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Pulling away from her, he stares intently into her eyes. “Give me one minute...one.” He quickly continues as the venue manager starts to protest. “I’ll make it up to both of you.” He glances back at Helena. “It’s important.”
Taking a deep breath, Helena bows her head, her fiery red hair falling around her shoulders. Clearly agitated, she leans toward Julian and growls in a low voice, “You have thirty seconds. If you aren’t out there kicking ass, you’d better believe the label will rip up your contract. If that happens, you can count me out as well.”
“I know,” he says. When her eyes narrow, he gives her a heavy sigh. “I know, Helena.”
“Yeah, you know all right. You know I’m always here to clean up your messes.” Shaking her head, she takes a step back. “You owe me big for this...if I’m still around.” Resigned, she tosses me one last glare before huffing down the hallway, the venue manager trailing after her, mumbling about legal matters and arrogant artists.
“What the fuck?” Visibly irritated, Julian moves in closer. “I told you before, I never ask a third time for anything, but let’s try this again. Who the hell did you come here to see?”
“I’m here to cover your band’s album release for my magazine.” His smug smile has me ready to spit nails. “I said your band, not you. I had no clue who you were before tonight. In fact, I’m technically not supposed to be the one doing the damn piece. Our features editor is going to have my ass on Monday for this, thank you very much.”
Julian rolls his eyes. “Eric Lafontaine is an incompetent asshole who couldn’t interview his own dick if it jumped into his hand.”
I laugh—until the implications of his words set in. “I never mentioned I worked for Vinyl. And I never said Eric Lafontaine’s name.”
“I’m sure you said something.”
“Nope, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.” I lean my head back against the wall. “Oh, my God, you’re stalking me at work too, aren’t you?”
This just keeps getting better.
“Oh, stop with the dramatic bullshit, Phoebe,” he says, his tone clipped. “If I was stalking you, do you think I’d waste time arguing with you? For Christ’s sake, I’ve had you alone in a dark hallway with plenty of time to do whatever fucked-up shit I wanted.”
I point a finger at him. “That’s not funny. Besides, I’m here with my roommate.”
Staying on the offensive with him is proving to be a relentless battle of wills. The heated tension between us is starting to unravel me. Resisting him is hard, but his pompous attitude and ridiculous stalking are way beyond my threshold.
Leaned against the wall, I can hear the crowd grow louder with confusion as to why their star is missing.
“Why did you send me flowers?” I ask. “I mean, it was nice, I guess, but completely—”
“Out of the blue?”
“Insane,” I correct. Recalling the card, I hastily add, “Interesting poem. You have a freakish memory, Julian.”
“Say that again.”
“What? That you have a freakish memory?”
He steps forward, forcing our bodies flush once again. “No, my name.”
His close proximity mixes everything up in my head. I can barely breathe. “I have to go.”
I expect him to ignore me, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t walk away either. What he does is far more shocking.
Instead of pushing closer and incinerating me with lust, he does a one-eighty and blindsides me with an explanation.
“I sent them for three reasons. One,” he says, ticking them off on his fingers, “Mom always said beautiful women deserve flowers. Two, it’s my way of apologizing for doubting your FEDS skills and stun gun authority. And three, how else was I going to find out who you were? You weren’t exactly a fountain of information. You said you were Teen Miss Iris Festival, so I went with it.”
“So you are stalking me.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?” He waits for my hostile nod before continuing. “I put two and two, a couple of threes, and a really drunk one together and called the festival coordinator for the names of past title holders.”
That’s impossible. The name the festival has doesn’t match mine.
“And they just willingly gave you all my personal information?”
He pauses, his voice holding a twinge of agitation. “I may have had to promise to headline next year’s festival.”
