Crossing my arms, I take a moment to study the man before me. Platinum blond hair is neatly styled above dark sculpted eyebrows. Cheekbones slash across smooth, alabaster skin. The sharp angles provide a contrast to the generous pink mouth, which is currently pursed in displeasure. I’d love to call him pretty—he’s beautiful really, on the outside—but the indifference in his tone and the lack of genuine remorse in his attitude begs a harsher word: fake.
A chime alerts me to a new text, and I pull out my phone to find a message from Johnny.The pic I posted of last week’s gig got over 1000 likes in less than 24hrs. That’s a record for us… just saying.A growl rumbles in the back of my throat and I mutter a quiet, “Settle down,” as I shove the phone back into my pocket.
“Can I help you with something?” The voice behind the desk is razor sharp now. Tony stares at me pointedly, his own phone still propped against his ear.
My gaze clashes with his and a soft sound of surprise escapes me. Somehow, I expected all that paleness to come with arctic blue eyes. Jack Frost brought to life for my viewing pleasure. But no. Instead, he has doe eyes. The warmest brown. Velvet surrounded by steel. Fascinating.
Is this why Rodney, and who knows how many others, allow him to get away with acting like an inconsiderate dick? I can see how the deceptive softness of his gaze would be difficult to resist.
A single dark brow lifts. “Yes, I’m pretty. You can stop staring now.”
I snort a laugh. That would be the dick part coming out. Sometimes beauty truly is skin deep. “I’m here to see Logan.”
“He stepped out to get some lunch. If you’d like to wait, he should be back any minute.” He points to the couch behind me. “Sit.”
My knees bend at the sharp syllable. The bottle of scotch touches down on the carpeted floor as I lower my arse to the cushions. Leaning against the backrest, I place my palms flat on my thighs and part my knees just so. Between my legs, my dick gives a pulse of interest, eager for the next instruction.
Fuck.
Heat floods my face as I try to even out the sudden raggedness of my breath. I glance up at Tony, who appears too preoccupied with his irate friend to have noticed my total compliance to a single word uttered by his delectable pink mouth. Thank heaven for small mercies.
“I’ll take you out to lunch Thursday,” he says, the smile in his voice at odds with the grimace on his face. “You can fill me in on all the party goss then.” The answer must be in the affirmative because he finishes the call soon after and hangs up with a sigh. “Some boys can be such divas.”
Is he including himself in that less than savoury assessment? Because I’m fairly sure he belongs.
“Now,” he continues, “please tell me you aren’t here to make my life more difficult. Your website looks fabulous. Anyone who says otherwise deserves to be ignored.”
My mouth falls open. “You know who I am?”
“Of course. You’re Ned Corbyn, the lead singer of Fifth Circle.” He stands, revealing more of his lean frame. The fitted button-down shirt screams designer label as it lovingly follows the lines of his body. Narrow hips are poured into black skinny jeans. He pops a hip, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. “I promise, if any music industry executives check out the site Logan built for you, they will be impressed by what they find.”
“I don’t care what any executive thinks.” Rising to my feet, I welcome the irritation aroused by his assumption. It’s better than other, more problematic, types of arousal. “I have zero interest in being famous. The website is there for our fans, no one else.”
“Yeah.” His face twists into a doubtful expression. “Don’t all musicians want to be famous, though?”
“Actually, no. Some of us want to be left alone to do our day jobs and live our lives. We may moonlight as rock gods on the side, but that’s where it ends.”
His eyes light up in challenge. “I never said anything about rock gods, but apparently you think you qualify.”
I can’t deny the smirk working its way onto my lips. “Only on stage. Off stage I prefer to be—”
“Boring?” His suggestion comes with a hint of amusement. “I can believe it.”
“Which part?” I drawl. “That I’m a god on stage or a bore off it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” His mouth curves in a wide smile then, and two dimples leap onto his face. My gaze locks on to them. Oh, hell yes. Can I lick those? I don’t have to like him to want to lick him, right?
“I’m Tony by the way.” He holds his hand out over the desk. “Tony Fairweather.”
My spine straightens as I move closer. Not because I’m curious to know how his height stacks up against mine, but because it’s polite to have good posture when greeting someone. He’s a perfect couple of inches shorter than me. Damn.
His hand is smaller than mine, but his handshake is firm. No limp wrists for my doe-eyed Jack Frost. Except he’s notmyanything, and I have no intention of changing that. Men like him are nothing but trouble for men like me. Still, I can’t help but tease him a little. “You don’t look like a Tony.”
He laughs. “What do you expect? I can hear the Y you’re tacking onto the end there and it’s leaching all the fun out. Try switching the Y for an I. Toni.” He cocks his head to one side. “How does it fit now?”
I try to keep my attention on his face but can’t resist raking his body with my gaze. Dragging it all the way down to the tops of his thighs and then all the way back up again.Toni, the name purrs through my brain. He may have more arrogance than depth, but goddamn is he a sight to behold. Swallowing, I try to keep the grit of blatant lust from my voice. “Better.”
He smiles again, slowly, and those dimples are a sucker punch to the balls. “Exactly.”
