Hazel Jacobs

Broken Shadow

Hazel Jacobs

Copyright 2017 Hazel Jacobs

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

ISBN: 978-0646974699

Editing by Swish Design & Editing

Formatting by Swish Design & Editing

Cover design by Mary Ruth

Cover Image Copyright 2017

Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it

- J.K. Rowling

Natalie Summers just went viral.

After years of making YouTube videos while she chased her dream of Broadway fame, one of her original songs has made it into the mainstream, and Natalie has launched into overnight stardom. While she’s still coming to terms with her sudden and inexplicable rise to the top, her manager is insisting she hire a bodyguard to protect her from the rabid fans approaching her during college lectures.

Natalie’s new bodyguard, Blake, is robotic and cold. He’s more interested in getting the job done than he is in her, and he passionately hates the Hollywood scene. But that doesn’t make Natalie want him any less. Everything from his eyes to his body leaves her spellbound.

Slowly, Natalie begins to see different sides of Blake—his compassion, his desire to protect, and his romantic nature which is still reeling from heartbreak. When their relationship moves beyond simple protector/protectee, a sudden betrayal sends Blake back into his cold, detached former self. Now, Natalie has to decide if what she’s feeling is more than simple lust.

To my editor, Kaylene. Jesus! How you put up with me I’ll never know, but thank you! Every author dreams for someone like you, who invests so much love and care into our stories. Thank you, and I love you dearly.

To Karl. Thank you for being the best partner. Thank you for picking up all the slack while I was locked away in my own little world. Thank you for cleaning, feeding and keeping our two little monsters alive after long days at work. We’re so blessed to have you.

To my Street Team. Every day I’m so humbled with your beautiful love and support. You girls are incredible. I hope to finally meet you all one day so I can squish you.

To my readers. The reviews, edits and overall feedback shocks me at times. You make all the long lonely nights worth it. Thank you for loving my stories.

Dedication

Blurb

Acknowledgments

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Connect With Me Online

About the Author

I stare at the view count on the screen in front of me, my fingers are frozen on the keyboard.

“Nat?” Shane asks, craning his neck to see my screen. “Natalie? Babe? What’s wrong?”

“I, uh… think I’ve gone viral.”

“Shut up!” Shane’s shout breaks me out of my stupor, and I quickly refresh the page. The thumbnail shows my face, made up with smoky eyeshadow with my long, brown hair pulled back with a headband, grinning like a fool and brandishing my ukulele. The song takes more than a uke, but that’s my thing. There have been over a million views—about seven thousand more than there had been before Shane started screaming my ear off.

“Holy fuck…” I whisper.

“Sweet holy fucking ballsack, Nat. That’s huge!”

I don’t bother telling him to watch his mouth. Shane has never had much of a filter.

We’re sitting together on my bed with its pink sheets and purple bedframe. My dorm room walls are bright white and adorned with polaroids clipped to strings of twine. There’s also a foam LARP sword mounted on the wall—it was a prop from one of my videos. My closet is overflowing with pastel dresses, yoga pants, and brightly colored accessories. The corner of the room is taken up by my instruments, mixing board, and computer. My laptop, decorated with Kuma-chan stickers, is resting on my lap.

Across the room, my roommate’s bed is empty—her bedsheets neatly creased and tucked in, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos on my side of the room.

Shane has his hand on my shoulder, and he’s leaning over into my space so I get a whiff of his sweet-smelling cologne as his short, black hair tickles my nose. He’s almost as invested in my channel as I am and he’s been in most of my music videos.

My subscriber count is steadily rising, just like the viewer count. I don’t know how it happened—this is the sort of thing I’ve read about in YouTuber biographies. But to actually see it happening… how can this be?

I’m just… me.

Just Natalie Summers—SweetSummerRain on YouTube.

I’ve been posting vids since I was seventeen, and none of them ever received more than ten thousand views. I had a loyal band of five thousand subscribers—most of them more in love with Shane than with my music.

How did this happen?

“The Vlogbrothers retweeted your video,” Shane says, apparently reading my mind again. He’s scrolling through his phone, his manicured fingernails slightly trembling as he follows what I think is probably a Twitter feed. “Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. Mindy Kaling’s retweeted it, too!”

