “In fact, if you want to give me a big ol’ smile and ham it up, even better.”
“Jesus. You’re relentless. Go away.”
“Kills,” Jax says with a sigh. “Just fucking let it go.” He turns to me and sticks out his tongue, crossing his green eyes.
I dutifully take the pic.
“Excellent.” Lowering my camera, I sit on the studio floor. “Look, none of us can change our pasts. All we have is our present. Like it or not, you two are the band’s front men, which means you lead by example. People are
dying to see you and Jax together again and happy. They need that reassurance.”
“And you think taking a few pictures of us doing whatever is going to make everything better?” Killian asks. His tone isn’t snide, but he’s clearly dubious.
“You tell me,” I counter. “You’ve been in this business longer than I have. Do you think public image matters?”
For a second he just stares at me. But then he huffs out a laugh and smiles. When he does, it’s fairly breathtaking. Killian James is extremely hot. Luckily I’m immune to hot men. Well, most of them.
“All right,” Killian says, breaking into my thoughts of uptight managers. “I’m being a dick. It matters, even if I don’t like it.”
“There. Was that so hard?” I ask.
He leans in, cocking his head as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “You know, I’m not actually comfortable being an asshole to women.”
“Really?” I say, biting the corner of my lip to keep from smiling. “But you do it so well.”
Jax laughs so hard he rocks back, clutching his Telecaster to his stomach. From the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel’s head lift and turn our way. He’s in an adjoining studio, talking to Whip as he practices his drums.
All the studios are connected by glass walls that surround the production booth. I’ve been aware of his presence the whole time, but didn’t think he was aware of mine. He certainly can’t hear us, and yet he’s noticed Jax laughing. Then again, it’s becoming more and more apparent that Gabriel keeps track of everything and everyone.
Killian laughs as well before nudging my foot with the toe of his boot. “You’re a hard woman to remain pissy with, Sophie.”
“Remember that when I follow you like a tick on a dog’s butt.”
He laughs again, a deep rumble of sound. “You sound like Libby.”
“Uh-oh,” Jax says, picking up his beer. “He just gave you his highest compliment. Watch out, you’ll soon be subject to noogies and pranks like the rest of us.”
I feign horror, but inside a soft warmth swims through me. I have many friends and acquaintances. Meeting new people has never been my problem; it isn’t hard when you’re a natural-born talker. But I’ve never been a part of a close-knit family of friends. Maybe I won’t really be accepted by these guys either. Time will tell. But I want to be.
It is an odd thing to discover I’m lonely, despite never truly being alone. But I am. I want someone to know the real me, not the shiny shell I show the world.
I leave Killian and Jax to their practice and move on to Rye, and then Whip. After I’m done with photos, I upload them to my computer and pick out the ones I want to use for today’s social media.
Time passes quickly, and then we’re off to check out the venue for Tuesday night’s opening show. The guys are all restless energy. I swear they must be powered by music, because the more they talk about it, the more they play, the more fueled they seem to be.
Me, on the other hand? I’m still feeling the effects of jet lag—I haven’t had a true night’s sleep since I got here—and the lack of lunch. When did we skip lunch, anyway? How did I miss that?
My stomach growls in protest, and I try to ignore it because no one appears to be ready to leave. I take a break, sitting on the stage and leaning against a set of unplugged amps. My head hurts, and I’d love to nap. Only napping kind of blows here too. I just can’t settle down when I get back to my room.
My stomach growls again, and I swear it’s started to eat itself because my insides clench in pain. I fumble with the latch on my camera case and curse under my breath. I’m in hangry territory here. Soon I’ll be a snarling
mess. And these boys don’t seem to fucking care that it’s been hours since we last ate—
“Here.” A boxed sandwich from Pret A Manger is thrust under my nose.
A second later, Gabriel sits next to me on the stage.
I’m caught between snatching the sandwich and admiring the effortless way he moves. Which is just ridiculous, I grump silently, sinking my teeth into honey wheat bread. Lusting over the way a man moves. What next? Writing poetry about the scruff along his jaw?
Sadly, I could. I really could.
The first bite of food hits my mouth, and I sigh in relief. “Thank you,” I mumble between chews.
“It’s nothing.” His shoulder lifts with a light shrug as he surveys the stadium.
He’s brought me egg salad with arugula. My favorite. I clutch the sandwich in my hands like it’s a precious gift before taking another bite. And another. Damn, I was hungry. “It’s something.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” He pulls a bottled water, covered in condensation, from a bag and twists the top off before handing it to me. “God forbid you choke on your food and are unable to talk any more.”
