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So I turn around and remove my jacket, tossing it across a nearby chair. "Sure."
Andrea gives me a beautiful, radiant smile. I take the fork, and she opens one of the containers.
The kitchen is soon filled with the delicious aroma of alfredo sauce. She lets out a sigh of satisfaction and sprinkles Parmesan on the pasta before she begins to eat.
"This is better than an orgasm…" she moans before shoving a forkful into her mouth.
Her sweet moan shoots straight to my cock. I stare like a perv as she withdraws the clean fork from between her plump lips, and for a second, I imagine those lips wrapped around my?—
"What's wrong? I thought you had a taste for pasta."
I have to shift my train of thought, or pasta won't be the only thing on the menu tonight.
Chewing slowly, I look at her, noticing how her chocolate hair takes on a coppery sheen in the sunlight.
"Tell me why your manager won't let you eat pasta?"
I change the conversation to a safe subject that will give me more information on Brandon Staton.
The guy has two strikes in my book, and the next one will have me on his ass for his failure to protect Andrea.
"Brandon's just trying to take care of my image," she says in a vehement tone.
Hearing her voice, I sense something lingering underneath. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I sense there's more to this conversation. It’s as if she’s trying to convince herself that this guy is only looking for her safety.
It’s possible that no one has ever taken care of her before, so she tells herself that this is what taking care of her is supposed to be.
"But he's not your father."
"He's my manager. It's almost the same thing."
She doesn't seem interested in the subject, talking about it as if it’s normal for her, but it bothers me.
"You're a grown woman. You should be able to choose what you do with your life."
"That I do," she states with a fake smile. "I don't expect you to understand. But this is the life I chose, and from the beginning, I knew I would have to make some sacrifices to get it."
"Maybe, but your freedom shouldn't be one of them."
"Really? Tell me, who in show business is free?” Andrea stabs at the shrimp as if it's wronged her.
"They may be restricted, but you have a choice. They choose how they want to look, what they want to do, and what music they want to sing."
My arrow seems to have hit the bullseye. She looks at me with a pained expression.
"Brandon..."
"Don't tell me he's just trying to take care of you."
I stare at Andrea, her words echoing in my mind. "Brandon..." The name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
My jaw clenches as realization dawns. That controlling bastard has his claws sunk deep into every aspect of her life. From her diet to her career choices, he's the puppet master pulling all the strings.
Anger simmers in my veins as I recall the way he dismissed her stalker situation, more concerned about protecting his investment than ensuring her safety. The thought of someone threatening her, of that light being extinguished, is viscerally abhorrent to me.
I curl my fingers into fists. A part of me wants to hunt Brandon down and make him pay for his negligence, for the way he's stifled and manipulated Andrea.
But a deeper, more primal part of me recognizes that my protective instincts go beyond professional obligation. There's a fierce, possessive need burning within me, a desire to shield her from harm that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the way she makes me feel alive.
