Page 77 of Saving the Rockstar

He beamed at me, bright and blinding, and slung an arm around my shoulders as he steered me towards the door. "Atta boy. First stop, coffee. Then, we're going to have a little chat about a certain bodyguard who's been moping just as hard as you have."

I stumbled, my heart leaping into my throat. "Jared? You've talked to him?"

Dylan's expression turned sly. "Maybe. Maybe not. Guess you'll have to wait and see."

I opened my mouth to protest, to demand answers, but he just laughed, tugging me out into the hallway. "Patience, young grasshopper. All will be revealed in due time."

I grumbled under my breath, but let him lead me towards the world beyond my self-imposed prison. We ended up at a small, quiet café, tucked away in a corner booth with steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of pastries between us. Dylan kept up a steady stream of chatter, filling me in on all the ridiculous antics I'd missed.

"...and then, I swear to god, Mason tried to do a backflip off the stage. A backflip, Ash! I thought Jared was going to have a stroke, he went so pale."

I chuckled despite myself, the image of my stoic, unflappable bodyguard losing his cool over Mason's antics too amusing to resist.

The bell over the café door chimed, heralding a new arrival.

"Mason?" I croaked, hastily wiping at my cheeks.

He crossed to our table in three long strides, his expression grim. "I'm here for the intervention," he said, his voice flat. "Dylan called me."

I whipped my head around to stare at Dylan, betrayal and confusion warring in my chest. "Intervention? Dylan, what the hell?"

But Dylan just shrugged, a small, sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Desperate times, desperate measures. You need all the help you can get, Ash. And that includesTall, Dark, and Surlyover here."

Mason scowled at the nickname, but didn't argue. Instead, he slid into the booth beside Dylan, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Dylan’s got a presentation," he said, as if that explained everything. "This was his idea, by the way."

I blinked, my confusion only growing. "A presentation on what?"

In answer, Dylan reached into his bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers, spreading them out on the table with a flourish.

"On why you and Jared belong together, of course," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've compiled a list of all the reasons why you two are perfect for each other, complete with photographic evidence and witness testimonies."

The title page read: "Why Jared is Good for Asher: A Comprehensive Analysis by Dylan (with reluctant assistance from Mason).”

I gaped at him, my jaw hanging open. "You did what?"

But he was already off and running, pointing to the first page with a dramatic flair. "Reason number one: the way you look at each other. Seriously, Ash, the heart eyes are unreal. It's like watching the end of a rom-com, every single time."

He flipped to the next page, which featured a candid shot of Jared and I at a café, our heads bent close together, matching smiles on our faces. "Reason number two: the way you make each other laugh. I've never seen Jared smile as much as he does when he's with you. It's like you bring out this whole other side of him, this lightness and joy that he keeps hidden away from the rest of the world."

On and on he went, each page revealing another moment, another memory of Jared and I together. The quiet conversations, the stolen glances, the gentle touches when we thought no one was looking.

By the time he reached the end of the stack, I was openly crying, my vision blurred with tears. Because seeing it all laid out like that, seeing the evidence of our love, our connection, it hit me like a punch to the gut.

God, how could I have ever let my fear, my insecurity, overshadow something so pure, so real?

"Jared loves you, Asher," Dylan said softly, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "And I know you love him too. Just as deeply, just as fiercely."

Mason cleared his throat, drawing my attention. "I hate to interrupt this Hallmark moment," he said, his voice dry. "But can we talk about Dylan's flair for the dramatic? I mean, seriously, printout of a PowerPoint presentation? What are we, in middle school?"

I felt a laugh bubble up my throat, startled and watery. Because of course Mason would choose now, of all times, to needle Dylan. It was like a compulsion with him, an inability to let a single moment pass without getting a rise out of Dylan.

Dylan, predictably, bristled. "Excuse me for trying to inject a little creativity into this intervention. Not all of us arecontent with grunting and glowering our way through life, you overgrown Neanderthal."

Mason's eyebrows shot up, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's rich, coming from the guy who once spent an entire day speaking in nothing but Wookie noises because he lost a bet."

"That was one time!" Dylan squawked, his face flushing. "And it was a dare, not a bet. There's a difference."

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