“Mindy Kaling?”

“And Tyler Oakley. Holy shit. Do you think that means he knows who I am?”

Shane wasn’t even in this video. That’s the weirdest thing. It was just a dubstep ukulele song I’d written myself. I’d videotaped myself playing on my bed, messed around a little with the lighting, but overall it was just… me.

What in the ever-loving fuck is so special about me?

Shane gets up and starts jumping on the bed making the springs creak dangerously, and his hype is enough to draw me out of my shock and disbelief and into sudden and all-encompassing joy. To an outsider, it probably looks like we’re having seizures jumping up and down on the bed and screaming our lungs out.

“Viral! Viral!” Shane is shouting.

I can’t shake the massive grin I have on my face. I feel my breathing start to shudder as I giggle uncontrollably. I can’t believe it. I can’t understand it, but the numbers and the tweets don’t lie.

Something happened—something good.

Something careers are made of.

Finally, a sudden crack made Shane and me stop jumping and fall into a pile on the bedsheets. Shane is still laughing, though, at this point, he’s probably laughing at how ridiculous I look with my skirt up over my belly exposing my pastel blue panties with the little bows on them.

“Super cute,” he says, before reaching over to pull my skirt down and cover me up.

“I’ll get you a pair for Christmas,” I tell him.

“Please, I’m already Amazon Priming that shit. Save your sugar mama ways for something good.”

“I can’t afford to maintain a kept man.”

“You just passed a million views. The AdSense alone should cover me for a month.”

I smack him on the stomach and sit up retrieving my laptop from underneath one of the pillows. I’m grateful neither of us managed to step on it while we were dancing around like lunatics.

Still grinning, still breathless from laughing and feeling a flush of exhilaration I haven’t felt since I got my first hundred subscribers, I scroll down to the comments section on the video. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of comments. Well and truly beyond anything I’ve seen before. As I scroll through them, I feel the weight of what’s happening begin to settle in my mind.

A million people have seen my video.

A hundred thousand have subscribed to my channel.

Both of those numbers keep rising as I watch, and each time I think maybe I’m dreaming, the sight of those numbers and comments reminds me I’m not.

The comments… well, the comments section is a dumpster fire. Some of them are outright racist. I’m Americo-Liberian, and my eyes are dark green. People are either delighted with how exotic I look or disgusted that someone with my skin color would dare to show her face in public. I begin to delete them, but there are so many. After a moment, I feel Shane’s hand covering my own.

“Don’t do it, Nat. Focus on the things that deserve your attention.” He points at the screen. “Look! Look at all the thumbs-ups!”

Typically, he knew what I was doing before I’d even really thought about it. After all, he’s known me since I was eleven.

And he’s right. The thumbs-up count does outnumber the thumbs-down count. I let that sink in as well. Once I take it all in, I look back at the comments section. I purposely put the negative comments out of my mind searching for the positive ones instead. There are many more of those which makes me smile.

Girl u play so well i am in awe of ur talent.

THIS SONG IS FIYAH 4 serious keep it up lady this is the best.

This song is so beautifully written—you are insanely talented! You should be writing songs for Sia or Rihanna!

Where can I get this on iTunes?

iTunes?

Spotify?

I NEED THIS ON ITUNES BEFORE I SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST

“The people want the song on iTunes,” Shane says sagely, reading the comments over my shoulder. “You should open an account.”

“But I’ve only ever posted covers,” I say. Even as I say it, I’m typing ‘How to sell music on iTunes’ into my search engine.

“You’ve got about a million songs you’ve never posted. I think you can pull something out of your cute little butt to put together an album.”

He gives my butt a pinch to prove his point.

While I’m searching the net for ways to sell my original song, I think maybe I should put it on Spotify? iTunes is probably a bit much?

Shane is scrolling through his phone and giving me a running commentary of what he’s seeing.

Friends and family are posting my video on Facebook, only to have it shared dozens of times.

An article which appeared on Buzzfeed has also gone viral.

The artists I admire are posting the video, talking about how much they like the combination of light ukulele and hard dubstep thumping.

