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No, Your Honor, there is not. This isit:as fun as fun can be.
When I take Beckett’s hand, he jumps like I’ve given him an electric shock—then clings to my fingers like he’ll never let go.
Oh man, oh man.
This is wild.
My heart pounds like crazy as I lead him between the green room tables, over to an empty one by the wall. Someone whistles, but I’m not sure who. And the Soul Obsession guys areright there, eating takeout pizzas out of boxes and cracking jokes and scrolling on their phones, all large as life, but… I don’t care. Every ounce of my awareness is fixed on the man walking behind me. The man whose hand is wrapped around mine.
Does Beckett feel it too? This pull? All this raw energy crackling between us?
My nerve endings tingle, shivering in sympathy for my overloaded hand. Because the feel of him—the warmth, thestrength, the sensation of being tucked up safe in his dry palm—it’s too much. Overwhelming.
Stomach in knots, I let go.
“Nice place,” I comment, pulling out a chair, because it’s really not. This green room is as unglamorous as the corridor outside, all bare white walls and cheap metal chairs with dangerously splayed legs, the air scented with hot cheese and men’s deodorant.
Even Beckett’s laugh is clipped. “It’s always like this, in every city. The illusion of glamor and all that. On stage, it’s all bright lights and smoke and screaming fans, with those priceless instruments insured for more than the average building. Everything that you’d imagine. Then you get backstage and immediately step in gum. Almost makes you feel sorry for the band, before you remember they’re all richer than Croesus.”
Croesus? Who’s that? Some tech billionaire, probably.
Beckett settles opposite me, and pulls one of those recording device thingies from his inside suit pocket. After I nod, he switches it on, red light winking as he sets it on the table. “So.”
I smile blandly back, then fold my hands on the tabletop. “So.”
And… this is weird. Everything was so natural between us until now, easy and flowing andright, but with that little recorder eavesdropping, I suddenly feel silly. Like a grown woman who should know better than to line up for hours in the heat to see a boy band. Like someone who should’ve outgrown this stuff by now.
Is that how Beckett sees me? A nutty fan, and nothing more?
Is that why he picked me? Oh god, do I seem crazier than all the others out there?
“Teresa Castillo.” My name sounds weird in his British accent—kinda stiff, but in a good way. My ankles cross beneath my chair, one sneaker jiggling with nerves, and the unstablechair slumps an inch lower, legs creeping in opposite directions. “Tell me about your relationship with this band. Tell me why you love Soul Obsession so much.”
Hoo, boy.
Coming out with the big guns, then.
My eyes flick to where the band members sit together, bickering lazily about their song list—but they’re far enough away that they shouldn’t be able to hear this. Okay, that’s good. It’s less embarrassing.
Um.
“I guess… I mean…”
Shoot, why has my mind gone blank? One hundred percent blank. Every single word in my vocabulary, every smart thought and coherent sentence I’ve ever had, has flown out of my ears. I blink at Beckett, stupid and silent, as he waits for me to speak.
Those piercing blue eyes narrow on me.
“Take your time,” he says. “In fact—”
Beckett’s chair scrapes back, and he strides off to the corner of the room. A vending machine rumbles, rattling against the wall, and then he’s here again with two cold drinks. He raises them both and I pick the cream soda, barely resisting the urge to lunge and snatch it from his hand.
The metal tab clicks, air hissing from the can, and I gulp down the sweet, cold fluid gratefully. How many hours has it been since my last bottle of tepid water? Seems like forever ago, and hey—maybe I can drown myself in cream soda to get out of answering the question. Genius.
Beckett watches me drink for a long moment, then disappears again. This time, he comes back with two bottles of chilled water. “These are both yours.” The bottles thud against the table. “Are you hungry, by the way? That pizza is for everyone.”
I shake my head, still downing my cream soda in one go.
Beckett grunts, unconvinced, but settles back into his chair. And he must be cooking in that suit—it’s not exactly cool here, even indoors—but there’s still not a single dark hair out of place on his handsome head. Not a bead of sweat on his pale forehead. The man is flawless, unruffled, an island of calm and sophistication in the middle of this grotty, loud green room, and meanwhile I’m…
