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She nods. “I’m officially a UCLA alum. Go, Bruins. I’m actually the first college grad in my family. My dad couldn’t stop crying.” She presses her lips together, like she’s forcibly keeping herself from rambling further.
I can’t help but smile at her adorableness. “That’s awesome,” I say. “I’m sure your parents are insanely proud of you.”
Something flickers across her pretty face that makes me question my words. Have I just unwittingly highlighted the age gap between us—come off like a friend of her father’s? Or could it be her parents aren’t proud of her, for some reason? I can’t imagine that’s the case, but I suppose it’s possible they wanted her to study something other than journalism?
When I don’t speak for a long moment, but instead opt to stare her down and revel in her obvious anxiety, Georgina puts her hands into her lap, like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She bites her lower lip. Fidgets. And then, “How was New York?”
“Busy, productive, fun, exhausting, and highly lucrative.”
“Oh. That sounds good.”
“It was. Very good.”
I fall silent again, enjoying the way my silence turns her breathing shallow. The way it brings a flush to her cheeks and cleavage. Yeah, I’m being a bastard. Making her sweat, simply to amuse myself. Well, and also to punish her a tiny bit for the way she double-flipped me off. For fuck’s sake, Georgina was the one with a music demo in her pocket. Not me. She was the one with a hidden agenda. And yet, she had the audacity to flip me off and screech away in an Uber, leaving me standing there, after I’d stooped to begging her to come inside? When was the last time I begged anyone for anything? And yet, Georgina made me do it, just that fucking fast. Well, never again. That’s for fucking sure.
“So you wanted to have a little chat... ?” she prompts, her voice tight.
I pick at a piece of lint on my suit jacket. “Yes.” I pause again, for dramatic effect. “This plan for you to join RCR on tour this coming week?”
She nods.
“It’s the first I’m hearing about it, and I don’t approve. You’ll have to find something else to do this week. Tagging along on RCR’s tour is off.”
“What?” she blurts. For a moment, she gapes like a fish on a line, before shouting, “You can’t do that, Reed!”
“I just did.”
“CeeCee cleared the whole thing with Owen! Owen helped arrange it!”
“And Owen works for me. Well, he used to. If he arranged that shit show of an idea, then he’s fired.”
She turns pale.
“I’m joking. Owen is bulletproof. Ask anyone.”
“Reed, you can’t call everything off. CeeCee is excited about the idea, and so am I. And so is the band. Just now, when I was talking to all four of them about it in the greenroom, they said—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what the band said. The plan wasn’t cleared through me. And I don’t like it. I think it’s an unoriginal, tired idea that’s already been done a thousand times. Ever seen Almost Famous?”
She’s flabbergasted. “Well, granted, we might not be inventing the wheel here, but who cares? Readers will eat it up. What fan wouldn’t want to tag along with RCR on tour, through me? It’s every music lover’s fantasy. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to peek behind the—”
“Stop trying to sell me. It’s dead. Move on.”
She consciously shuts her gaping mouth. “But... Reed, I’ve got hotel rooms booked for the entire week!”
Oh, Georgina. I resist the urge to chuckle at her indignation. Her naiveté. As if the tragedy of a few unused hotel rooms would stop the world spinning on its axis. If I’d forgotten Georgina is only twenty-one, I was just now reminded of it. “Hotel room reservations are almost always refundable,” I say calmly to my little kitten, trying not to smile at her lack of real-world experience. “And if not, then I’ll reimburse Rock ‘n’ Roll for any expense, seeing as how the rooms were booked after coordination with Owen. Who, to be clear, will be out of a job after this, I promise you that.”
Again, she looks pained.
“Kidding again. Get used to it. It’s a running joke.”
Georgina rubs her face, distraught. And, for a moment, I feel kind of sorry for the poor little thing. She looks like a possum caught in an iron trap. Like a little lamb being carted off to slaughter. But, to my surprise, after a few deep breaths, she visibly gathers her strength and straps on her warrior’s armor. Suddenly, the simpering twenty-one-year-old vanishes, supplanted by the same fierce superhero I witnessed in front of my house the other night.
Georgina’s eyes are sharp now. Her nostrils flaring. After one more deep breath, she puffs out her spectacular chest and lets me have it. “I won’t let you do this,” she says, her eyes ablaze. “CeeCee made it very clear to me she’s my boss, not you. She also said you explicitly agreed we’re not churning out propaganda for River Records here—we’re independent journalists. You’ve expressly agreed CeeCee’s got full editorial control, and CeeCee, my boss, has decided I’m touring with RCR this entire week.”
