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“Except for this one.”
Amber punches his bicep. “You’re just disappointed it’s too small. Brian can send you a bigger one.” Her eyes widen. “Oooooh…maybe you can ditch the fancy suits and wear it before a game. I always see clips of you walking into stadiums. I could be on SportsCenter.”
He snorts. “I’m never wearing this shirt again.”
Amber smirks. “We’ll see.”
He should look ridiculous, but somehow he looks even hotter wearing a silly shirt. I shift my attention to Amber—but she’s my idol, so it isn’t much of a distraction.
There’s only one other person in the room, and the urge to cling to him like a lifeline while I calm myself is strong. I walk over to where he’s retreated. “Hello,” I say. “My name is Ellie. I’m very sorry about the fainting thing.”
“It’s no problem. I’ve seen stranger things. I’m Brian, Amber’s manager.”
He thrusts out a hand and we shake. He’s about my height. Well-cut suit. Tidy, short hair. Phone clutched in his left hand. I’m confident I can keep my cool in conversation with him. “Do you tour with the band?”
“I do. A show like this takes a lot of staff.”
“I bet. Is this your first tour?”
We lurk near the door. He tells me a bit about the tour and his role while Slater dips his head toward Amber and they murmur to each other.
I keep chatting with Brian, so they can catch up.
By the time we leave, it’s well after midnight. The arena is still buzzing as the staff works to remove the stage and prepare for the next event. We’re completely ignored as we slip down the corridors to the exit.
When we get to the glass doors, I’m surprised to discover that the snow that was falling lazily when we entered is now coming down at an alarmingly fast clip. I look at my feet. These boots were not made for trudging through the snow.
Last weekend it was sixty. This weekend it’s snowing. Typical DC weather.
“We were only supposed to get a dusting,” I say, coming to a halt in front of the doors.
“Looks like the forecasts were wrong,” Slater says cheerfully.
I groan. “Oh no. You’re one of those people who love snow.” It’s an accusation.
“I grew up in Michigan. Of course I love snow.” His grin is more genuine than I’ve ever seen it. “Are you ready?” He braces his hand against one of the doors.
“No,” I whine. Why didn’t I wear my normal winter boots?
He looks back at me. “We can’t stay here forever.”
I pull my phone out of my purse. “Maybe we can get a ride.”
He snorts. “In a snowstorm? In the middle of the night? Didn’t you grow up around here? Do you see any cars?”
I peer through the door. Not only are there no cars on the street, but there are also no people. Nothing shuts down the district like a snowstorm. It’s hard to believe there are places in the world that can experience snow and proceed as if it’s a normal day. “Can’t famous people get whatever they want?”
He tips his head down and gives me a look.
My shoulders droop. “Fine. We can walk.”
“It won’t be that bad,” he says as he pushes the door open. “It’s only a few blocks.”
It is that bad.
It was bitterly cold when we arrived, but at least the pavement was visible. The bitter cold has remained—the pavement has not. The wind blows my hair in every direction. The ground, covered with about three inches of snow, is slippery.
Slater reaches out and takes my hand. His steps are sure and steady as we head down the street. His head is covered with a beanie and his eyes are shielded by his glasses. I, on the other hand, am severely hampered by my untamed hair. I try to shove it into my jacket and manage to send a blast of cold down my back. The chunks of snow and ice clinging to my hair begin to melt immediately.