People are starting to look into my other videos as well. The covers and remixes I’d played with. The short films I’d made with Shane—we take turns playing the princess. The tiny Vlogs where I would update my faithful followers about what’s going on in my life.

Everything I’ve put up, people are responding. It’s all a rush, so much is happening at once that I can’t really think through the implications. All I can think is, yay!

Now that Shane’s got me focusing on the positives, I’m starting to be overwhelmed in the best possible way. People like my song. Shane is quick to tell me they’re liking my other videos as well—their comments sections are blowing up to match this one. He checks my Twitter feed, which I mainly use to post pictures of cats, and tells me I have twenty-two thousand new subscribers.

Twenty-two thousand. That’s more than the population of Hyde Park where I jog every day.

I’ve always loved music, but consider myself more of an actress than a musician. Music is a great way to feel the rhythms of life, to push some of my emotions out, and to work on my vocal tone. Acting is where my heart is, and what I’m majoring in at Vassar. I’ll be getting my degree in a few short months.

“This is not what I was expecting,” I say, still a little bit breathless and not entirely because of the jumping around I just did with Shane.

I was anticipating what every young actress expects when she’s at the end of her college career—fear and deep guilt at not having picked a stronger minor to fall back on. I expected to try to move to Manhattan with Shane, and maybe a few other people from the program to build up a portfolio of tiny gigs on Broadway, and maybe—someday, if I hope and pray—I’ll be able to make a living off my talent.

But this… this could be something. If I luck out with a career on YouTube, well… people can make millions on YouTube. People can support entire entourages on YouTube.

Maybe this could be a thing?

Maybe I won’t have to wait tables in between auditions.

Maybe I’ll be able to work enough on YouTube to make some money, and use that to keep me going while I work on cracking Broadway? Maybe, maybe, maybe…

My head’s starting to spin with all the maybes. Sometime between me Googling how to set up an iTunes account and my silent, slightly overwhelmed freak-out, Shane has taken my hands in his.

“Breathe. Hey, come on, you’re overthinking. Whatever you’re thinking? Too much. Pull back.”

“What does this mean?”

Shane shrugs in that delicious, unaffected way of his tossing his bangs out of his eyes. “Does it have to mean anything? Can’t this just be an awesome story to tell someday? About how you went viral by accident?”

I start to waver into self-doubt. “You’re right. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I’ll just be a flavor of the month…”

“Oh, hell no. You’re too smart not to ride this wave,” Shane says. He gives me a long look flashing into concern before rearranging itself into assurance. “You can make something of this if you’re smart. I mean… look, you don’t have to start rethinking your entire life, okay? Just take each day as it comes.”

I nod slowly listening carefully to the man who has been my voice of reason since freshman year. He’s right. This may turn out to be a game-changer, or it might turn out to be a great story I can tell my kids someday. Either way, I’ve got some time to sit back and bask in what’s happening—the millions of people who seem to genuinely like my song and the thousands of positive people sending their vibes my way. I can let myself enjoy this.

After all, nothing’s going to change right away.

Everything has changed pretty much overnight.

First, a news reporter called looking for an interview, and then another. It wasn’t until the fourth one called that I realized I should be scheduling this shit instead of agreeing to interviews on the spot, but even then, it hadn’t quite sunk in. A couple of record companies called to arrange interviews, too, and I enthusiastically agreed. In the end, three days was all it took for me to be signed up to Bass Note’s talent agency.

“This is ridiculous,” I say to Shane as we walk together into the first-floor meeting room, where I would be meeting with my new manager. “How the hell did this happen?”

“You’ve got star power, honey.”

Shane had tried valiantly to declare himself my assistant even knocking together a quick spreadsheet to keep track of my appointments. But after the first few days, he’d gracefully bowed out.

“I’m better as talent, anyway,” he’d said, dramatically shutting down his mess of a spreadsheet and flinging his tablet onto the bed. “You need me in front of the camera as eye candy. You’re welcome.”

I was grateful for him just to be here. I’d had a long conversation with my parents on Skype that first night, mostly to reassure them the viral thing wouldn’t be getting in the way of my studies—I hoped. And I was eating all of my vegetables—I wasn’t. Without Shane in my corner, I might have lost my mind already. He’s a source of constant support.

