“It’s epic,” the stylist declares, as she adjusts the scalloped collar across Jake’s neck. “It absolutely screams, ‘Look at me, I am a rock star.’” The assistant cups her fingers around her chin, nodding in approval.
“Well,” he asks, turning toward me and stretching his arms out to his sides. “What do you think, Lex?”
“I think it screams, ‘Look at me, I’m Captain Jack Sparrow.’” The room goes silent. Every head swivels toward me. My face flushes.Whoops, did not mean to say that out loud.
Jake bursts out laughing. His stylist, on the other hand, is less amused.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” she asks, running a hand over her messy top knot.
“Guys, this is my friend Lexi. Lexi, this is everybody,” Jake announces, sweeping out one arm to gesture toward the other occupants in the room. I bristle at the word “friend,” bothered by the label for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on. That’s what we are, right?
The women on the sofa raise their heads and flash curt smiles before returning their attention to their phones. The assistant stylist appears slightly more interested; she cocks her head to one side, sliding her eyes up and down my outfit as she indiscreetly sizes me up. The only person besides Jake who looks remotely pleased to see me is a balding man in rumpled slacks sitting on a straight-backed chair. Based on the laminated press pass around his neck, I assume he is theRolling Stonereporter. He rises from his seat, gripping a recorder in one hand and extending the other toward me.
“Nice to meet you. What did you say your last name was?” I open my mouth to reply, but before I can say a word, Vinny steps between us. He leans down, dipping his head toward my ear.
“You’re early,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Jake’s day is meticulously scheduled for a reason. I told you before, he doesn’t need distractions.” Then he turns to the reporter, his face transforming into a broad smile. The effect is deeply unsettling; up until this moment, I didn’t know Vinny’s face had the capacity to display pleasure.
“Thank you so much for coming out today,” he says, patting the reporter lightly on the shoulder as he guides him firmly toward the door. “We look forward to reading the article. And of course, don’t be afraid to reach out if you have any further questions.”
Vinny follows the reporter into the hallway. Once the door closes behind them, I glance at Jake, wondering if he witnessed our exchange. But he’s already turned his attention back to his stylist.
“Well, Adena, should we try another option?”
Adena mutters under her breath. She shoots me a dirty look but nevertheless walks over to the portable clothing rack where she and the assistant whisper to one another as they flip through garment bags.
Jake strides over to me, gripping my elbows lightly and kissing my cheek.
“You look beautiful.”
“Well, I did the best I could, given your cryptic instructions.”
Adena reappears at his side, holding up a black garment bag. “Here, try this,” she instructs.
He unbuttons the white blouse, slipping it off and handing it to the assistant. For a long moment he stands there, shirtless, and I find myself powerless to look away. Somehow, he’s even more stunning than I remember: sculpted shoulders, taut abs, a small circle of hair that rings his belly button and tantalizingly disappears into his pants. He tugs a T-shirt over his head before Adena hands him a brown leather moto jacket. He slips it on, and she takes a moment to fuss with it, straightening the collar and smoothing out the sleeves.
“Better?” he asks, glancing over at me, and I nod. He looks like Jake again.
“Much.”
“I’ll have an assistant drop off a pair of jeans at the front desk this evening,” Adena informs him, not even bothering to glance in my direction this time.
“No need. I’ve got jeans here.”
Adena rolls her eyes. “Like I said, they’ll be here this evening.”
Jake grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t say another word to either of us as she and the assistant pack up. A few minutes later, the entire team has headed out, and Jake and I are finally alone. He excuses himself to take a quick shower, and I plop down on the plush, rose-colored sofa. The glass coffee table in front of me contains a tidy pile of photography books and a potted white orchid.
There’s also a stack of tabloid magazines tabulated with Post-it flags, likely left behind by the PR team. I flip one open to see a paparazzi photo of Jake walking down the street wearing his white cap and sipping an iced coffee. The headline above him reads “Stars: They’re Just Like Us.” I smile and turn the page, revealinga feature story about Madison St. James and her newest charity project, Paws with a Cause.Ugh.
Flipping the magazine shut, I toss it back on the table. It’s not that I’m jealous of Madison, per se. I mean, it’s not like she and Jake are together. It’s not like Jake and I are together, for that matter. And yet, I can’t help but notice a gnawing in my stomach every time I see her face.
Jake emerges from the bedroom, devastatingly handsome in a gray button-down with cuffed sleeves and black jeans. He runs a towel through his hair as he heads over to the mini fridge and pulls out two small bottles of Pellegrino.
“Excited for tonight?” he asks, handing me one.
“Excited as one can be for an evening so shrouded in mystery.”
