“Have you met him?”
“Cary?” Tyler nodded. “I work for his manager.”
Jessica’s eyes rounded into globes. “Is he nice?”
“He’s the best.” That kiss wasn’t too shabby for a non-kiss, either. “Really. He’s a great guy. Super nice.”
But don’t get any ideas.
Jessica straightened her skirt at the waist. “Is he coming up here?”
It was a good question, but she didn’t want to get Jessica’s hopes up—or her own, for that matter.
“I doubt it.”
“That’s a bummer.”
Tell me about it.
The voices in the hall gradually became louder as Sebastien and his buddies were like megaphones personified. He was always the loudest person in the room—not a shocker.
Sebastien arrived with his Winnipeg entourage—club owners, promoters, and musicians from his heyday. But they weren’t friends, not really. He kept them close only to flaunt his net worth because, more than anything, Sebastien loved to brag.
“Hi, doll,” Sebastien said, waddling into the suite. He called Tyler “doll” whenever he was drinking.
“Hi.” She turned her head, already cringing in anticipation. Like every French person, he went straight for the double-cheek kiss.
Ow. Shit.
His beard scraped her skin like steel wool, and she recoiled, nose wrinkling at the potent combo of whiskey and stale cigarettes on his breath. It was a miracle she didn’t hurl on the spot.
“Fix us some drinks,” he ordered.
“She’s our server,” Tyler pointed to Jessica. “She’s a big Cary Kingston fan.”
Sebastien gave her the once-over. “Cute,” he grunted, adjusting his Quebec Nordiques baseball cap. Being a slob, he dressed more like a comedy writer than a music mogul—missing the sense-of-humor part. “I’ll introduce her when he gets here,” he added.
Tyler cleared her throat. “Cary’s coming up here?”
“He wants to watch the game.”
“Why?” She hung her thumb from her belt loop, lowering one hip.
“I didn’t ask,” he said, his voice grouchy like Oscar’s.
Sebastien never questioned Cary or told him what to do since their management contract was a handshake deal, not something legally binding. SDM’s other clients had iron-clad agreements, which meant Sebastien owned them for life. But not Cary. He could leave whenever he wanted to, which would have been disastrous for their bottom line.
Tyler’s chest tightened, her heart pounding.Get it together. It was just a peck.She pressed a palm to her eye, willing it to stop twitching—her tell when she was freaking out.
The house lights dimmed and the announcer introduced Cary to the sold-out arena. The crowd erupted in cheers for their hometown hero. Brandon was close enough to Winnipeg that people didn’t get offended when they said he was a local.
Cary strutted down the blue carpet toward center ice. Tyler bowed her head and tugged at her white Jets jersey. Damn it. They’d done it again—showed up in matching outfits.
Telepathy?
Not long after the anthem ended, Vegas appeared in the doorway of their hospitality suite. His 6‘6“ frame took up a lot of space. People assumed he was a biker because of his neck tattoos, ponytail, and black leather jacket, but Cary’s tour manager wouldn’t have been caught dead riding a motorcycle. He was the voice of reason and never did anything reckless.
Tyler waved at Vegas, who stepped aside, leaving her fully exposed to Cary’s piercing gaze.