We walk together into Bass Note’s offices, which are Google-level minimalist and have potted ferns hanging from the walls like they were trying to recreate a forest theme. Their building is in the heart of New York, right near Broadway, and that alone was enough for me to decide to sign with them over anyone else. They’d never represented someone with acting ambitions, but they did represent one of Shane’s favorite bands, Black Lilith. When I’d explained I want to be on Broadway someday, they were enthusiastic.

I glance down at my outfit feeling simultaneously underdressed and too theatrical. Shane had encouraged me to stick to my aesthetic—the kinds of clothes I wear in my YouTube videos—but they’re hardly what I’d call business casual. At his request, I’d worn a floaty, pink dress with little Darth Vader heads, wrap-around sandals, and a leather jacket. My hair is piled up on my head in a high bun, and my makeup minimal. I’d never really considered myself as someone who has an aesthetic, but I guess this is as close as I get. At the very least, it got Shane’s approval.

“You have to think about your brand, Nat. This is the look they liked when they liked your video, so you know it’ll work.”

I’m reminding myself of that as I walk toward the meeting room doorway where the frowny woman behind the reception counter had pointed us toward.

Inside, there is a long table with chairs lining it. It’s decorated in a combination of primary colors which reminds me of a stationery store or a kindergarten classroom, but somehow it manages to feel sophisticated in spite of that. It seems like a lot of room for three people to be meeting. At one end of the table a handsome man in a blue suit stands to greet us.

“You must be Natalie Summers, it’s a pleasure.” He offers his hand, and I take it—it’s super soft. “I’m Magnus. We spoke on the phone.”

“Yeah,” I say, slightly shocked I’d forgotten the man’s name. I remembered the way his voice had sounded and what he’d said, but the name itself was superseded by all the other stuff he’d been telling me at the time.

I decide I don’t like that—the idea that I can go through a whole conversation without remembering someone’s name. I’ve always had problems with names, but at that moment, I I’m determined to do better. I don’t want to be one of those people—whether my fame is a fifteen-minute thing or a lifetime thing—who forgets people’s names?

Magnus Burns is my new manager as of last night. Usually, people meet their managers and get to know them before they sign on the dotted line, but all of this took place so quickly. I don’t think any of this happened the way it’s supposed to.

In person, Magnus has slim shoulders and a clean line of hair over his chin which looks well-groomed and cared for. His suit is tailored, and his shoes are shinning to perfection. He has a calming presence which I’d gotten a hint of on the phone but appears a lot stronger in person. He seems like the type of guy who might smile at strangers on the street and return someone’s wallet after they dropped it.

“And you are?” Magnus asks, speaking directly to Shane.

Shane practically flings me out of the way to gain access to Magnus. “Shane Vicars, best friend and moral support.”

“I remember,” Magnus says, his hand lingering over Shane’s as they gaze at each other. “You’re in a lot of the videos. You have talent.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

I roll my eyes and wonder if Shane pursuing my manager is going to be a problem down the line.

“Maybe you guys should be signing him, too?” I say, taking a seat.

“I’m sure we’ll consider it,” Magnus says, releasing Shane’s hand but giving it a lingering look before he joins me at the table. Shane is practically vibrating with glee when he joins us. “Now, to business. First of all, how are you?”

I have to think about that.

My first response is fine.

My second response is I am freaking out all the time.

Yesterday, one of my lecturers stopped the class so he could take a selfie with me for his daughter, which led to a round of selfies and autographs. Shane was keeping tally next to me, and, eventually, this drew the attention of the campus police.

I was asked to leave campus.

Actually, I was kicked off campus because people wanted to take pictures with me—that’s how quickly this YouTube viral thing has escalated.

The interviews I agreed to at the start of the week have been done, and new people call for interviews every day. Some of them are from my home town in Michigan, while others are from as far away as Australia. I’ve found myself talking long into the night, getting very little sleep—and what sleep I have had has been broken by anxious dreams where I lose all my teeth, or I’m falling off a damn building—and generally being on the edge of my seat all the time.

