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“Come to Los Angeles with me.” I release the neck of my guitar and hold my hand out toward her.
She takes a step forward, her friend’s hands falling from her shoulders, Rachel bringing them up so her clutched hands are now beneath her chin as she observes us. I feel like I’ve just earned the best friend’s approval, and I tug Scarlett as close as I can, swinging the guitar so it’s behind me.
Scarlett’s chest collides with mine, her breasts smashed against me as she murmurs, “Yes.”
I take my opportunity, cupping the side of her face, swooping in for another kiss, fully expecting it to be like all the rest. Simple. A little on the sweet side.
It’s not. Not even close. This one feels completely different, starting from that first moment our mouths connect. Her lips are soft and sweet and open, and I take advantage, my fingers sliding down to her neck, my thumb pressing beneath her jaw, tilting her head back so I can kiss her deeply. Our tongues tangle, but I’m trying to keep this classy so we don’t look like two horny people making out on the street.
That’s just another day in midtown Manhattan, if I’m being real.
Scarlett eventually pulls away, breathless, her cheeks even pinker. She blinks those velvety brown eyes open, and she’s smiling.
I’m smiling. I can hear people shout our names, can hear the click of photos being taken, of videos being recorded, every single person watching us desperate to get our attention, but I can’t focus on anything else but her. This girl.
It’s at this moment I realize I might be in too deep.
CHAPTER21
SCARLETT
“Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful,” I say the second we enter the house that’ll be our headquarters for the next few weeks.
The floors are wood, and the furniture in the open living area is oversize and covered in pristine white. The windows that line the front of the house are massive, and the fresh yet vaguely salty scent reminds me of the ocean.
Which we’re relatively close to, though the scent isn’t coming from the outside air but the subtle diffuser I see sitting on top of a table close to the front door.
“Yeah, it’s nice.” Tate closes the door behind us and locks it, not taking any chances despite the two security guys we have currently wandering around outside, checking out the yard and the neighborhood in general.
We have an entourage coming with us. Staying with us. The security team will remain on site for the entirety of our stay here. The home we’re staying at is deep in the hills of Calabasas, where plenty of other celebrities live in extremely secure neighborhoods. The point of staying here is to give the illusion of celebrity, Roger explained to us during the plane ride. And while Tate is definitely considered a celebrity, his star is still faintly tarnished.
It’s my job, Roger told me privately when Tate left to use the restroom, to help ensure Tate shines brighter than ever.
I just smiled and nodded in agreement with everything that Roger told me. Told us. For most of the flight I wished for Simon to be there too, because he makes an excellent buffer, but we had to endure Roger alone, which I struggled with.
The man never knows when to shut up. His mouth is big, and he says the most inappropriate things, making me kind of uncomfortable. But throughout the flight, Tate took whatever Roger said in stride, sending me apologetic looks or even rolling his eyes. He actually yelled at Roger a few times to watch his mouth, and while he’d be on good behavior for approximately five minutes, eventually it would get to be too much, and he’d say something else awful.
Thankfully we parted ways with Roger at the airport. I was afraid he’d want to see the house we’re staying at, but he jumped into his own car—which was brought to the tarmac where our private plane landed, I might add—and took off with a roar of the engine and squealing tires.
The relief I felt at his departure still lingers. The man is a bit of a menace—to borrow that term from my father.
Still have to deal with the security, though, which is odd. Our family has had security off and on throughout the years, but mostly for special events or when we’re traveling and my mother insists on bringing her very best jewelry. Mom wants to show it off, and Dad wants to keep it under lock and key, so they compromise with beefy security guys who tag along with Mom when she busts out the diamonds and is decked head to toe in designer goods.
It’s always a scene. Kind of like how Tate and I are turning into a scene. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but it’s still a little wild.
Especially when it’s happening to me.
The record label hired a private jet for us to travel in, which comes with an even more private entrance to the airport. Thanks to our little moment in front of the restaurant last night and his new single blazing up the charts, management didn’t want us to cause a commotion with our arrival.
Pretty sure that’s all we’ve been doing since our supposed story hit the internet, and that’s the part they like, right?
But it’s all a game, dealing with the paparazzi. That’s what Tate told me. They want you, but they don’t want you too much. You have to play cat and mouse with them.
I think about what happened last night. The song he serenaded me with. It wasn’t as good as “Red,” but it was sweet. It felt more from the heart, even though he did admit he wrote it really quick while on the way to the restaurant.
That doesn’t even matter. I thought it was... nice. And when Tate pulled me into his arms and kissed me until I thought my legs might give out under me?
Forget it. Our faces—usually with our mouths mashed together, locked in a passionate kiss—are now everywhere. And since he faux asked me to go to Los Angeles with him, the paparazzi are on the lookout for us at every airport in Southern California.
