Page 2 of Loved Out Loud
“I know where you can get some inspiration.” His voice has a sexy rasp, and he smells like amber and sin.
My shock deepens when I look over and meet the most shockingly bright blue eyes I’ve ever seen. A lock of dark hair falls over one of his eyebrows as his lips lift in a cocky smirk. He tosses his arm over the back of the couch and crosses one foot over his other knee.
I can’t fucking believe it. Stone Tyler, lead singer and guitarist of Blue Sunday, is sitting beside me.
“What?” I ask with an unsteady voice.
“You should come on tour with us. Plenty of inspiration to be found on the road.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “Ask me how I know.”
Oh my god.
Oh. My. God.
A nervous laugh is all I can muster.
Luckily Mark pulls everyone’s attention by tossing his head back with a deep, booming laugh. “I don't think she's cut out for tour life, Stone. You’d traumatize her.” He points at me with my deer-in-the-headlights stupor. “Look at her just sitting beside you.”
“I’m looking.” Stone’s eyes actually never leave mine. “And for the record, I love reading romance novels.” He picks up the copy on the coffee table in front of us. “Can I have this copy?”
The segment ends abruptly, and Mark stands, buttoning up his suit jacket again. “You can’t be serious.” His voice is dripping with derision as he looks at me. He extends his hand to Stone, a courtesy I wasn’t given.
“Oh, I’ve never been more serious.” Stone stands and ignores Mark’s offered handshake. Instead, he holds his hand out to me to help me up off the couch. “I want this signed, too.”
“I’d love my copy signed, as well,” Amy says as Mark strides off to the news desk. “I’m so sorry,” she lowers her voice as I scribble my signature on both books. “Congratulations on having such a huge success right out of the gate. I can’t wait to see what you write next.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you okay?” Stone’s voice feels like slipping naked into cool, silk sheets.
“Yes.” My hand shakes as I sign my name on the title page. “A little bit of misogyny isn’t going to get me down.”
“Your trembling hands say otherwise.”
I force myself to look up into his eyes as I gesture around us. “I’m not used to all this. I’m a writer. I belong tucked away in a library, not in front of cameras.”
One of the crew calls out his name near where the other members of the band are already at their instruments on the opposite side of the studio. He ignores them as he studies me.
“I’m not so sure about that.” He gives me a lopsided grin and then jogs over to pick up his guitar.
Part of me wants to stay and watch, but I damn near get trampled by a group of employees from the network coming in to watch. I search the room for Sierra and head directly for her.
She manages to stay professional for all of ten seconds, long enough to get into the tiny green room that’s thankfully deserted.
“Oh my god!” she squeals as she grabs my shoulders and shakes them. “Stone Tyler asked for your autograph in your book. Did you see the way he looked at that shithead O’Malley? What a fucking asshole he was.”
I pick up the small bag I packed normal clothes in and head for the bathroom. “I’m going to change really quick.”
I’m on the cusp of a panic attack. My heart is racing so fast I can hear the whoosh of blood in my ears. Having all my internal organs squished inside a pair of Spanx doesn’t help, either. I yank down the zipper of the gorgeous, but so not me, dress that Sierra picked out for me letting it fall to the floor. The shapewear goes next, and I don’t think I’ve ever taken a deeper, more relieved breath in my life.
As usual I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to know what shadows haunt my eyes today. It’s bad enough that I can’t avoid seeing the scars that cover the inside of my arms.
Reaching into the bag I pull out the loose-fitting boyfriend jeans I love so much and an oversized Columbia University hoodie. Once I’m hidden away in my comfortable clothes, I walk out to find Sierra speaking to a man in a dark suit. A few tattoos peek out from under his collar, but otherwise he could be any guy off the street in Manhattan.
I hang back as she thanks him and slides the card in her pocket.
She smiles at me and gestures toward the door. “Ready for lunch? I made reservations at Luigi’s to celebrate.”
“That Mark O’Malley can go take a long walk off a short pier.” My grandma says as she twirls carbonara around the tines of her fork. “Probably hasn't had a good lay in years.”
