Page 154 of Knot Their Starlet

“Good,” John says, his voice tinny over my car’s speakers. At this point, I hear his voice through them more than I do any other music artist. “This is important, Cameron.”

“I know,” I repeat, drumming my thumbs along my steering wheel. “I’m doing my job, aren’t I? I found his team at the club, of all places, and landed a conversation.”

“Yes, yes.” The click of John’s keyboard tells me he’s probably working on something else during our call. On a Saturday, too. The man never gives himself a break, I swear.

“Okay, I’m here,” I say, taking a gap between a couple of incoming cars. “Got to go.”

“Keep me updated.”

“Will do.”

The parking attendant in an expensive-looking uniform asks me for identification, and I show them the QR code I was sent earlier.

“Guest parking is to your left. Have a good day, Mr. Foster.” The attendant nods, pointing in the direction I should go.

Fancy. At least I don’t have to pay fifty bucks for parking this time around.

I pull into one of the spots labelled GUEST in big block letters, taking a steadying breath before I grab my saddle-style bag, slinging it over my shoulder.

I’ve brought everything I’d need for an interview. My laptop, recording device, and notepads have never felt heavier than they do now.

I tap my fingers along the strap of my bag as I ride the elevator up to the lobby.

It’s ridiculously fancy with sleek flooring and sculptural light fixtures twisting and turning above me. I can barely see where the thin cables holding them up are attached, because of how vaulted the ceilings are.

My gaze scans the space, immediately landing on two people. One I recognize from last night and one I recognize from my research.

Leo Park, Beckham’s publicist whom I met last night, and Everett Vaughn, Beckham’s record label owner, are standing casually across the lobby by another set of elevators.

I don’t know whether it’s a good sign or not that someone that high up on the totem pole is here to meet with me.

It has to be a good sign, right?

But under the intensity of Everett Vaughn’s gaze, it’s hard to soothe the sense of unease wrapping itself around my neck. The tension only grows the closer I get to the two of them.

I’m a pretty commanding alpha in most rooms, but Everett is off the charts by any metric.

I should’ve worn something nicer. I probably would’ve felt more confident, but I didn’t want to dress in a full suit for a house call.

Damn, this whole shitshow of a job has me worrying about my outfit like a schoolgirl. I need to get my shit together. My khakis and black polo are fine.

It’s not like I’m applying for an internship at a fashion magazine. They’re not judging me on my clothes.

But I definitely get the impression it’ll be a challenge winning their favor off of whatever metrics they’re using to judge me. Understandable, considering how I acted last night.

“Hello, Mr. Foster,” Everett says, extending his hand.

“Please, call me Cameron,” I say, giving his hand a firm shake. I offer Leo a nod, since his hands stay firmly in the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. “Leo, glad to see you in... better circumstances. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

He just offers me a nod, his expression carefully blank in a way I know must serve him well in business meetings.

“Come this way,” Everett says, waving towards another set of elevators. “We should discuss what we’re looking for.”

“And what exactly are you looking for, Mr. Vaughn?”

“No need for formalities here,” he says, offering me a smile that I instantly notice carries far more calculating meaning than it seems at first glance. “Call me Everett.”

“Noted,” I nod. “I spoke with Leo here last night about trying to arrange an interview with Beckham. Is that something you think we can make happen?”