The spasms fade to a throb, like the afterimages of a blinding light.
I glance down at Griffin, who looks weary but thrilled.
Curious, I slip the mask off his face, over his head, and stare at him. His brown eyes seem to brighten. His brows are thick and blond and straight like his hair. His nose has the faintest bend on the bridge. I stoke his trim beard, nothing the dimple on his chin as I catch my breath.
He really does look so familiar. I can’t believe I’ve seen him, yet never reallyseenhim. How could a guy like this have escaped my notice?
Griffin kisses me one more time with tender grace, and I realize he’s still hard between my thighs.
Deftly, I reach down and tug his belt out of its buckle. I’m not sure why I’m feeling so bold, but if I do this on my knees I think I can keep the mess to a minimum.
Except that another man’s voice suddenly calls out through the palms and Griffin grabs my wrists to stop me.
“Riff?!” the voice says.
“Shit,” Griffin mutters.
His reaction gets me to climb off of him as I try to make sense of what I’ve heard.
He stands and fixes his belt and adjusts himself.
“Riff!”
Riff? I turn it over in my mind. It must be … a nickname? But why “Riff” and not “Griff”? And why does that name tickle something in my brain like dust blown off a trinket in an attic of forgotten memories?
I scour the ground for my discarded cape.
When I find it, Griffin reaches for my hand and I let him lead me back to the main pathway that will take us to the building’s side doors we came out of an hour ago.
The other man calls out, “Riff!” again, and this time it’s louder because we’re getting closer.
“Who’s that?” I ask as we hurry over.
“My assistant Hunter,” says Griffin. “He’s probably been looking all over for me.”
Assistant? What? Why would he have—
I stop dead in the middle of the path.
My hand tugs out of Griffin’s hold.
His momentum forces him forward a few steps before he can stop himself and glance back at me in confusion.
Everything starts to come together, one puzzle piece snapping into place and then another.
Goes by “Riff.” Important enough to have an assistant. Been with Glambam since February.
His knowledge of overbearing managers. The way he can mention a song’s key changes so casually. How he managed tostrike such a perfect balance between being in awe of me but also not completely intimidated in my presence.
That honey-blond hair that would normally be falling into his eyes. His deep, melodic voice. The reason his face was familiar.
When he said, “I could sing instead, if you’d like,” he was only half-kidding—because hecananddoessing, professionally.
He does resemble the IT director, on a superficial level, but now I see the differences. I imagine him wearing a Henley tee and cowboy jeans, and I can mentally hear his voice with a southern drawl.
My stomach flips again, but in a much less pleasant way now.
“You’re … you’re …” I have to rack my brain for several seconds, flicking through all the industry names I’ve heard, opening mental subfolders until the right file comes up: “Riff Hurley.”
