Page 24 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“Any man will do,” Tess said coolly.
“Who is he?” I asked the waitress, still unconvinced.
She leaned in, locker-room-confidential.
“I think he’s a photographer. Fashion stuff, lingerie, glossy magazine spreads. He’s got sky-high standards. I’ve seen him brush off women wholooked straight out of a perfume ad. Not saying he’s a saint, but he definitely doesn’t settle.”
She gave us both a sly smile. “Which makes him perfect for a bet. If your friend gets his attention, either she’s really good… or she’s exactly his type.”
“Hmm,” I murmured, still hesitant. “Maybe he’s a little too tough for a first try…”
“Too tough?” Tess gasped, as if I’d just insulted her family honor. “You’ve got to be kidding. Nothing is too tough for Tess Martini.”
She rose with a silent flourish, eyes locked on the target. She studied him for a few seconds, then turned back to me.
“Okay. Showtime.”
She took two bold steps forward, then stopped, glanced over her shoulder, and raised an eyebrow.
“Well? You’re coming.”
“I don’t want to get in the way…”
“In the way?” she laughed. “Sweetheart, I could do this blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.”
“Okay, okay…” I sighed, standing. I shot the waitress a half-smile of thanks.
Tess added her own farewell: “Put on a welder’s mask, darling. Forecast says sparks at table eleven.”
The waitress laughed, shook her head, and wished her luck.
Which, naturally, Tess declared she didn’t need.
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” Iasked, with a thread of anxiety.
“Nothing. Just act like a normal human being.”
And with that little dart, she glided toward table eleven in full slow-motion diva mode—bold, fearless, as though a red carpet had been rolled out just for her.
I kept half a step behind—not out of shyness, but sheer respect for the staging. Stealing her spotlight now would’ve been like coughing during theAve Maria.
When she reached the table, she stopped. Shifted her weight elegantly onto one leg, placed a hand on her hip, and, with the confidence of a femme fatale who’d binge-read too much hardboiled detective novels, looked the photographer straight in the eyes and said:
“You’ve got the straight back of a soldier… but the tired eyes of a man who’s lost every war. Am I wrong?”
Oh. My. God.
The floor could’ve opened up beneath me right then and I would’ve gone willingly.
This is it, I thought. The apocalypse has officially begun.
Her gaze was locked on his. Steady. Unflinching. Like she was reading a fascinating paragraph written at the bottom of his irises.
There wasn’t the slightest trace of hesitation in Tess. No wavering, no second-guessing, not eventhe shadow of doubt a normal human should feel when blurting out a line stolen from a fever-dream movie.
Christ, I thought. Forget warm-up rounds—this was an Olympic sprint.
The Countess’s gospel had rooted so deeply in her that it seemed instinctive now. She wasn’t reciting it. She was embodying it.
