Page 25 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

Two women gawked and waved at me as if I were an animal in the zoo. I jumped to my feet. “Oh, hey. Hello. Thanks.”

They flapped In-N-Out napkins in my face. The smaller one asked, “Can you sign these for us?”

At least the napkins were clean. Under my publicist’s stern gaze, I said, “Absolutely. Do you have a pen?”

The designated spokesperson whipped out a marker. “I do.”

I signed both napkins, even though the paper made a blurry mess of my signature. As they snatched the napkins out of my hand, the quiet one took out her phone.

“Do you think we can get a selfie with you?”

“Sure.” I can’t believe I was just whining to Noelle about not fans not recognizing me. It was a right pain in the arse sometimes. I smiled between the two women as Noelle looked on approvingly, nodding her head as if I were an obedient toddler finishing my veggies.

“We already have tickets for the summer tour. We can’t wait to see you and Ashley Bennett and Ji-yoon. Is it true that you and Ashley are a thing again? We are shipping you so hard. I still have my Conley buttons from back in the day.” The woman fanned herself with her hand.

Noelle stiffened beside me.

This was a test, and I planned to ace it—for her. I winked at the women and said, “Better polish off those Conley buttons.”

Chapter 7

NOELLE

Conor’s words punched me in the gut, but I smiled and nodded at the fangirls as they squealed their approval. If I had to actually order Conley buttons, I’d vomit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my car idling at the red curb. I didn’t need a parking ticket right now, so I tugged on Conor’s sleeve. “Our ride’s here.”

Two pairs of eyes instantly landed on me, assessing. The mouthy one spoke up. “Are you...?”

Conor jumped in faster than he had to. “She’s the assistant publicist.”

Did he have to make things worse by throwing the assistant in there?

The two fans visibly relaxed—as if they actually had a chance with Conor. As if I did.

I yanked on his sleeve harder, and Conor waved at the women. “Hope you enjoy the show.”

The taller one never tucked her phone away and had it angled toward us taking surreptitious pictures.

Turning away, I swept up Ham’s flannel from the grass and shook it out as I made my way to the waiting car.

Conor caught up to me at the door. “Did I do good?”

I gave him a smile that felt like it was cracking my tight face. “You did great. Feed that rumor mill. Spill that tea.”

He opened the back door for me, and I ducked into the backseat, which I probably hadn’t seen since I bought the car. I leaned forward. “Where’s your Harley, Ham?”

“Around the corner. I didn’t want to attract too much attention, but it looks like a couple of fans made you anyway, Conor.”

Conor pushed the flannel into the front. “I made the mistake of taking off the shirt. It’s alright though. I can handle a few of them. It’s when they start chasing me down the street that it gets dodgy.”

“Can’t imagine.” Hunching over the steering wheel, Ham made a U-turn, his bulk taking up my entire front seat.

I asked, “Were you able to get the tour bus back to the lot without a fan assault?”

“Yeah, there were a couple milling around the gate, and they started going apeshit when they saw the bus, but I made it clear that Conor had vacated the premises.” He cruised up to his bike. An older guy in khakis, a button-up shirt, and a large helmet straddled the seat, his loafers planted firmly on the asphalt.

Tapping Ham’s beefy shoulder, I asked, “Did you drag him out of accounting or what?”