The water is ice cold, and I feel it going down, spreading through me.
Sweet hydration.
“How did you know my favorite sandwich?”
He keeps his gaze distant, but his chin lowers a bit. “It’s my business to know everything about my people.”
His people. His flock.
“I don’t see you handing out food to anyone else.”
He finally turns my way. Brilliant blue eyes crinkle at the corners with sardonic humor, the curve of his lip tilting slightly. As always, my breath catches. The crinkles deepen.
“No one gets quite as hangry as you do, Darling. It’s for the good of all to keep you fed.”
I suspect he calls me by my last name as a taunt, but he always says it as though it’s a caress. I shake the feeling off with a roll of my shoulders. “I don’t even care if you’re insulting me. It’s true. I was about to eat my own hand.”
“We wouldn’t want that.” His arm barely brushes mine. “We need you to work.”
My cell phone rings. “Hold that thought,” I say as I answer my phone. “Yellow?”
“‘Yellow’? That’s how you answer your phone? It’s your mother, by the way.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom, I’m familiar with your voice.”
“Well, you never know,” she replies with an expansive sigh. “It’s been so long since you called, you might have forgotten.”
Smiling, I set my sandwich down. “Mom, you could make guilt an Olympic sport.”
“I try, angel pudding. Now, tell me all about your new job. Are they nice to you? Do you like it?”
This is not the conversation I want to have with Gabriel and his bat- power hearing in close proximity, not to mention his eyes are on me in clear amusement. But I can’t exactly say that. “Of course they’re nice to me. I wouldn’t stay if they weren’t.”
Not exactly true. I’ve had some shit jobs with even shittier bosses over the years, but I’m turning over a new leaf: accept nothing but what brings me joy from now on.
“And I love it, Ma. Truly.”
“Well, that’s good. And those band boys?” Her voice dips. “Are they as sexy as they look on TV?”
I told her what I was doing via text. But I hadn’t expected her to know about Kill John. I make a gagging noise into the phone. “Seriously? You’re trying to scar me for life, aren’t you? You do not need to be asking about sexy rockers.”
At my side, Gabriel snorts and takes a bite of my sandwich. I snatch it back, giving him a side glare as my mom keeps talking.
“Please,” she drawls. “If I didn’t like sex, you’d have never been—” “La, la, la… Not hearing you!”
Gabriel chuckles, so low only I can hear it. But it does illicit things to me, sending tingles where I don’t need them.
“Born!” Mom finishes emphatically. “Mom.”
“Don’t whine, Sophie. It’s unflattering.”
A click sounds, and my father’s voice filters in. “My baby girl doesn’t whine.”
“See? Daddy knows,” I put in, grinning. It’s an old game I play with them, and I don’t care if I’m twenty-five; it feels good to act like a kid. Safe and secure.
Here I am, sitting on a stage, about to go on a European tour with the world’s biggest band. But for a few minutes, I can just be Sophie Darling, only daughter of Jack and Margaret Darling.
“You spoil her, Jack,” my mother is saying. “I have to counteract the ill effects with doses of hard realism.”
I am essentially my mother—only younger and with ever-changing hair color. I have to cut my parents off before they can get going. Their back and forth can go on forever, and I have a hot, nosy, sort-of boss to eat lunch with
—something that suddenly fills me with bright anticipation.
“Look, my lunch break is about to end. Let me call you tonight when we stop for the day.”
“All right, honey,” my dad says. “Just remember, men love women who play hard to get. Extremely hard to get.”
I don’t need to look over to know Gabriel is rolling his eyes. “And yet you and Mom started as a one-night stand…” “Damn it, Margaret. You tell this child too much.”
Still laughing, we say our goodbyes, and as soon as I hang up, Gabriel speaks again. “And now your slightly unhinged verbal onslaughts become clear.”
“Eavesdropping is rude, you know…”
“I would have had to cover my ears to avoid overhearing that ruckus.” His gaze slides over me with clear amusement. “They talk as loudly as you do.”
“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?” “Details.”
I smile, despite myself, and give his shoulder a nudge with my own. It’s like trying to move a brick wall.
Gabriel takes my sandwich again, and because I’m feeling generous, I leave him to it and take the other half instead. He finishes his side in two neat bites, then wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“Your parents are lovely, chatty girl.”
Warmth floods my chest. “Thank you. I miss them.”
