Page 81 of Fame and Obsession

Glancing over my shoulder, I collide with Nate’s amused stare. His eyes crinkle as he smiles at my scowl.

“Phoebe, shut that thing down. I’m taking you to lunch. You’ve got to get out of here.”

“Nate, I don’t—”

“Don’t give me that. Get your jacket. I’ll drag you out of here if I have to.”

He’s been a good friend the past few days, even going so far as to run interference when Julian tried to coerce another meeting with Ellison. Without giving too many details of our tryst, I told him that Julian and I didn’t work out and that he wasn’t taking it well. The twinge of guilt I felt quickly faded as Julian’s texts broke double digits.

Since the “news” had broken about the infamous “Phulian” sighting, the paparazzi had been hounding the building, trying to match up the girl in the picture with anyone who walked inside. Nate helped by steering me away from probing cameras and inquisitive reporters, but we had an unwritten agreement never to discuss it.

“No dragging needed,” I concede, pushing my chair away from my desk. “I need to get out before I throw my phone through this screen.”

As we walk outside, a blast of cold air penetrates my thin jacket, and I shiver. But it’s not just that—I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched.

I grit my teeth. Being with Julian—and then this whole Blogosphere thing—has me so wary of my surroundings, I’m now imagining things.

I smile as Nate opens the door to the small deli. Just as we sit down, I sigh loudly as my phone chimes in my lap. I don’t have to look—I already know who it is.

“Do you need to get that?” Nate asks.

I shake my head. “Is it too early for wine?”

He chuckles, his eyes warm with sympathy. There’s a brief pause, then he places his hand over mine. I immediately stiffen. They’re smooth, not rough and calloused from years of guitar playing. Those hands could light me on fire with one touch.

Julian…

I quickly pull my hand away. I wonder what he’s doing. Or who… I’ve purposely avoided any and all media that doesn’t pertain to my job so I don’t have to hear about him.

“Pheebs?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Looking down at my plate, I aimlessly drag my fork through my salad.

An amused chuckle comes from across the table breaking my trance. I glance up to see Nate almost doubled over in laughter.

“What the hell is so funny?” I demand.

“Pheebs, did you hear a word I just said?”

“Of course I did.”

“Okay, Miss Reporter, what’s your answer to what I said?” He leans in, a gleam in his eye.

I’m not in the mood for guessing games. Mainly because I can’t stop wondering why my phone has suddenly stopped ringing. Christ, I’m such a mess. I won’t answer his calls, then panic when they stop.

I hold up my hands in defeat. “Damn it, okay, you win. I wasn’t listening. I’m sorry, I’m a really shitty friend right now.”

He nods. “I can’t say I understand, but it’s got to be hard. You could always get a restraining order.”

He makes it sound simple. I want to answer Julian’s calls. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t almost picked up. But I’d been the one to end things, and besides, after the new issue of Vinyl comes out in two weeks, he’ll probably never speak to me again anyway.

When I left him at the hotel, I told him I had to do what I had to do—and I did. I did it unapologetically and with a stubborn streak that’s bound to get me fired.

I can kiss anything with MetroGroup goodbye after this issue comes out. I’ve totally fucked myself professionally for him, but he won’t see it that way. Julian is going to go batshit when he finds out what I did.

I’m miserable, but what kind of bitch does all that and then answers his calls?

“I can’t, Nate, not to him,” I say, averting my eyes. “Besides, I’m sure he’s already moved on.” The thought makes me nauseous, the smell of the cured meat turning my stomach.

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