Page 31 of Fame and Obsession

However, the fact that the bouquet isn’t generic roses bothers me more than anything. Irises are specific. Blue isn’t a normal color choice for flowers.

I mull everything over until the force of the memory hits me hard.

“You can’t reign as Teen Miss Iris Festival without some serious trash-talking skills. That title alone will get your ass kicked in various social circles.”

“Teen Miss Iris Festival? That’s a real thing?”

“Don’t disrespect the title. You laugh, but that stupid princess pageant got me a scholarship to Dreighton University.”

I sit straight up in bed. “Son of a bitch!”

* * *

The tables and chairs are stacked on top of each other in the tiny restaurant, giving minimal room to squeeze by. The third time someone’s ass knocks against my head, I want to stab them with my fork.

Contemplating multiple homicides, I absentmindedly push a volcano roll into a glob of wasabi.

Last night is still haunting me.

Was he making fun of my stupid pageant? I could kick my own ass for telling him about it. However, in my defense, only a psycho would waste that kind of energy mocking a woman’s past.

He sure as hell didn’t look like a psycho. His tattoos and bad boy smirk screamed lots of things—sex, dominance, sex, confidence, sex—but psychosis, no.

I sigh. Morning has found me no closer to figuring out his angle. If he even has one. It’s not like he was aiming for subtly. He’d have to think I was a moron to not see the connection.

But it’s not just that. Beyond wanting to ask him why he did it, one question plagues me.

How the hell did he know my name and where I lived?

I’ve taken extreme measures to ensure I can never be found. The fact that he obtained the information so easily proves my initial assessment…

Sex god or not, Fancy Pants is a stalking whack job.

“Pheebs, if you eat what’s on the end of that chopstick, the sushi won’t be the only thing volcanic.”

I look up to see Nate gesturing to my wasabi-soaked sushi roll.

Groaning, I drop the abomination on my plate and scrub my hands down my face. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

Nate’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Where have you been the last fifteen minutes?”

Despite hailing from New England, Nate Jacobs looks the part of a Southern California surfer. His dirty blond hair hangs low in the front, dusting his eyebrows when it falls forward. He has quite the fan club in the Vinyl editorial bullpen, and our friendship has garnered more than its fair share of office gossip.

Unfounded, of course.

He’d asked me out shortly after I landed the job and quickly found himself friend-zoned. I like him, but I have strict rules against dating coworkers. It’s a recipe for drama, and I came to New York to be drama-free.

So much for that.

Folding my arms across my chest, I force a smile and lean back in my chair. “I’ve been right here.”

“Bullshit. I’ve been dining alone while you’ve been in another time zone.”

I push my plate away and sigh. “It’s nothing.”

He holds up his hands in defeat. “Whatever you say, Pheebs.”

Which should’ve ended the conversation. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell my mouth.

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