I cross my arms, fighting the urge to shout, hug him, or throw his phone into oncoming traffic. Not sure which impulse is strongest.
“The crowd shoved me.”
“And I caught you. Which is the part every headline conveniently skipped.”
That stirs something hot in my chest, anger or embarrassment, I can’t tell.
He steps closer, voice low.
“You want honesty? I can’t go home half the time because reporters camp outside my driveway looking for a story. And if they don’t find one," he gestures toward his buzzing phone, “they make one.”
I blink because I wasn’t ready for vulnerability. I was prepared for deflection, sarcasm, maybe a wink. Not this.
And for one terrifying second, I almost soften.
Almost.
Then his phone dings again.
Reality crashes back.
“We need to get this under control,” I mutter, spinning toward the door.
“And by ‘we,’” Bryce says behind me, “you mean you’re going to threaten a photographer.”
I stop walking. “If necessary? Yes.”
His grin is infuriating.
“I’m starting to think you enjoy bossing me around.”
I throw him a glare sharp enough to qualify as a weapon. He leans in, not touching me, just near enough that my pulse forgets how to function.
“Relax, sweetheart.” The word is soft, teasing… dangerous.
“I don’t relax,” I snap.
“I noticed.”
***
The second we step back through the backstage doorway, energy slams into us with voices, laughter, and the hum of post-concert adrenaline.
Dex spots us instantly and points like a delighted toddler discovering a forbidden button.
“LOOK. The chaotic couple returns. You guys missed the encore.”
“We are not a couple,” I say automatically.
Colby raises his hands. “That’s exactly what a couple caught in a scandal would say.”
I grit my teeth. “No. That’s what a professional PR rep says when she is one incident away from losing her sanity.”
“Same vibe,” Dex says cheerfully.
Bryce moves past me, bumping my shoulder lightly, not enough to knock me off balance, just enough to make menotice.
Of course I notice.
