Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door

by Lee, Nadia

  But when I went over to her house, the door was locked and she didn’t answer. Was she too pissed off to talk to me? I looked around and saw her car was gone.

  I pulled out my phone, then paused. I don’t know her number.

  It stopped me cold. We’d never exchanged numbers. What an idiot move. But it just never seemed necessary, and gave me a reason to come by when I wanted to talk to her. Seeing her pretty face was a bonus.

  But now, it was terrifying I couldn’t call or text. I couldn’t figure out where she was so I could fix things.

  I squinted through a window. Her furniture was still in the living room, so she probably hadn’t moved out. She might’ve gone to Sunny’s to grab some stuff. I just needed to be patient.

  I went back home and wrote a note: Can you come by when you see this? Or call me. I added my number—the one I gave out to my family and close friends—and scowled. I should’ve written it on a sticky note. Except I didn’t have any, because how often did I have to write someone a note?

  Did I have any tape? Rummaging through the drawers only yielded a roll of duct tape. Better than nothing.

  I returned to her house. The driveway was still empty. I taped the note to the door, then stepped back. There. No way she’d miss it.

  When she called me, I’d come over. And do the apology. Might actually work out better, because it’d give me time to compose a good “I’m sorry” speech.

  I went back home, sat at the dining table, pulled out a piece of paper and started to write out what I should say.

  Emily, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.

  No. I wadded that up and tossed it over my shoulder. I pulled out another sheet.

  Emily, I’ve been a dick and I’m sorry. I just

  Nope. Too blasé.

  Half an hour passed and there was enough wadded-up paper on the floor to carpet half the Amazonian jungle. Nothing seemed good enough.

  I checked the time. Noon now, and still no contact from Emily. She was probably too angry to call. I ran a hand across my mouth, feeling like an idiot for not thinking about that. I should be the bigger person and go over again. It wasn’t like it was a long way. Maybe my brain would come up with a good apology while I walked. Like Emily, sometimes I had the best inspiration when I moved around.

  I strode to her house. Her car was still gone, the note still on the door. Where was she? She couldn’t have been out shopping this long, could she? Kingstree wasn’t big enough for that.

  Unease settling around me like a fog, I walked around and looked inside again. Nobody was home.

  For once, I resented that the cul-de-sac didn’t have any other houses. Otherwise some nosy neighbors might’ve noticed something.

  When she still hadn’t come back after three, my unease started turning into alarm. Had Emily’s car broken down? No… If so, she would’ve called for help, and she should’ve been home by now. An accident? I quickly searched for news about car accidents in the area. Nothing came up.

  Had she been kidnapped? Held for ransom? Kingstree was safe, but no place was completely crime-free. News sites didn’t say anything about crime, but of course it would take a while for something like this to get reported.

  Shit.

  I stared at the phone, then remembered Emily and Mir had hung out together. Maybe they’d exchanged their numbers. A slim chance, but I called Mir.

  “Hey, Killian,” she said, her tone brisk. “Can’t talk for long. Only got ten before my next meeting.”

  “That’s okay. It won’t take long. Do you know Emily’s number?”

  “Huh? Why are you asking me? Don’t you have it?”

  “No. She’s not home and I’m worried about her.”

  A short pause. “What’s going on?” she asked, no longer distracted.

  “She’s been gone since this morning.”

  “She didn’t tell you where she was going or when she’d be back?” I could practically hear my sister’s eyebrows arch.

  “If she had, I wouldn’t be calling you, now would I?”

  Mir sighed. “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?” I said, not wanting to admit to my sister how much I’d screwed up. Damn it, I wanted to talk to Emily now. And time was of the essence. She could be lying in a ditch even as we were speaking.

  “You and Emily were like…this. And she left without saying a word. You don’t even know her number. So what did you do?”

  “We had an argument yesterday,” I said with a sigh.

  “Jesus, Killian. Women don’t just leave for hours over an argument. Did you do something stupid?”

  “It’s fixable.”

  “Fixable? Remember what I said about not taking my favorite author away?” Mir said, growing agitated. “I knew it. I knew it!”

  “I’m trying to talk to her, okay? Are you going to help or not?” If she wasn’t, I’d have to find some other way.

  “Depends on what you did.”

  “Fine.” So I told her in a quick summary, because Mir was more stubborn than century-old rust. But laying it out made me sound like America’s National Asshole.

  “You shit,” she whispered, probably not able to yell like she wanted to because she was at work. “I can’t believe you said that! If she was a debut author, maybe I could see how she might think of using you. But she’s already a bestseller! She honestly doesn’t need you for anything. And it isn’t like your groupies can read! What did that girl said at the breakfast? Oh yeah, something about how The Very Bossy Engagement has no pictures! Do you think that’s the kind of person who likes Emily’s books?”

  Now that Mir put it that way, my reaction from yesterday seemed even worse. I wasn’t just America’s Asshole. I was Asgard’s Asshole, too.

  Mir continued, “I can’t help you because I don’t know her number. And you can’t message her through Facebook either, because she told me she didn’t manage that stuff. She said she has too many weirdos sending her dick pics and ‘wanting to get to know her.’”

