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When he stops walking in front of a food shop that offers catering, according to a sign in their window, he finally turns to look at me again. “I’m going to need your help with this next part,” he admits grudgingly. “I’ve never been much of a foodie, but my mother is. Give me a burger, and I’m happy.”
“That’s because you’re like a bull in a china shop,” I say matter-of-factly as we go inside. “You can’t appreciate the finer things in life. The nuances. You just chomp down on your burger, fuck the girl, and move on.”
He pauses for a beat, shrugs, and then smirks again. “You’re not wrong.”
“I know.” My eyes roll, but since this is for Jonathan and Camille, I’ll help him. If it weren’t for them, I’d have been tempted to leave him to his own devices, but since I genuinely do love his parents, I carefully taste everything the company has on offer on such short notice, make a few selections, and then check my watch.
“We’re almost at showtime. Everyone else will be heading to the arena soon. If you’re serious about setting up while they’re out, we really do need to be getting back.”
As we leave the shop after paying and giving them the details of the hotel where we’re staying, I wonder if he’s even realized the very obvious flaw in his plan.
“The hotel probably won’t let us bring in our own food, you know. We probably should’ve checked if they allow outside catering before we ordered that. I’m sure they’ve also got preferred suppliers for flowers and everything else.”
“We’re practically royalty in that place,” he snaps. “I can do whatever I want. What are they going to do, turn down the people who have booked out half their rooms for the week?”
“Well, yes,” I reply simply, not planning on arguing with him when the hotel will shortly be doing it for me.
As I expected, when we get back and Vincent goes to tell the manager about all the deliveries we’ve got coming in, the man isn’t happy. “These are all services we are able to provide ourselves, sir. If you had told us that you intended on having a party, we would’ve been able to take care of all the arrangements.”
“I’m telling you now,” Vincent replies. “The only arrangements I need you to take care of are getting the stuff I’ve ordered up to the room and making a few people available to help me set it all up.”
“But, sir—”
“We’re getting the alcohol from you, aren’t we?” he says, trying to assuage the red-faced, irate manager. “That should be more than enough. We’re a lot of people and we like drinking, so you might want to let the bar know that we’ll also need bartenders up there later. I’ll send you a list of the drinks we’ll need.”
As he keeps going back and forth with the man, I hide my smile behind my hair and wave at him as I head for the elevators. Vincent is back in the hotel, and he’s going to be too busy with that and then setting up to head out again.
I freaking told him so, though.
Although I’ll go help him with the setup once the bulk of the stuff arrives, I’ve got some time before that happens. Going back up to my room for now, I kick off my shoes and breathe out a sigh of relief that we’re back in the safety of the building and nothing happened while we were out.
I’ve had this really bad feeling about Vincent’s stalker almost since the beginning, but it’s gotten so much worse after Dublin. Maybe I am just paranoid as he keeps accusing me of being, but it’s like I can feel the pinpricks of eyes on us whenever we leave the places where we’re staying nowadays.
As a result, I’ve done some research on celebrity stalkers, and the psychology is interesting but terrifying. Dad has some knowledge about it too, but other than an entirely different situation with the band’s manager way back when, he’s never had to deal with an actual stalker. Somehow the band has mostly managed to steer clear of them, although they have had some scrapes with personalities that bordered on being dangerously obsessed with them.
It’s a first for me in my career, and I’ve realized that stalking is something I’m probably going to come into contact with quite a lot more given my chosen field. Celebrities and the kinds of people who require protection are very common targets for the behavior, and so I’ve decided to educate myself on the issue now that the opportunity has presented itself.
Vincent’s stalker may not have done anything yet that really warrants further action, but I’ve got the weirdest feeling that he—or she—is about to. I’ve had the feeling for days, though, and so far, all it’s gotten me is Vincent thinking that I’m the one becoming obsessed.
Shaking my head as I sit down in front of my laptop to catch up on work a bit before I go help him out, I power it up and wait for it to start, my thoughts still half on the potential stalker and half on the vetting process for the contest winners that we’ll be getting into soon. Maxim and Vincent have been having a massive drive online to get the fans salivating to meet the band, which I understand, but it does mean that I’ll be putting in extra hours to make sure we don’t let any crazies right into the hotels where we’ll be staying for the opportunities being offered.
Once my laptop is finally on and ready, I click into my emails first. Dad sends daily updates at the start and end of each day, and since it also contains our assignments, meetings, and all the rest of the administrative stuff, it’s vitally important to read it before something slips through the cracks.
Right at the top of my inbox is an email from an address I don’t recognize. It came in about an hour ago. There’s no text, but there is an attachment. Frowning as I move my cursor to it and click to open it, I freeze completely when I find myself staring at a picture of me and Vincent kissing in that alley. That’s it. That’s all there is. No gaudy alterations have been made to the photo, and there’s nothing overtly threatening about it, but the message is clear.
I’m watching you.
It feels like someone has dropped a block of ice down the back of my shirt as a frozen chill runs down my spine. Fuck. I knew we were being followed, but now he knows we know he’s been watching. He wanted us to know he’s here, that he was right there, and God only knows where else he’s been with us. If that’s not an escalation, I don’t know what is.
Clearly, it’s not just some guy stuck in his mother’s basement. It’s a person here in France, and that person is obviously done with being ignored.
13
OLIVIA
My butt feels as if it’s grown roots and permanently affixed itself to this chair, my limbs as heavy as lead. I can’t stop staring at that picture. Shock doesn’t even begin to cover the range of emotions I’m going through right now.
All my blood has drained not only from my face but seemingly from my entire body. I don’t know where it’s gone, but I’m suddenly so cold that it’s definitely not inside me anymore.
