“Relax, Zeta. I’m only trying to help.” His blue eyes radiate sincerity, and I know he means well and that there wasn’t any ulterior motive.
Brody is a nice guy, and he’s hot, smart, and funny.
Perfect boyfriend-slash-husband material.
Maybe if I wasn’t so hung up on a boy from my past, we might have a shot at something. I think it, but I don’t believe it. Brody’s never been my type. I prefer the moody, possessive, asshole rocker type. The type who promises you the world and then flees without a proper explanation, stomping on your heart and leaving you broken forever.
“I know, and thank you, but I’ve got it from here.” I send him a tight smile, and he walks back to his desk, looking a little crestfallen.
I grab my cell and my empty mug and make my way into the staff kitchen. I skim over the missed calls and texts from Kayla as I switch the Keurig on, calling her back. She doesn’t pick up, and my panic-o-meter cranks up a few levels. I call her again, and this time, Gage answers. “Hey, Zeta. Kayla’s a little busy right now.”
“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” I ask as I hear muffled sounds of conversation in the background, and then Kayla’s on the line.
“It’s okay to be an only child, right? Because I’m never going through this again,” she shouts, panting like she’s running a marathon.
“But everything’s okay though, right? There isn’t anything to worry about?”
“Our boy thought he’d surprise us early, but everything’s good, according to the doctor.”
“Thank God.” A layer of stress lifts off my shoulders. “I shrieked at Harrison and ran out of his office the minute he told me. I was freaking out so bad.”
“My notes for the Torment interview are in the top drawer of my desk,” she says, in between panting down the line.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it,” I lie, not wanting to stress her out.
She bursts out laughing. “You’re such a bad liar. Oh, my fucking God!” she screeches, and my ears protest in earnest. “You are never getting laid again!” she screams at Gage, I presume. “Zeta, babe, I’ve got to go,” she pants. “I’ve got a little person to squeeze out my hoo-ha.”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon. Good luck.”
By the time I arrive at the hospital, Kayla has already delivered her son. He looks just like his daddy, something Kayla is not impressed with. She hasn’t stopped lamenting how she did all the work and the child doesn’t resemble her in the slightest. But I know she’s only kidding, because the way she gazes adoringly at her beautiful son, and the way she swoons at Gage, tells me the opposite.
I rush out of there an hour later, heading to the hotel in Manhattan where the press conference is being held, trying not to lose the contents of my stomach on the way.
I stare out the window of the cab, trying to convince myself I can do this. But I’m a fucking nervous wreck every time I think about being in the same room as Ryder again. My hand is shaking, my leg won’t stop jerking, and the butterflies in my chest are going haywire, making me even more on edge. I take deep breaths, telling myself I’m a grown-ass woman, a professional music journalist, and he’s only another egotistical rock star with an inflated sense of self-importance. I’ve met my fair share of them over the last few years, so I can handle Ryder Stone, I lie to myself.
I touch up my makeup, run a comb through my long wavy hair, and spritz some perfume on my wrists and neck before smoothing the wrinkles out of the tight-fitting black minidress I’m wearing today. I’ve teamed it with my studded knee-length boots, and I brought my gray leather jacket and silk scarf with me too. I’m hoping if I Iook suitably composed that it might disguise the mess I’m hiding inside.
I flash my media card at the beefy bouncer standing guard outside the room in the hotel where the conference is taking place, and he opens the door for me. I say hi to a few reporters I know as I make my way through the room, hoping they can’t tell I’m on the verge of a mini meltdown. Choosing the most innocuous seat I can find—in the middle, over on the far left—I’m hoping I can blend into the background and go unnoticed. I’ve already decided that I’m not asking any questions. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself while there are cameras around. I have no idea how Ryder will react when he sees me, and I’m not sure if he’s been informed that I’ve replaced Kayla. I don’t want anyone suspecting we have a past, because I like my anonymity, and I have zero desire to have my name connected to his or splashed all over social media.
So, I’ll keep a low profile during the press conference and take advantage of the opportunity to get used to seeing him up close and personal again. Hopefully, by the time I speak to the band in private, I’ll have gotten a hold of myself.
But I’ve either underestimated how delusional I am or I’ve forgotten the power that man holds over me.
Their manager opens the meeting, welcoming the assembled media audience and thanking us for coming. My knee is bouncing off the ground, and I press my free hand into my thigh, urging my body to cooperate. A little whimper flies out of my mouth when the side door opens and Garrett Jones steps into the room. I can see Scott White standing behind him and two more forms at his back. All the blood drains from my face and my stomach is churning so badly, I’m terrified I’m going to puke. The hand holding my pen and notepad is shaking like I have no control over my limbs.
The guy sitting beside me stares at me like I’m some dazed newbie or a crazy fan who managed to smuggle her way inside.
One by one, the band enters the room and steps up onto the podium. My heart is beating a hundred miles an hour, and I clamp a hand over my mouth as nausea swims up my throat.
Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.I repeat it on a mantra as my body floods with nervous adrenaline.
I should’ve made Brody come in my place. I’m sure I could’ve sweet-talked him into it. Why the fuck didn’t I think of that earlier?
Micah Rawlings is the third member of the band to walk into the room, and then I seehim, just outside the door, not quite visible as he hangs back, waiting for his cue. My heart stutters, and the fluttering sensation in my chest intensifies. My eyes well up, and I silently beg my body to get with the program before I completely humiliate myself.
I glance over my shoulder, wondering if I can make a last-minute dash for the exit, but the room is packed to capacity, and there are rows of reporters standing behind the occupied seats, blocking the doors and squashing that plan on the spot.
I pinch my leg hard, trying to ground myself, as Ryder steps into the room, and I stop breathing.
