Page 72 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?! Itcan’tend like this! Not after all this build-up! It’s like writing three hundred pages of sexual tension and then closing with a postcard of the sunset!”
“Nothing is lost, Bea… nothing at all. On the contrary.” Tess raised one finger like Moses about to part the Red Sea. “This twist might actually play in my favor.”
“And that means…?” I asked, already knowing I was going to regret it.
“Don’t you remember my original plan?”
“To make Chad jealous?”
“Exactly! And how?” She stared at me as if the answer was tattooed on my forehead.
“By getting photographed with Ryder.”
“Bingo.” Tess clapped her hands once, a sharp crack like the starting gun at the Olympics. “The main objective was never togetRyder. Do I look like I want to date a singer who wears more makeup than me? I’ve said it a thousand times: I never actually liked Ryder. The real goal has always been one and only one: to get photographed with him.”
“Except that, to get photographed with Ryder, first you need Ryder to fall for you.”
“Not necessarily, Bea. Not necessarily.” Her eyes sparkled as if she’d just found a diamond in a bag of potato chips. “Because I already have the perfect plan to make it work.”
44
I didn’t ask for permission. I slipped out the cottage’s back door like a cat burglar at midnight. Mountain air slapped me in the face—crisp, pine-scented, laced with secrets nobody had bothered to hide. A few yards away, parked under the porch, the black limousine waited. Still. Silent. A sleeping beast.
I already knew what I had to do. No doubts, no alternatives—Tess’s plan left zero room for hesitation. And for reasons I’ll probably only unpack years later in therapy, I decided to follow it to the letter.
I crept across the gravel, cursing every treacherous pebble intent on broadcasting my presence. Moonlight slid down the limo’s glossy body like over a grand piano, making the car look even more absurd out here in the woods. I tried the driver’s door. Just in case. Nothing. Locked.
Which meant my only hope was the kind of hiding spot favored by paranoid chauffeurs… or the kitchen’s junk bowl.
First, outside. Kneeling on the gravel—each stone stabbing my knees like a signed confession—I swept a hand under the bumper, along the frame, until my fingers brushed something cold and square. A magnetic box. Bingo. I tugged it free, heart pounding… Empty. Perfect. Life loves me.
I kept searching: wheel wells, the wobbly license plate, the tow hitch. Nothing. Just dust, cobwebs, and a crystal-clear picture of how bad I’d be as a car thief.
Plan B: the kitchen.
The service door creaked with sadistic glee. I tiptoed inside, wrapped in the scent of wet wood and detergent. On the counter, next to a basket of apples, sat a ceramic bowl: coins, a lighter, two badges, two sets of keys. One jingling with a rubber fob that said “Be Nice” and two remotes. The other? Simple. A plain metal key, label half-erased. No helpful “Limo” tag, of course. I grabbed them all. Better to beg forgiveness than permission.
Back outside. Test one: beep somewhere out in the woods. The gardener’s pickup. Test two: nothing. Test three: the plain key in the driver’s door. No fancy electronics, no chirps. Just one sharp, clean click. The lock gave way.
The moment I cracked the door, the interior light blazed at me like an FBI interrogation lamp. I threw my hand over it until it dimmed, holding mybreath. A window flicked on upstairs—a brief yellow square in the dark—then went black again. Good. Or bad. Depending how you look at it.
I slid behind the wheel. In the console, under the armrest, sat a small black pouch. Inside: the limo’s fob, tucked away so it wouldn’t “signal.” Dead. Silent. Sleeping. I pulled it out. It had just the right kind of weight—the kind that whispers: “Your move, genius.”
Deep breath. Foot on the brake. START button.
The engine woke with a low, pleased growl, like it recognized the right voice. I grinned. “Good girl,” I whispered. “Now pretend I know what I’m doing.”
I shifted into gear as delicately as if I were combing a hedgehog. “Relax,” I added. “If they catch me, I’ll say I’m the driver. I’ve got the cardigan—winter uniform.”
The limo hummed approval. Or maybe that was my imagination. Either way, I pulled her around the cottage with all the grace of an elephant on roller skates. The driveway opened ahead like a runway. At the gate, beyond the wrought iron, they waited: the paparazzi. A whole flock of dozing zombies, leaning on the fence, some slumped in folding chairs, cameras drooping in their laps. One guy was literally asleep, mouth open, camera sliding off his knees. I swear.
The second the headlights cut through the dark, it was like a rock dropped into a pond. A stir. Thenchaos. One shutter clicked, then another, then the entire swarm jolted to life as if someone had yelled “Release the hounds!” Flashbulbs. Shouts. Stumbling feet. They crowded the gate, shoving for the best angle.
I eased the limo to a stop right in front of them, letting the beams spotlight their half-excited, half-groggy faces. I leaned against the wheel, calm as a woman ordering a latte. Inside, my heart was pounding like a rock band’s soundcheck. Outside, I was ice. Or trying very hard to be.
“Okay, boys,” I muttered under my breath, watching them scramble like they’d just uncovered King Tut’s tomb. “Ready for the show? Because I’m definitely not.”
And I waited. With the flashes exploding against the hood like a thunderstorm.
