When I spin back around, he’s still leaning against the wall like the smug menace he was born to be.
“I’m heading out with the guys Friday,” he says. “Concert in town.”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. Too many cameras. Too much risk.”
He shrugs like I’m adorable again. “Going anyway.”
“Fine. Then I’m going too.”
His grin is slow and victorious. “Fantastic.”
Perfect. Now I have to supervise Bryce Blackhorn at a concert. In public. Surrounded by alcohol, fans, and chaos.
What could possibly go wrong?
***
The backstage security gate beeps as I scan my pass, and the first words out of my mouth are, “This is fine. Everything is fine. This is a perfectly normal work assignment.”
It is not fine.
Because the moment I step inside the loading dock entrance, I’m immediately swallowed by a storm of stagehands,instrument cases, tangled cords, and frantic people wearing headsets who look like they haven’t slept since the Jurassic era. The building vibrates with warm-up bass from the arena beyond, and somewhere overhead, someone is shouting about a missing spotlight.
This is chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos.
And right in the middle of it stands Bryce Blackhorn.
Great.
He’s leaning against a stack of equipment crates with one hand in his pocket and the kind of ease men only have when they are extremely aware of how good they look. Jeans. Boots. Black T-shirt. The kind of outfit designed specifically to render adult women useless.
His eyes land on me the moment I walk in.
My brain promptly forgets how to function.
“Well,” Colby says loudly to the group, “Annabelle made it. And she looks… prepared for battle?”
“I am not battling anything,” I lie. “I’m supervising.”
Bryce lifts a brow at me. “Didn’t know supervising required that much red lip gloss.”
I ignore him. Or I try to. My body does not cooperate.
Mia beams and gives me a quick hug. “You look amazing,” she says. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, but my voice is embarrassingly breathless.
Harper stands near the wall, smiling like she can read every inappropriate thought I’m trying not to have.
Security hands out the backstage passes. Mine is big, red and laminated.
Bryce squints at it. “VIP Manager Access,” he reads. “Fancy. Does it come with pepper spray?”
“Stop giving me ideas,” I tell him.
He grins, slow and devastating.
We all fall into idle conversation as a stagehand ushers us toward the pre-show lounge area. Bryce ends up walking beside me, and I can feel the heat of him even though we’re not touching.
