After putting my phone in my lap again, I return to the discussion, just in time to hear the moderator say, “Thank you so much, Reed. I think you’ve shown us all why every aspiring artist I know would give their left kidney to get signed by your label.”
Reed leans back in his chair, the king of all he surveys. “Actually, our contracts require new artists to give theirrightkidney. I keep them in mason jars in my office and nibble on them whenever I’m low on protein bars.”
Again, everyone in the room, including me, laughs and swoons at Reed’s wit and charm.
“I stand corrected,” the moderator says, her face aglow. She clears her throat. “Moving on.”
And away we go. Question. Answer. Rinse and repeat. Sometimes, the moderator addresses the full panel. Other times, she talks to aspecific panelist, like she did with Reed. But, through it all, nobody holds my attention like CeeCee and Reed. But mostly Reed, if I’m being honest, except for when CeeCee is the one speaking. And even then, I can’t help sneaking peeks at Reed to see how he’s reacting to whatever CeeCee is saying.
After about twenty minutes, while the moderator chats with the music composer, I find myself sneaking yet another peek at Reed—and then jolting like I’ve been electrocuted when I discover his dark, piercing eyes fixed firmly on me. My heart lurches as our gazes mingle, and then stampedes when he doesn’t look away.
Am I imagining this staring contest? Am I nothing but a horny woman projecting her fantasies onto an incredibly successful and sexy man? Surely, a man of Reed’s stature wouldn’t notice some random nobody in a crowded lecture hall... Yeah, I decide, Reed must be staring blankly, letting his mind wander, perhaps to the woman he banged last night, and I happen to be in whatappearsto be his sightline.
And yet... it really seems like he’s actively, and quite flirtatiously, checking me out. But how could that be? Yes, men frequently check me out. It’s part of the reason I became a bartender—because I realized I could channel some of that male attention into tips. That, and my father would kill me if I became a stripper. But, still, I think I’m being ridiculous to think a man who dates supermodels and actresses andliterallyparties with rock stars would noticemein this situation.
Deciding to find out, once and for all, I drag my teeth suggestively over my lower lip, smile brightly, and then...winkat Reed. And, to my shock, Reed Riversimmediatelywinks back. In reply, my flirtatious smile morphs into a full, beaming, goofy one, which Reed returns in kind. Although, to be sure, Reed’s full smile is anything but goofy.
Still smiling broadly at me, he dips his chin, as if to say,Hello.
So, I return his gesture.Hello, Handsome.I waggle my eyebrows, just to triple-check I’m not imagining this. And, to my sizzling delight, Reed sends me a return eyebrow waggle that makes me giggle. How is it possible his eyebrow waggle is actually sexy? So sexy, in fact, it sends arousal pooling between my legs.
“What do you think about that?” the moderator says. “Reed?”
Reed abruptly swivels his head.
“What advice would you give anyone dreaming of a career in music, Reed?”
“Oh. Uh.” Reed clears his throat. “Yes. Well, to begin with, I’d say ‘fake it ’til you make it.’ Not original, I know, but still good advice. People in this industry don’t want to be thefirstor thelastto jump on a bandwagon. So, your job is to convince them they’ve personally discovered the next big thing—someone only the coolest of cool kids know about at the moment.” He launches into explaining his point further, and I force myself to look away—at CeeCee, the moderator, the other panelists... until, finally, I allow myself another quick peek at him. And, to my thrill, he’s staring at me again. This time, when our eyes meet, Reed leans forward and says, “My last piece of advice would be this. When opportunity knocks, sayyes.” He flashes me a naughty smile. “Actually, say yes, yes, yes, without apology or hesitation. You might only get one shot. No regrets.”
Arousal zings through my body, reddening my cheeks and hardening my nipples. Without meaning to do it, I nod slowly, letting Reed know I’ve heard him loud and clear. That I’m ready to say yes, yes, yes to him, any time, any place. All he needs to do is ask.
Reed smirks at me one last time, before turning to look at the moderator. “And that’s pretty much it, Angela.”
As everyone applauds, the moderator thanks Reed for his comments, which she calls insightful, inspiring, and “oddly arousing.” And then, with a laugh, she announces we’ve reached the end of the presentation and asks the panelists to hang around to answer students’ questions. And through it all, Reed and I can’t stop eyeball-fucking each other from across the lecture hall like our lives depend on it.
Suddenly, I become aware students around me have risen from their chairs and are working their way toward the aisles.
“Did you see Reed flirting with me?” a blonde in front of me says excitedly to her friend.
“Withyou?” her friend says. “He was looking atme.”
Shit. Does every woman in this building, including me, think Reed has been flirting with them for the past hour? My heart in my throat, I jockey through the slow-moving crowd and make my way toward CeeCee, who’s standing on the opposite side of the hall from Reed. When I reach the back of CeeCee’s short line, which, thankfully, is onlya few students deep, I peek at Reed’s massive line... and then at him... and discover, to my thrill, his eyes are on mineagain.
Without hesitation, Reed sends me a sexy little wink, followed by an eyebrow waggle. And I can’t help smiling broadly at the gesture. Of course, I give him as good as he just gave to me, making him smile... and just that fast, I know we’re both thinking the same thing: whenever he gets through his long line, he’s going to come over here to talk to me. And whatever that man suggests, whatever he asks, wherever he suggests we go, I’m going to follow his explicit directions and say, without a moment’s hesitation or apology: yes... yes...yes.
6
GEORGINA
“Georgie!” a female voice says, and when I peel my eyes off Reed’s white-hot smolder at the far end of the lecture hall, my favorite professor—the one who taught two of my investigative journalism classes this year—is standing before me.
“Professor Schiff!” I say brightly. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to say hello to CeeCee. We went to school together.” She indicates CeeCee’s line, now only four students deep in front of me. “You’re here to meet her?”
I nod. “I’m hoping to charm her into reading a couple of my writing samples.”
“Brilliant! Are you hoping to write forRock ‘n’ Roll?”
