Page 73 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
The front doors of the cottage flew open like theater curtains.
And there she was.
Tess.
Completely naked, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet that slid over her body like silk stolen from a dream. She walked slowly, deliberately, her gaze locked on the paparazzi as if she were Cleopatra herself granting an audience to her subjects.
For one suspended beat, silence fell. Even the flashes seemed to hold their breath, stunned by thesight.
Then—chaos.
A storm of blinding lights turned the driveway into a battlefield. Photographers screamed, elbowed, clawed their way up the gate. They were feral—every click pure gold, every shift of that sheet a holy relic.
I, sitting behind the wheel of the limo, lowered my chin onto the steering wheel. “There she is,” I whispered. “The Countess. Live, worldwide. In couture bedsheet chic.”
Tess didn’t flinch. Not a trace of shame. On the contrary—she actually paused halfway down the drive to adjust her makeshift toga with a rehearsed flick of the wrist, turning the move into pure choreography. The shouts grew louder. The flashes went berserk.
And that’s when it hit me: with nothing but a sheet and a madwoman’s plan, Tess had just won her game.
Right on cue, the door behind her opened again. A man stepped out, still half-asleep, hair mussed, bare chest on display above a pair of boxers.
Zane Ryder.
Time froze.
Then—BOOM. Armageddon.
The paparazzi howled like wolves at the moon. Cameras exploded in bursts of light like machine guns. “Ryder! Ryder! Over here! Mystery girl, lookthis way! Give us a kiss!” It was pandemonium. Some climbed the fence, others lifted their arms like they were witnessing a divine revelation.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the steering wheel. “Ladies and gentlemen… jackpot.”
Tess didn’t miss a beat. She turned toward Ryder with the serene air of someone who’d merely stepped out for fresh air—clutching the sheet in one hand and waving with the other like Miss Universe on stage. Her smile was surgical: one part invitation, one part promise, one part unsolvable riddle.
Ryder, dazed and barefoot, made the fatal mistake: he stepped one pace outside. That was all it took. Tess in her white sheet, Ryder half-naked behind her. A perfect tableau. The shot tabloids would drool over for months was already in the can.
The limo door opened and Tess slid inside like a queen concluding her coronation. The sheet still clung to her, but now it looked more like a royal cloak.
“Well?” she asked, hair a wild halo, eyes glittering with victory. “Was I iconic or not?”
“Iconic?” I shook my head, shifting into gear. “You just short-circuited half of Hollywood’s press corps. Some of them are filing early retirement as we speak.”
She laughed, pulling the sheet tighter around her shoulders. “About time someone did the industry afavor.”
The limo glided down the mountain road, paparazzi flashes still strobing behind us like improvised fireworks. My veins buzzed with adrenaline—but for once, it wasn’t weighed down by dread. It felt almost like triumph.
Then, suddenly, I froze. “Wait. Bernie.”
Silence. Tess stared at me, eyes wide, as if the thought had been struck from heaven by lightning.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “We forgot Bernie.”
A beat of panic. Then it cracked into laughter.
“Relax,” Tess waved it off. “Ryder’s obsessed with him. He’s probably fluffing pillows and planning a continental breakfast in bed. He won’t even notice we’re gone.”
I smiled, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Right. Bernie: the only man who could seduce a rockstar entirely by accident.”
And the limo disappeared into the mountain night, carrying with it the sheet, the laughter, and the kind of plot twist no paparazzo on earth could have staged better.