People who didn’t even know I existed last week have been calling to ask about my process for making videos. Why I make the videos I make. What inspires me. What clothes I wear. Who my celebrity crush is. I’m starting to wonder whether this is going to be my life from now on because if it is, I think I’ll have my fingers crossed for this fifteen minutes of fame to be over sooner rather than later.

“It’s overwhelming,” I tell Magnus.

He nods, his lips pursed, and I get the distinct impression he’s heard the same response before. “I think it will be overwhelming for some time. Sudden, viral fame is a bit difficult to deal with. Just think, though, you went to college for the arts, right? Success in the arts generally requires fame. You’re just experiencing your success sooner than you would have otherwise.”

Shane said that last night.

“I said that last night!” Shane declares my thoughts.

“Great minds,” I mutter. “And I do get that, but it doesn’t really make it any easier. I guess… I guess what I need is a plan. I need to know what’s next. I don’t think I can keep going making these tiny YouTube videos, and getting kicked out of school because people are swarming me.”

Not that I’ll stop YouTube. I like YouTube. It’s fun, and if that’s where I got my start, then I think I should at least try to stick to the platform.

Magnus seems to get that, though. He nods sympathetically and opens the laptop at his elbow—a MacBook I only just realized was there—and clicks around for a second. “I’ve come up with something. I’d like your input on it, and, of course, this is your career we’re talking about, so you get veto power over everything. But since I know you want to work on Broadway someday, and I know where you’ve gotten your start, this is what I think we need to do to help you get there.”

I nod and lean over so I can see the screen. Shane is leaning, too, but I think it’s mostly so he has an excuse to get into Magnus’ space.

The plan seems remarkably complicated and yet completely simple. It’s all about figuring out what I have to do to arrive at my ultimate aim—to act on Broadway. There’s even a slight tangent at one point so I can try my hand at other acting, like in movies and television. Magnus says he figured I might like to at least have a taste of those things before I make up my mind and fixate it on Broadway.

“Of course, I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be more lucrative if you were to go into television or film or aim for a professional music career,” he says. “Bass Note would make more money that way than if you made it on Broadway, but we don’t believe in shoving people into roles they may not like. However, you never know…” and he gives me a sheepish grin, “… maybe you’ll like television work as well?”

I laugh at him. The longer I look at the screen, the more grounded I feel.

Immediately, I can tell he’s done his homework. A lot of these ideas are ideas I’d already had myself—use YouTube as a platform to develop and try new things, but also take music and acting lessons. Since I’ve got a lot of AdSense and subscribers from YouTube already, there’s a following. So one of the first things Magnus wants me to do is capitalize on that by going on a tour.

“A tour?” I ask.

“That’s right,” Magnus replies. “It will take about two months to finalize dates and locations. Do you think you can plan a show by then?”

“I… uh…”

“She can do it,” Shane says, cutting me off before I have the chance to put my foot in my mouth.

I ask, “Music or skits?”

“A bit of both would be ideal,” Magnus replies. “It will allow you to showcase all of your talents and give you the chance to build a portfolio for the next stage.”

The next stage is to devote several months to Broadway auditions and TV pilots. Magnus even has a note in the document—Make an announcement that Natalie will be taking a break from YouTube during this time—so the plan is for me to keep uploading YouTube videos while I’m touring? That sounds like a lot, but other YouTubers have done it. Granted, they were more talented than me. But still… I can do that… maybe.

Two months to write a show. Actually, it sounds doable—completely doable. It’s the type of project they have us practice at Vassar, where students pretend they’re going to be performing and plan the event right down to the budget and the size of the entourage.

“I see the two months of planning has some time built in for auditions?” I say, pointing to the screen. “And interviews?”

“That’s right,” Magnus says. “You’ll need to do a lot of press between now and when the tour starts to maintain your momentum.”

“I get that…”

Magnus pauses as he’s scrolling through the screen looking up at me with a slight frown. “What’s wrong?” he says.

“Nothing, nothing, really. I actually like it.” All it needs is a book deal, and I’ll be a full-blown YouTube entrepreneur cliché. “I guess I just worry that maybe I’ve skipped a step. I feel like it should have taken years to get to this point.”

