Page 20 of Worth Your Wild

With a long-suffering sigh, I wheel my luggage out of the room and go downstairs to the lobby buffet for breakfast. As soon as I walk into the dining room, I spot the big group of Deke Decker roadies and musicians. Deke sits among them with his back to the wall, scowling into a mug of coffee. His gaze tracks me to the hostess station when I enter, but I ask to sit alone. Not only would I rather stab myself with a fork than have a conversation right now, but I need to call ahead to the next tour stop and make sure Deke’s clothes are ready, food options secured, media outlets informed of his arrival.

There is a master list of items that a personal assistant to a country music star must always have on hand. Tide pens, Ibuprofen, a needle and thread. A phone charger. Water. Wet wipes. Band-Aids. A Sharpie in case someone asks for an autograph. Condoms.

I have all of those things, but I double check my purse, just in case.

I search twice—and I don’t find the Ibuprofen.

Dammit. That’s one of the more important items.

No big deal, though. I’ll just run to the lobby gift shop and grab some. I’ll be back before they even bring my coffee. I leave my roller suitcase propped by the table and exit the restaurant, making quick work of the carpeted hallway on my way to the gift shop.

As soon as I step into the lobby, I’m brought up short by a loud shout.

“There. That’s her!”

A crowd surges toward me, camera phones up, hands reaching out.

In mere seconds, I’m surrounded by people who seem to know my name.

“Sing ‘Sweet Venom’!”

A flash goes off too close to my face. “Are you sleeping with Deke Decker?”

“It sure seemed like it on stage last night.”

Security guards wrestle with the crowd, but there are too many people. It seems surreal that they would be here for me. How many views did that viral video end up getting last night? How is this happening?

Someone pinches my butt, and I yelp, spinning around blindly and stumbling into a woman, my toe getting caught in the edge of a rug, sending me sprawling onto my hands and knees. “Please,” I say, making myself as small as possible, hands shielding my face. “I can’t see⁠—”

A loud crash quiets the crowd. Followed by a second one, as if someone is kicking furniture or knocking over lamps. “June Bug!” Deke bellows.

“I’m here,” I call back to him over the cacophony of voices.

Several members of the crowd are shoved aside and Deke appears over me like a pissed-off avenging god. I don’t think, I just hold my hands up to him like a child and I’m off the floor in a millisecond, cradled to his brawny chest as he sweeps me from the lobby. “How did this happen?” Deke is roaring over my head. “You call this fucking security?”

I take a tiny peek and see there are still people recording us on their phones, so I turn my face into Deke’s chest and take a moment to appreciate the musk that clings to him. How his arms make me feel more secure than anything ever has before. “I’m fine,” I murmur, rubbing my face against his pec. “I just got startled.”

“There’s a rug burn on your knee,” he shouts back at me.

“Oh.”

The voices around us die down and when I lift my head again, we’re back in the restaurant and Deke is sitting down at my table with me in his lap. “I saw all the shit you carry in this bag yesterday. You got a Band-Aid and rubbing alcohol?”

“Yes, but I can take care of it myself⁠—”

“Give it to me,” he demands in a growl, already rifling through my purse. “I need to bandage up your knee so I can go back out there and kill the man who knocked you over.”

“Geez. I better not tell you about the guy who pinched my ass.”

“What?”

I swallow. “Just kidding?”

Whit appears to the left of the table, visibly stressed. “Are you okay, June?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“She’s not fucking fine. There’s no skin left on her knee.”