“I’m a reporter. Is everything all right?”
She took a sip of her drink and grimaced. “I’m supposed to meet Mark Townsend.” Her eyes met mine, and I could tell she was assessing me for signs of envy. I didn’t know who Mark Townsend was, but obviously she thought he was a big deal.
“Is he not here?”
“He’s not here. And now nobody cares that I’m here.”
“I care that you’re here,” I offered.
Her head tilted toward me, her eyebrow arching directly at me. “And who are you?”
My hand ran across my press badge of its own accord. Victoria eyed it. “No, sweetie. You are not your credentials. Do you think you’d be invited in here without that? You’re here because someone wants something from you. My guess is free publicity. But you could walk out that door, and nobody would notice any longer than it would take to fish another rat out of that snake pit of paparazzi out front.”
Ignoring the mixed metaphor, I couldn’t argue with her point. I moved back to the stool where Micah had left me right as he showed up at my side. He laid his hand on my shoulder, familiar, and apologized for abandoning me. I happened to look up and caught Victoria’s face change from cool disdain to cold envy and realized I might have trumped her. I’d need to know who Mark Townsend was to say for sure. And I didn’t really care.
Micah saw my camera sitting on the bar, the viewfinder still lit up with a photo of Victoria. He winced playfully. “Sorry about this, but . . .” Then he turned to the room and raised his voice. “Excuse me. Everyone, this is Jo—” He hesitated and glanced at me.
“Wilder.”
I watched the inevitable reaction—lips pressed into a line, one eye squinted—as he searched for a hilarious joke, then fought the urge to crack it. He turned to face the room, his eyes lingering on mine until the last possible second. “Jo Wilder. She’s a reporter and a photographer. And she’s a guest. Please be on your best behavior, or whichever behavior you want to see in the morning paper.” He winked at me.
“So you don’t mind me taking pictures?” An echo of Victoria’s bitter spiel ran through my head. Of course he didn’t mind. I was free publicity, just like Andy had said. I didn’t know what I’d been thinking.
“Nah, but you’re gonna have a harder sell with my sister. Come on with me. All the fun people are downstairs.”
There’d been a dramatic uptick in the number of guests. The halls were harder to navigate, and we walked turned a little sideways. People stopped Micah every couple of feet. Hands slapped shoulders. Exclamations of greeting were exchanged. Introductions were made. This guy was a local congressman. That lady did the evening news.
I recognized some people. I’d already met or photographed some of them. They didn’t recognize me. Their eyes landed on my credentials before they looked in my face. The camera was more interesting still. I didn’t take any pictures. Andy wouldn’t like that, but Micah was pulling me forward, and I was curious to see what the basement held in store.
As we started down the stairs, Micah asked, “Do you like music?”
I snorted. “Who doesn’t like music?”
“You’d be surprised.” He offered his elbow again. I hadn’t needed help climbing down stairs since I was two, but I eagerly wrapped my hand around his arm. His bicep flexed, and he winked, letting me know he’d done it intentionally. In such close quarters, I could smell his skin. Feigning a slight stumble, I tightened my grip on him, and then as though readjusting, I slid my hand down his arm to better feel his muscle.
Involuntarily, my eyes rolled at my own ridiculous reaction to this guy. I’d met honest-to-God celebrities before. I’d met senators. I grew up surrounded by notable notables on account of my dad. I couldn’t remember ever being starstruck. And Micah Sinclair was barely a star.
If anything, he acted as though I were someone worthy of attention. He made me feel like I was someone. But somehow I got the impression he had that effect on everyone. I repeated Andy’s admonition, reminding myself that these people didn’t really care about me. Without publicity, they’d cease to exist—and I was the publicity. Tonight I was nothing more than Micah’s personal paparazza.
The basement turned out to be a recording studio, but so crowded with people, it might as well have been a frat house. Snatches of music drifted over the chatter, coming from one corner. I stood on my toes to try to see who was playing.
He gestured to his shoulders, “You want me to lift you up?”
That elicited a rather unladylike snort. “Do you think anyone would notice?”
We began to move toward the sound. I no longer had any reason to be latched onto Micah’s arm, but when I let go, he caught my hand in his and led me across the room.
As we weaved through groups of people, he asked me. “So who’s your favorite musician?”
“Of all time? Or current?”
“If I say ‘of all time,’ what are the chances you’ll say my name?”
Without hesitation, I said, “Micah Sinclair.” I could flirt, too.
He squeezed my hand. “I won’t ask you to name one of my songs. You can do that next time, and I’ll pretend you already knew.”
I looked away from him, so I wouldn’t have to admit he was right. I swore I’d remedy that.
