Page 9 of Hard Rock Tease
His eyes narrowed, dark and intense. "I don't like it."
"Gee, I couldn't tell. Maybe you should try to be a little less subtle. Maybe try telling me straight to my face that you resent me being foisted upon you. I really had no idea up until this very moment."
His eyes burned with irritation. I bit my tongue. Why had I mouthed off? At least that was better than melting into a puddle at his feet.
"This is my first real job in the music industry," I told him. "I want to do well. You may not want to work with me, but in this case being a fan is a help, not a hindrance. I love your music. I'm going to do my best to fulfill your vision."
"I suppose it might work," he said grudgingly. "You can't be worse than any of the others."
"Why?" I asked with trepidation. "What was wrong with the others?"
"Everything," he shot back. "They had no talent. They were hacks."
"I promise I'll try to live up to your high standards, then."
"Good." He looked away, eyes sliding away from mine to gaze up at the ceiling. "Because Naomi says I have to work with you or else."
"Or else what?" I couldn't imagine anyone trying to tell Noah what to do. Then again, he had listened to her in the meeting. As his manager, she must have had something to hold over his head.
Noah's mouth twisted in distaste. "Or else she'll tell August," he said, referring to August Summers, the band's drummer, main composer and founding member.
"Would that be so bad?"
"Hell yes."
"Why don't you want your bandmates to know?"
He glared at me without saying anything. Despite the dark look, his expression was awkwardly self-conscious.
Noah was trying to hide his problems from the rest of the band, but I didn't know why. Now it made sense.
"You don't want them feeling sorry for you? Or are you worried they'll think less of you?"
He clenched his fist. "Don't try to psychoanalyze me. We're working on a song together. That's it."
"I know you're a literary genius, but I'm sure the guys don't expect you to be some master composer as well." I tried to reassure him, as if the words of one fangirl would ever hold meaning for him.
Noah shot me a look, almost unbelieving for a brief moment. He stalked towards me, making me back up. He got right up in my face. It would have been intimidating, if it weren't for the fire in his eyes.
I suppressed a shudder as that now familiar heat hit my gut, centering between my legs. It wasn't because he was famous, or because he was talented. This man was capable of setting me aflame, in a way that had nothing to do with his status and everything to do with the way his dark eyes pierced me down to my very bones, threatening to scorch me from the inside out. Like he was seeing inside my very soul. Like he could see parts of me that had been buried deep and hidden for years.
Because of his lyrics, I always felt like I knew Noah Hart, even though we'd never met.
When he stared at me like that, it felt like he knew me, too.
"A literary genius? Is that really how you think of me?" He leaned closer, tilting his head.
"Doesn't everyone?" I bit my lip to keep from saying any more. He didn't need to know exactly how I felt about him. He didn't need to know I worshipped him like a god.
He didn't need to know I wanted to lick every inch of his body right then and there.
His eyes fell to my lips. His own eyes darkened, pupils dilating. "No wonder you're so eager to work with me." He flicked his eyes up to mine again. "You got a fangirl crush?" I could tell he was trying to sound sarcastic, but it came out sounding almost curious.
"Crush is a juvenile word," I said, my voice shaky. "Teenagers have crushes."
"Then what exactly do you have?"
"Professional admiration."
