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Okay, yes, I know. Obviously, I have zero chill. I’m a psycho bitch who’s jealous of one of the most beautiful, glamorous, famous actresses in the world. A woman who shagged the man I’m falling for, for years, and also, I suspect, snagged his heart at some point, too. I know she’s engaged to the love of her life now. And that Reed has said he wouldn’t want her anymore, regardless. But, still, I’m almost positive Reed loved Isabel at some point. And maybe still does. And I guess I’m grasping at straws here, irrationally trying to figure out if, maybe, Reed could one day, possibly, love me, too.
After some poking around, I figure out the filing system used in the storage room, and five minutes later, hit pay dirt.
The magazine in my hand has George Michael on its cover. On the left side of George’s head, a small headline reads, “Meet your new obsession: Red Card Riot.” In larger print above that, another headline reads, “CeeCee Rafael Knows How to Throw a F*cking Birthday Party!”
My heart in my mouth, I flip to the article about the birthday party, and squeal loudly when I see five full pages of photos.
“Jackpot,” I whisper, my voice cutting through the air of the empty storage room.
Ravenously, my eyes search and scour. But, not surprisingly, I don’t see any photos of Reed or Isabel. But then I see it. In a shot of Justin Timberlake. He’s arriving at the party. He’s just gotten out of a limo, and he’s starting to traipse down the red carpet. And what I see in the background of the photo, behind Justin, snatches the air out of my lungs.
What the hell?
I pull out my phone and take a photo of the photo. And then I spread the background image on my phone wide with my fingers to zoom in. But it’s no use. Thanks to the camera’s focus on Justin, the background image is slightly blurred. Which means I’m only ninety percent sure of what I’m seeing. But, still, that’s pretty damned sure.
Holy fuck.
If this photo shows what I think it does, then that could mean only one thing: Reed lied to me. Right to my face. About something I would have thought was totally innocuous.
And, for the life of me, I can’t understand why.
Chapter 23
Reed
Georgina is late, once again. Caught up in traffic. This time, because she lost track of time while reading a bunch of articles at Rock ‘n’ Roll’s offices.
To distract myself while awaiting her return, I’ve been sitting on my couch with my laptop, going over the marketing plan for Fugitive Summer’s upcoming release. As I’ve been working, I’ve been sipping a glass of Bordeaux. Occasionally, glancing up at the sunset painting the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the living room.
Surely, if someone were to see me right now, not knowing anything about Georgina, they’d think I’m the perfect portrait of a man in relaxation mode. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. If Georgina doesn’t get here soon, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from anticipation. I’d probably feel that way, regardless. Just because I’m physically craving her after being away from her for several hours. But my impatience is amplified by the flat, square box hidden underneath my couch cushion at the moment. The box I hid there when I got home, so I can give it to her at just the right moment tonight.
Georgina won’t keep my gift. Not this one. Not for long, anyway. She’ll take it from me with a beaming smile and turn around and sell it, the first chance she gets. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to give it to her. Or see that beaming smile of hers when she first opens the box and sees the sheer perfection of what’s inside. Whether Georgina winds up keeping my gift for a day or a week, her gift to me will be the look on her face when she first opens the box.
Finally, just as I’m reaching the end of Fugitive Summer’s release package, I hear my front door open. When I turn my head, it’s just in time to see Georgina bursting into the expansive room. And, just like that, every cell in my body simultaneously jolts with a tsunami of reactions. Arousal, joy, relief. She’s home. She’s safe. She’s mine.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Georgie says adorably, barreling over to me, her computer bag clanking against her hip as she moves. “I got caught up reading a bunch of stuff, and totally lost track of time.”
Frazzled, she kisses me in greeting, and I calmly rise and hand her a goblet of wine.
“What were you reading?” I ask, settling next to her on the couch.
“Every past article I could get my hands on about every River Records artist,” she says. “Including the article that started it all—the one CeeCee wrote about Red Card Riot’s debut.”
