It begged the question: would anyone show up at the gallery? Would they laugh at his photographs? Anyone could point and shoot a camera. Was it too late to cancel?
The gallery’s capacity was capped at three hundred, but he was more nervous than a sold-out concert at Wembley Arena. The music critics he could handle—most of them failed musicians themselves—but art critics had gone to school to rip you a new one in several languages.
They were cultural assassins.
Having Tyler there would make a difference. She was a calming presence—except for earlier, which was unlike her. It was their first real disagreement, but hehadchanged their plans without asking. He needed to stop being Cary Kingston, rock star, and just be her boyfriend.
CHAPTER 23
TYLER
The next morning Tyler’s alarm played “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham!
Cary muffled a laugh under his pillow. “Are you serious?”
“Best wake-up song ever,” she said, rolling out of bed.
She’d seen George Michael on his last tour and was blown away by his voice, stage presence, and songwriting. But whatever happened to Andrew Ridgeley? She made a mental note to google it.
“Stay.” He reached out his arms and tried to hug her.
“I can’t. It was your bright idea to come out here.” The drive between LA and Malibu was farther than she’d planned.
“I know.” He cracked one eye open. “Did I hear you get up in the middle of the night?”
“We forgot to clean our plates after dessert.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a pair of fresh underwear. “I can’t sleep if dirty dishes are in the sink.”
After stepping out of the shower, Tyler slipped into a floral cotton dress. She didn’t particularly like what she was wearing but planned on changing into something fancier for Cary’s exhibit later.
“You’re dropping Rory off at the Roosevelt on your way to the gallery, right?” she asked.
Rory’s ears twitched when she said his name, but like a child avoiding his mother’s call for dinner, he didn’t stir a bit.
“Cary?” She raised her voice a smidge.
“I’ll drop him off around six,” he mumbled, burying his face into the pillow.
She kissed his bare shoulder. “Remember, no touching in front of Sebastien.”
“Who cares?” He rolled over and shielded his face from the light.
“I care,” she said. “I might get fired.”
“If he fires you, I’ll fire him.” He lowered his hand from his face and squinted. “Don’t worry about it.”
If Cary fired Sebastien he’d be out for revenge, an honor killing for bringing shame upon the SDM family.
“Please?” She kissed the nape of his neck, stressing the importance of keeping their relationship a secret.
“Fine.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Croissants are by the fridge.”
She mustered a smile. “Thanks.”
“Have a great day, babe,” he murmured, eyes drifting shut.
Tyler’s car arrived at seven-thirty a.m. The driver said traffic along PCH was worse than usual—road work and routine maintenance slowing everything to a crawl. Her chest tightened. LA meetings rarely started on time, but she still hated running late.
She’d scheduled back-to-back industry meetings, ending with ASCAP after hours for drinks. As an intern, Sebastien had given her one useful tip—Canadian songwriters could join ASCAP for royalties. The only other thing he ever told her? To smile more.