  “Fine,” I said, still staring at the empty driveway. I should just drive around until I found her. Hit the likely spots she could be visiting.

  “Oh, wait. I think I know where she might’ve gone…although it’s a little early.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a book signing this weekend in San Francisco.”

  There was? In San Francisco? Confusion and disappointment mixed together. How come Emily hadn’t said anything about it?

  On the other hand, she’d been super stressed and busy with My Fair Molly, so maybe it had slipped her mind. And even if she wanted to tell me yesterday, I’d blown up on her. She definitely wouldn’t have been in the mood.

  Mir continued, “I wanted to go, but can’t. Too much work. Anyway, I’m pretty sure she’s going to be there because her name was on the list of authors. Oh, and I’m extra sad about missing it because a lot of hot cover models are supposed to be there, too. Maybe she’ll find somebody to hook up with and continue to write. I mean, it isn’t like you’re the only guy in the world. And romance cover models are super sexy. Most of them are nice, too, I heard. Hotel rooms. Bars. Drinks. Voilà! And you know what happens when a pretty and successful woman is accused of using her guy’s fame to further her career. She tends to get angry and rebound. Hell, I would.”

  Just imagining Emily hooking up with another guy… And why the hell did Mir sound so smug and happy about it anyway? “Whose side are you on?”

  “Mine. ’Cause I love reading her books. Anyway, the next meeting’s about to start. Bye!” She hung up before I could say anything else.

  I stared at the phone, then recalled Emily’s book covers. They all featured topless men in incredible shape. And if I absolutely had to be honest with myself, they could be considered good-looking.

  And those guys were going to the signing? For what? It was a signing, not a concert that required backup dancers. Wasn’t a romance conference supposed to be more, like…dignified? Basically
just a gathering of bookworms?

  Acid was starting to gurgle in my stomach. I called Felicia to launch Project Get Emily Back.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Emily

  I flew out of Dulles Airport on Thursday, after informing the hotel I was coming a day early. The clerk had sounded a bit confused, but the check-in went smoothly. I texted Lucy after unpacking my suitcase. It was about a quarter before six, and she should’ve already landed. Skye wasn’t coming until tomorrow.

  –Me: You in SF yet?

  –Lucy: I just dropped off my bag. Why?

  –Me: Because I’m here too.

  –Lucy: What? Already?

  –Me: Change of plans.

  –Lucy: Woohoo! Let’s hang out. Dinner and drinks! Just us girls!

  –Me: What about Blue?

  –Lucy: He’s out with some friends. Boys’ night out.

  Perfect. I didn’t want to be in my hotel room alone. Being alone made me think about Killian. And I didn’t want to think about him. It wasn’t good for my blood pressure. Or appetite. Or sleep.

  –Me: Okay. Meet you downstairs in ten.

  I went to the lobby bar a few minutes later and found Lucy there. Her purple hair was tied back into a simple ponytail, showing her pretty, friendly face. The dye job was new, so I figured she’d done it for the signing. She looked fabulous. And totally happy, as she should be.

  I waved and rushed over to her, pleasure unfurling inside. “Lucy!”

  A huge grin split her face. “Hey, girl.” She hugged me.

  I hugged her back. “So good to see you.”

  “You too!” She looked around. “Your man seriously didn’t come with you? Or is he having a guys’ night too?”

  “He’s…” I shrugged like it didn’t matter—that I didn’t care. “We had a fight.”

  “Oh no.” Her face fell. “How come?”

  “Long story. Let’s grab a drink first.”

  She and I went into the bar, and were quickly shown to a table. I ordered a rum and Coke, she got a Long Island iced tea, and I started to unload everything. But trying to explain without letting her know Killian’s identity was tricky. So I fumbled a bit, then settled on labeling him “somebody famous.”

  “Wait.” She lowered her voice, but the light in her eyes betrayed her excitement. “So you really are dating Killian Axelrod?”

  How on earth did she know? I tried to play it off. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw the picture on your page, silly. But I thought maybe it was somebody who looked like him that your mom found.”

  Well, if she already knows… “No, it really is him. And you can’t tell anybody, because he’s really particular about his privacy.”

  “Okay.” Lucy nodded, but her lips twitched as though she could barely contain her excitement. But I knew her. She’d keep it a secret.

  As I went on with the rest of what had happened between me and Killian, Lucy, God bless her, made all the right noises of sympathy and outrage. “What a dick. So you’re through with him? There’s no second chance?”

  “None,” I said, then took a gulp of my drink so I could continue to pretend I was fine. It wasn’t as though I’d never broken up with someone before, but with Killian it was a million times worse. It was all my stupid heart’s fault! It had said that Killian could not only give me the romance-novel sex, but romance-novel everything. And my head was partially to blame, too. If I’d just stuck to true love doesn’t exist in real life, I wouldn’t be so down. “Men just aren’t worth it, Luce. The only thing that matters in life is what you can actually hold.”

  “You can hold a man. It’s even nice, if it’s the right guy.”