Magnus clicks his tongue against his teeth and nods. Shane reaches over to rub my back in slow, even circles, just like we used to do in the drama workshops to de-stress from a long day.

“That’s actually a pretty common reaction to this particular type of viral fame,” Magnus says. “Imposter syndrome. And I’m going to tell you what I’ve told every artist I’ve ever worked with… nowadays, no one consumes media that they don’t have to. So if you’ve gone viral, it’s because you’ve tapped into something authentic in your audience. You have that talent, and because of that, you deserve to be where you are.” He reaches over and puts his hand on mine, and I feel again how remarkably smooth his skin is. “Other people might be just as talented, or even more talented, but that doesn’t make you less deserving. I promise.”

Shane’s looking starry-eyed, and I wonder if he’s going to propose to my manager right here and now. I’m starting to feel a lot better—the walls in the room don’t seem as close as they had when I’d started to feel that way, and the colors aren’t as stiflingly bright. I think I’m going to like working with Magnus.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Magnus squeezes my hand and pulls away turning his laptop screen back toward himself and typing something. “Now, you mentioned you were being swarmed on campus?”

“It’s no big deal,” I say, shrugging it off. “I just… a lot of people wanted pictures, and eventually, campus police were called.”

Magnus frowns a little as he looks at his screen. Carefully, he maneuvers his mouse around clicking several times. While he’s working, Shane leans over to rest his chin on my shoulder, smiling when I glance down at him. I’m glad he’s here, even if he hasn’t really contributed much beyond making it very clear he wants to have my new manager’s babies. I’m more into buff, muscular guys myself, but I get Magnus’ appeal.

It makes me wonder if Magnus had been serious about signing Shane. Shane is more of an actor than a musician, so Bass Note probably wouldn’t be the best fit for him in the long run. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to share representation with my best friend? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, while I was making a name for myself on Broadway, he came with me to some of my auditions and was discovered?

“I think,” Magnus says, drawing me out of my thoughts and back to the matter at hand, “… we should get you a bodyguard.”

“A… woah… that’s not really necessary, is it?”

Magnus’ eyes flicker to me before turning back to the screen. “We would have arranged for personal protection for the tour, but since you still go to school and are surrounded by fans, you should have protection. I don’t believe you want to drop out, and we don’t want another Hannah Marks.”

I wince, and I feel Shane tense. Hannah Marks was killed outside one of her gigs about a year ago. She was meeting fans, and then some man with a gun put an end to her and her YouTube career.

At first, my brain tells me it could never happen on campus, before I remember all the campus shootings that have happened in the last year, and I feel ice creep into my heart.

Even if it’s unlikely, is it worth the risk?

Am I already at the point where I need to worry about people trying to kill me?

“I guess… if you think it’s a good idea.”

Magnus nods. “I do. I’ve changed around the budget, and we shouldn’t get hit too badly with the fees. I think in the long run, you’ll benefit from this. Consider it as inspiration. Maybe you can write a song about him.”

I nod, too troubled by the idea to really speak. I look down at myself at my pink dress and short legs. I’m athletic, and I look good on camera, but I couldn’t ever hope to defend myself if someone wanted to attack me. I’ve never even been in a fight before. Most people are surprised by that. They see the color of my skin and think I must have at least gotten into a hair-pulling contest or something, but it’s just not a reality for most of us. I can’t even think of anyone in my immediate circle who’s ever been in a fight.

Wait, I think Shane punched a Trump supporter once. That probably counts.

“When do we meet the man?” Shane asks.

“How about I arrange a meeting… next week?” Magnus asks. I realize he’s looking at my schedule, and I realize I don’t know my schedule.

“Can I… have a copy of my schedule?”

Magnus gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’ve just sent you the Google calendar link. You’ll be able to see everything. We haven’t budgeted an assistant for you, but I imagine for the first few weeks it’ll mostly be phone interviews and a couple of TV appearances. We can arrange cars for you for those.”

“Great, thanks,” I say. I’m starting to feel slightly overwhelmed again.

“Let’s talk about the tour,” Magnus says. “What do you think it should look like?”