He nods in empathy. “Do you not see them often? You talked before of living off ramen…”
“I love my parents,” I cut in. “And I see them when I can. But there’s also only so much I can take. They’re…slightly suffocating in their attempts to watch out for me.”
I lift my phone and scroll through pictures until I find the one I want. It’s an older one of me, smiling wide and pained as I sit between my parents on a couch. I hand it to Gabriel.
He studies the picture for a long moment. “You look a bit like both of them.”
“Yes.” I know this well. I have my mom’s dark brown eyes, cheeky smile, and pert nose. I have my dad’s bone structure and wavy, dark blond hair. I look down at Mom, her caramel colored hair stick straight. I’ve always wanted her hair too. “This picture is of me at my college graduation party.”
He quirks a brow, waiting for me to explain further.
I shake my head, my lips pursing. “It was a kegger. They were the only parents there.”
A short, shocked laugh bursts from him before he swallows it. “That explains your knickers-in-a-twist expression.”
“Ha. That expression was me plotting their untimely and slowly torturous deaths.”
He makes a noise of amusement.
“They’ve always been like that—really, really involved. Mom’s half Filipino, half Norwegian American. She used to bring me care packages: big trays of lumpia and lox.”
“Lumpia?”
“Filipino spring rolls, basically. Which are delicious. Paring them with lox? Not so much.” I make a face. “And then there’s Dad. This big, goofy, half Scottish American, half Armenian sociology professor. He used to tease me, calling me a UN baby while explaining the intricate paths of my heritage to bored friends.” I sigh. “So, they’re best taken in small doses.”
“You’re loved,” he says gently. “That’s a wonderful thing.”
“It is.” I look out over the wide stadium, watching the roadies pack up instruments as Kill John breaks for the day. “And that was also the problem. I didn’t want them to know I was failing. Or what I did to make a living. I wasn’t lying when I said I was ashamed of my work. It’s only within this past year that I’ve gotten back to wanting to see them, you know?”
Slowly he nods, a frown pulling at his mouth.
“I’m proud now,” I tell him quietly. “I love that Mom is a closet Kill John fan.”
“Shall I send your mom a signed picture of the band?” A gleam lights Gabriel’s eye.
“God, do not encourage her. Next thing you know, she’ll be here, and I’ll lose my mind.”
“It almost sounds worth it.”
“I’ll sic her on you,” I warn. “You’re much prettier than any of the guys. She’ll follow you around, plying you with food and pinching your butt when you’re not looking.”
“She’s married,” he says, as if that matters.
“And has a weakness for pretty men. Go figure,” I deadpan. He makes a face. “Men aren’t pretty.”
“There are many types of pretty, sunshine.” I count them on my fingers. “Pretty girls, so cute and sweet. Pretty women, who are rarely prostitutes with hearts of gold, despite movie claims. Pretty boys, attractive but basically you just want to pinch their cheeks. And pretty men.” I give him a pointed look. “You know, the kind often mistaken for internationally renowned models—”
The rat bastard shoves the sandwich in my mouth. “Be a good chatty girl and eat up.”
I take a hard bite and chew slowly, my glare hinting at future consequences. Inside, though, my blood feels like champagne, bubbling with happiness. I’m having too much fun, and I don’t want it to end.
Maybe he is, too. His pleased expression grows as we share a comfortable silence while I finish my lunch and sip my water. Once I’m done, he hands me a napkin and tidies up, packing the trash neatly into the bag he brought. It’s all so simple, so discreet—like it’s second nature for him to take care of me.
But it’s a façade. Gabriel Scott may know everything about everyone he manages, but to them, he’s the distant shadow in the corner. He prefers it that way. The warmth he brings me feels like a secret thrill.
Before he can slip away, I lean in and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. He flinches but meets my gaze through lowered lashes as I pull back. “Thank you for lunch, Gabriel. I feel much better now.”
His eyes drift to my lips, which feel swollen and inviting, as if he’s traced them with his own. He breathes in deeply, letting it out slowly, and his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. The touch sends a shiver straight to my core, making everything inside me tighten, hot and sweet.
“You’ve got egg on your face.” His voice is a low rasp tinged with humor. He flashes a wicked grin, his thumb lingering before he steps back, hopping off the stage with ease. “Back to work, darling.”
I force a light smile, though my body is a quivering mess. “Yes, dear.”
A few stagehands glance up in shock at me calling the infamous Scottie “dear,” and I’m the only one who notices him almost stumble. He recovers quickly, but the memory keeps me grinning for the rest of the day.