  “No, I mean like money and things, not a guy. And I don’t like the whole process of finding the right guy. Kissing all these frogs sucks. Not to mention it’s gross.” I knocked back the rest of my drink to wash away the imaginary amphibian taste from my mouth. Lucy didn’t get my unhappiness—or how nasty it was to deal with subpar men—because she’d gotten lucky with Blue. They’d been together since high school. So it made sense she’d believe in true love. “I’m going to go become a nun and write in some quiet, reclusive abbey.” I’d make sure to pick a place so remote that no groupies could ever visit. Or stalkers. Or celebrities, especially rock stars. “Somewhere in the Alps,” I added.

  “Can nuns write about premarital sex?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably. And I’m sure nobody would care very much so long as I paid…” I snapped my fingers, trying to think of the word and failing. “You know, the ten percent church tax.”

  “The tithe,” Lucy said, laughing softly.

  “Yes. That.”

  “I know a better revenge.” She leaned forward. “Write him into your next book. He can be the villain. And not even a sexy villain, but a dumb, bumbling villain with a small and permanently limp penis.”

  I chuckled weakly. Yeah, that was the most logical and realistic revenge. I’d done that to my dad in all my books, even though he didn’t know because he didn’t read my books and I never told him. So it hadn’t felt all that satisfying. And winning the bet hadn’t seemed to improve my satisfaction quotient either.

  Killian could star in my next book as the horrible ex-husband of my heroine. Who was short, ugly, smelly and impotent. Coming up with a revenge character usually cheered me up. But right then, it didn’t make me feel any better.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Emily

  When I got up the next morning, I dashed to the door and opened it. The hotel had left a bag with four papers. This was the day Holly should have had the ads appear. I needed my trophies.

  After all, I didn’t have much else to look forward to. Other than meeting my readers at the signing in three hours, that was.

  My heart pounded as anticipation rushed through me. I flipped through the first paper, looking for the ad. Articles…more articles…some pictures… Ah ha!

  To Emma Grant,

  You are right. Romance is the most wonderful genre. It celebrates love and an optimistic future. Its readers are intelligent, interesting and lead fulfilling lives. And most importantly, they are amazing women who deserve to be as happy and beloved as the women in the romance novels they read.

  I’m sorry I didn’t accept that sooner. I’m glad you taught me better.

  –Brandon Breckenridge

  Bitterness and triumph hit me at the same time, two hard fists from opposite directions, stealing my breath and leaving me dizzy and shaky. At least he sounded humble in writing, even if he’d been a total asshole when we talked on the phone. My hands slightly unsteady, I took a snapshot of the ad with my phone, then posted it on all my social media profiles. I made sure to tag my dad so all his friends could see it, too. As the shakiness faded, gleeful pleasure started to bubble up within me, and I laughed, imagining the expression on Dad’s face when he saw what I’d done.

  Then I blocked him from my phone. I was done with him.

  No matter how he tried to spin it, I’d won. I’d done it on my own. It had nothing to do with him, and he didn’t get to take any credit. And I was proud of the fact that I accomplished what I’d set out to do.

  I wish Killian were here to see the ads with me.

  I scowled. Shouldn’t be thinking about him. He didn’t get to be part of the celebration, not after what he’d said and how he’d made me feel.

  Not after breaking my old cynicism about love and making me think that he was the one.

  I flipped through the rest of the papers so I could take pictures of them all before grabbing coffee and heading to the signing. Then stopped short.

  There was another full-page ad:

  Dear Emily,

  I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?

  –Killian Axelrod

  P.S. You are absolutely awesome and amazing.

  What the…? My mind went blank, then my pulse started to race as confusion and exasperation at myself surged. I had to be seeing things
, because there was no way this was the same Killian Axelrod who’d broken my heart. I must’ve just been really hung up on full-page ad apologies. I blinked a few times to clear my vision. The ad remained right next to Dad’s. Was this really Killian?

  Okay, so maybe it really was him, because how many Emily and Killian Axelrod pairings did we have in the world, and how many of those Killians had done something bad enough to warrant a huge apology? But a full-page ad? That was over the top, wasn’t it?

  I thought about it, running my teeth over my lower lip, uncertain what to make of this move. Why not just call if he wanted to talk? Why do this? He was always freaked out about his privacy and people posting stuff online. Although this was print media, it was still too public for his taste, wasn’t it? If he wanted to apologize, why didn’t he just ca—

  We never exchanged phone numbers! But still… Wasn’t this just over-the-top crazy?

  My phone rang with a call from Mom.

  “Did you see that ad?” she squealed. “That rat bastard’s one I expected, but the one with Emily and Killian… That’s you and him, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, happy she called Dad something appropriate for once but not too thrilled she’d seen the other ad.

  “Did something happen between you and Killian?” She sounded concerned and mildly curious, without a hint of judgment. Like that time I’d told her I was going to be a romance writer.

  “We…had an argument.”

  “You should call him. He apologized. Publicly. It’s like a fire signal that everyone can see.”

  That was true… Given how particular he was about privacy, this was a huge first move on his part. And just like that, my heart turned as gooey as warm chocolate. “I don’t have his number.”

  “But he’s going to fret. I always do when people don’t respond to my texts.”

  I almost laughed. She was the one who was worried. “He didn’t text, so he won’t be fretting.”