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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.”
