Slayer could be doing the same. But then I know he’s not, because when I look up, I see him striding across the pool deck, his gaze locked on our table.
My stomach drops. The look on his face tells me this won’t end well.
CHAPTER 33
SLAYER
Ahot surge of possessiveness floods my veins, primitive and startling in its intensity.
Bix was just with me on the hillside, buttery croissant crumbs on her lips, talking about keeping things professional.
Now she’s with Sterling’s rival, Carlos, leaning toward him with an expression I recognize all too well. Interest. Engagement.
The same way she looked at me that night at the noodle shop.
Carlos is holding her hand. His thumb traces a path across her skin, and my vision edges with red.
“Morning.” I keep my tone light as I approach, though my muscles are tight beneath my casual stance. “Enjoying breakfast?”
“The coffee’s excellent.” Carlos rises slightly, his European manners perfect as always. “Haven’t received my order yet, but hope it’s as good as yesterday’s lunch.”
“Hard to compete with fresh-caught sea bass.” I rest my hand on the back of Bix’s chair. Calm. As if my pulse isn’t pounding against my temples. As if I’m not fighting the urge to yank her away.
“I was just telling Bix about the music scene in London.” Carlos smiles.
“Always recruiting.” I manage a laugh. “Some things never change.”
“Join us?” Carlos gestures to an empty chair.
“Actually, Bix and I have a press conference to prepare for.” My hand finds Bix’s shoulder, fingers pressing slightly into the soft fabric of her shirt. The contact grounds me, reminds me who she is supposed to be.
My girlfriend.
Even if it’s just for show.
She glances up at me, surprise in her eyes. But she stands, graceful despite what I suspect is reluctance.
“Thank you for the coffee, Carlos.” Her voice carries warmth that sets my teeth on edge. “And the conversation.”
“My pleasure.” He remains seated, the picture of ease.
I guide Bix toward the hotel, keeping my movements fluid, unhurried. Paparazzi could be anywhere. But inside, primitive instincts war with two decades of media training. I want to drag her away, demand explanations, stake my claim.
Instead, I play the attentive boyfriend, my hand at the small of her back, a smile plastered on my face. Only the tension in my fingers might give me away.
Once we’re in the private elevator, I turn to her. “What the fuck were you doing talking to Carlos?”
“He came to see me.” Her chin lifts in that defiant way I’m coming to know too well. “He heard me sing last night.”
The words hang in the elevator. Each floor blinks past, too slowly. I picture her on stage at Le Cave, lost in the music, the crowd entranced.
Of course Carlos noticed. Of course he wants her.
“You’re already signed to a contract.” My voice is carefully controlled. But inside, I’m anything but.
“That’s for being your girlfriend, and it’s only for this weekend.” She takes a step back, hits the mirrored wall. “It has nothing to do with singing.”
Her words sting with truth. The contract doesn’t cover hertalent, her music, her dreams. Just her presence on my arm, her smile for the cameras. Just what benefits my career and Sterling.
