Except for the occasional flamingo, the whole place seems to be vacant.
Perfect.
A ways down, I spot a bench by the pond and make a beeline. When I get to it, I sigh heavily and take a seat.
It’s silent for a few seconds, but then someone says, “Were the ‘demons closing in on you’?”
I jerk my gaze toward the voice that has just quoted a line from one of my songs.
A man comes forward.
His honey-blond hair is coiffed loosely but with intention. His eyemask is made up of dark metal gears and cogs—like fused clockwork—and he wears a light blue dress shirt (unbuttoned collar, no tie) under a navy blazer, with designer jeans and cognac lace-up dress boots.
I squint. I’m sure I’ve seen his face before, maybe even heard his voice. Except that I haven’t been very social lately, especially not with anyone famous, so he’s got to be staff. By his attire (somewhat expensive, but on the more casual side), I’d guess he works for the record company—which would explain how he was invited to the release party, since sometimes even the Glambam interns get lucky enough to go to these things—but isn’t one of the higher-ups. He reminds me of the IT director that comes in sometimes when I’m with my PR team in the conference room going over my socials. He has the same short boxed beard, only it’s better groomed tonight.
Gears and cogs … inner workings of technology … it makes sense.
That has to be it.
If only I could remember his name.
When I don’t reply about the ‘demons’ he says, “Sorry—I just wanted to let you know I was here before it seemed like I was lurking in the dark on purpose.”
A relief, to be sure.
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”
He slides his hands into his pants pockets. “Overbearing manager?”
I scoff. “For starters.”
The man gives me a sympathetic look. “Sorry you’re not having a very good time.”
“Kind of seems like you’re not either.” I gesture at our surroundings to indicate that we’re both clearly trying to escape the party.
He shrugs. “I’m … getting some air.” His expression implies there’s more, but he tries to wave it off. “This is a nice surprise though, running into you. Or, I guess I should say, ‘Nice to meet you, Harmony Sonora.’” He extends his hand.
I hesitate, but ultimately accept the gesture. His hand is warm and his grip is firm but gentle. “Nice to meet you too …”
Shit—what’s his name? Cameron? Tyler?
“Griffin,” he supplies, like he’s read my frantic, scrambling mind.
I feel bad, but I’m glad he told me before I guessed out loud—and guessed wrong. That would have been embarrassing. I know most people probably don’t expect me to remember names, but I’d rather not perpetuate the rumors that I’m an oblivious diva.
Not that I’mnotproving their point; his name doesn’t exactly ring a bell. But why would it? Everyone always refers to IT guys as “The IT guy” or worse, just “IT.” Plus, I’m sure I’ve only glimpsed him a handful of times.
Awkwardly, I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry that I haven’t actually talked to you before, working in the same building and everything.”
“It’s fine. I’ve only been with Glambam since February, and I doubt we’re there at the same time very often.”
“Well, that only makes me feel about five percent better, but … I’ll take it.”
“Don’t worry about it. Seriously. I’m flattered that you feel so bad.” One corner of his mouth twitches up.
My belly does a weird little flip that I don’t understand and my cheeks warm.
I stare at him for a moment, suddenly wondering about everything behind his mask (literally and figuratively), intrigued by his easygoing nature. Who is this guy? And why do I want to keep talking to him?
