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When she slammed her door shut and I heard the lock click, I knew she must’ve stocked up earlier in the night. That was when I slipped out of the suite again, heading to my publicist’s door. I knocked once and stepped back. Laura was a light sleeper, and she never used anything to help her sleep. Her door opened within moments.
“Kian?” She looked at me in surprise.
“I lied to my sister. I don’t want her to go with us tomorrow. Can you spread the word that no one is to go to our suite or inform her that we’re doing the interview?”
“Oh.” She frowned, pressing a hand to her temple. She rubbed there. “Uh, what was the lie you told her? We need to make sure everyone knows the answers, if she asks questions.”
“I will be in the gym tomorrow morning, then a meeting with my lawyers. The interview was moved to another date.”
“Did you tell her what day?”
“It doesn’t matter. My sister will be flying home tomorrow evening anyway.” Even if she didn’t know it herself. “Thank you, Laura.”
“No problem.” Her hand fell from her forehead. “This is what I do, and I’ll let Parson know, too.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
I went back to my suite and to my room but not to bed, not yet. From my window, I stared out over the city. Tomorrow was one more step in my plan.
I would see Jordan again.
When I got up the next morning, the nerves hit me hard, but I ignored them and got ready. I was doing a good job of pretending to be normal.
Erica was not. She flew out of her room and gestured to the coffee with a savage motion. “I need that. Now. Now. Now.”
She reached for it.
I held it away from her. “I think not. You’re ready to go boom. You need to calm down.”
I glanced to the couch. No Wanker. He wasn’t here when he was needed. As Erica let out a curse and then a pent-up scream before grabbing an energy drink from the refrigerator, I knew he would’ve known exactly how to handle her. He always knew if a joke would work and what type of joke, too, or if he needed to piss her off. Either way, he was the Erica Whisperer.
She slammed down the empty can. “We have to go. Now. We’re late. Why are we always late?”
I grabbed my bag and got in line behind her. After unlocking our door, she stepped through and held it open for me. When I didn’t immediately sprint behind her, her hand started waving me in a continuous spin. I frowned at her but held my tongue. A wise roommate knew when to enter a battle or when the opponent was too crazy to beat. Erica—judging from the fraying hair, wild lines around her eyes, and dilated pupils—could go off on a homeless person for sharing her sidewalk space.
I was very wise in that moment.
And I continued to be as Erica huffed and puffed throughout the entire bus ride. When she pulled the cord, I looked out the window but didn’t see the newspaper building. The ritziest hotel in the city, Seton, was there instead.
I grabbed Erica’s arm after we got off.
“What?”
I gestured to the hotel. “What are we doing here?”
“This is where the interview is being done.”
“Here?”
I fought to keep the panic from my voice. “Is he staying here?”
He couldn’t be. If he was, his sister was, too.
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. His family owns that other one—and don’t ask me why we’re not interviewing there either. When big celebs do interviews, even with us lowly newspapers, they pick somewhere they’re not staying. More anonymity that way.” Her lips pursed together. “Or I’d imagine. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’m not a celebrity, and I’m probably never going to be rich, so who cares?” She grabbed my hand and yanked me after her. “Let’s go.”
I couldn’t move. I was terrified that he hadn’t held up his promise, and the cameras were going to point my way instead.
However, Erica didn’t care. She dragged me behind her, through the swinging doors and past the luxurious lobby. There were couches, gold-plated statues, a fountain, and lots of stuffy people. This seemed like a hotel where Kian’s family would stay.
Erica swept past the front desk and into the elevator. We rode it to a middle floor, and as we got out, I saw a bunch of banquet rooms. Erica slowed, craning her neck to peer into the smaller conference rooms, until she grabbed my hand once again and swung an abrupt right into one of the rooms.
“Here.”
A table was set up against the wall with water, soda, juice, and coffee along with different food choices—pizza, finger sandwiches, vegetable trays, fruit platters, and lots of other dishes that I would’ve salivated over if I wasn’t ready to pee my pants. Not the literal way, the nervous way. My stomach felt like it was still riding the Crazy Erica Train.
