Page 108 of Unleashed By Eden

Theo slouches, dwarfing the seat underneath him. Kai taps his foot, restless energy gushing out of every pore.

Xander has murder in his eyes and a smile plastered to his face. If someone asks him a question he’s answered a million times before . . . shit will undoubtedly go down.

But the room tilts toward Carter, like it always does. Even fried, he radiates that thing he has—whatever it is that makes people lean forward without realizing.

The questions start simple. Reporters call out one after another:

“How has the tour been?”

“What city surprised you the most?”

“Any plans after New York?”

“How do you handle being away from home for so long?”

“Last night’s show was incredible. You’re this close to the end of the tour, but there were zero signs of fatigue. How do you keep that energy up?”

They volley answers back—Theo with dry sarcasm, Kai waxing poetic about crowd energy, Xander throwing out two-word replies that somehow don’t sound arrogant or short. Carter goes into pro mode: smooth and charming, giving just enough without actually saying anything of substance.

I weave around the outside of the room, getting shots between heads and camera rigs. Theo’s eye roll. Kai’s grin. Xander’s nostril flare. Carter’s veined hands linked together in front of the microphones.

Inevitably, someone decides to stir shit up.

A woman in the third row stands, tablet held in both hands. “Carter,” she calls. “There have been a lot of rumors online about your health lately. Do you have any comments?”

Carter leans toward the mic. “I’m one hundred percent healthy,” he says with confidence. “Never better.”

He tries to move on, points to someone else, but she doesn’t let go.

“And a quick follow-up—did you know you’ve been voted Sexiest Man Alive again? Fourth year in a row. Congrats. Is the sexiest man alive officially off the market . . . or still single?”

Laughter ripples through the room. More flashes go off.

I see it—the micro-shift in his face. A shutter dropping half an inch.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “And when I have anything to announce about my personal life, I will.”

Which is the politest “fuck off” I’ve ever heard.

She opens her mouth again. He’s already pointing at a reporter on the far side of the room. Next question. Move on.

Cindy has wedged herself as close to the stage as security will allow, eyes glued to Carter. My own personal hemorrhoid in lipstick. At one point, she tears her gaze away from him, scanning the press line. Her expression changes slightly. I try to track it, but whoever she was looking at is lost behind a wall of raised hands.

I keep shooting, adjusting, focusing. I slip around Megan and Mika without thinking—we’re a well-oiled machine by now.

My camera shutter clicks. Carter’s gaze skims over the crowd and lands on me. Even from across the room, with fifty people between us, our connection is a force to be reckoned with.

Chris finally calls an end to the press conference, thanking everyone. The guys are swept offstage, and we’re hustled out the back, lugging our equipment cases and camera bags, into one of the black SUVs baking in the heat. It’s the wrong kind of hot for this time of year.

By the time we reach the private terminal, the band still isn’t there. Apparently, some last-minute issue back at the hotel. Someone probably lost their phone, or Kai lost his favorite drumsticks . . . again. Who knows with these guys.

I dump my backpack on the floor and fold into one of the plush chairs in the lounge. Megan is across from me, phone in hand, eyebrows carved into one solid line. A notification pings; she frowns harder.

“I’m going to go grab a charger,” I tell her, hauling myself up along with my bag.

She waves a distracted hand, already getting up and walking toward the far corner to take a call. When she answers, her words are clipped.

I slip out into the main terminal, weaving through families and business travelers, until I find a convenience store wedged between a perfume shop and a luxe watch boutique.