I blink, thinking hard. I can’t offer him any concrete details because, obviously, I’ve never thought about going on tour before. I start to flounder before I have a sudden shot of inspiration and pull my phone out scrolling through my videos.

“Why don’t we brainstorm some stuff while I’ve got you here? What’s the budget?”

I can tell I’ve said the right thing. Magnus scoots closer to me in his chair, leans over, and looks at my screen. Shane is leaning in as well, his fingers tapping on the table in that restless way he has when he’s delighted by something.

This is really happening, I dimly think as I open the video that started it all.

I’m a viral YouTube star, and my management is so protective of me that I’m getting a bodyguard in a few days. This is my life now.

I hum the lyrics to ‘Love on the Brain’ by Rihanna under my breath as I tap my finger on the table in front of me, patiently keeping the tempo of the song that’s been stuck in my head all day. I’ve been working on my lyrics like crazy, but sometimes the words don’t come, and I need to listen to something else to get some inspiration or see how the pros do it. Rhianna is always a great start.

As I stare around the café, I consider whether it would have been a good idea to bring Shane along with me. He was great moral support when I’d met with my new manager. Of course, he might have been too good—Bass Note has taken an interest in Shane just as they did with me. That’s one of the reasons he couldn’t make it today—he’s been in meetings all morning.

He could have made it. If I’d asked, he would have rushed over after the last meeting and been by my side while I met my new bodyguard. I just hadn’t asked.

I’m a big girl. I can meet my own damn bodyguards, thank you.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and turn my head slightly when a group of teenage girls comes into the café. It’s not that I think I’ll get swamped here, or anything—people are still talking about my videos and sharing them—but I haven’t reached full Jennifer Lawrence status yet. I had become used to keeping a low profile after a week spent lurking half-hidden in the shadows on campus.

Not even two weeks on the popular culture radar, and I was already taking precautions. What does this mean for the future?

The girls pass right by me, and I adjust my sunglasses. I’m an asshole wearing sunglasses indoors and sipping a mocha frappuccino with a fake name on it. If Shane could see me, he would smack these glasses right off my face. I’ve got a faded pair of coveralls on and a light, pastel pink shirt underneath. My hair is loose over my shoulders and chest falling in straight lines.

Next to my elbow, my phone rings. I quickly scoop it up and check the caller ID. Unknown.

Wearily, I answer it anyway. “Hello?”

“Natalie Summers?”

A gruff man’s voice. I start to worry, but I push down the concern. “Speaking.”

“I’m Blake West, from Shadow Corp security firm.”

My shoulders fall with relief. “Hi, yeah, I’m at the café.”

“So am I,” Blake replies. I turn my head, but I don’t see anyone talking on the phone. “Are you wearing the sunglasses?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up without so much as a ‘how do ya do,’ and I stare at my phone for a moment before swiveling around at the sound of the door opening and closing at the opposite end of the room.

Whenever I see women in movies or on TV shows who get all tongue-tied at the sight of a man, I laugh. I laugh because it doesn’t seem possible to me that a member of the opposite sex—however beautiful—could possibly make a woman short-circuit by doing nothing more than entering a room. Sure, I’ve salivated over guys as much as the next straight girl, but I’ve never seen one who made me stop thinking—one who looked so good I couldn’t imagine opening my mouth and making words come out.

Until now.

The man who enters the café stares directly at me for a moment before making his way over with purpose. He’s dressed for a New York winter. His charcoal scarf is tied in an elegant knot around his neck, and he deftly removes it, his fingers moving down to undo the buttons on his black, double-breasted overcoat. His jeans are dark and snug, but what draws my attention even faster are his eyes. They are half-hidden by a furrowed brow, dark and flickering, looking at me and then around the room and then back to me as though he’s taking everything in. Blake’s blond, tall, and his jaw looks like it could cut me.

He is, without exception, the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

Shane is going to be spitting fire when he finds out he missed this, I think as I quickly send the signal to my legs to move for fuck’s sake!

I stand up awkwardly, nearly knocking over my drink in the process. The man stops just in front of me, his eyebrows furrowing even more.

Extending my hand, I dig deep to find my voice. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

I’ve had worse starts.

He looks at my hand for a moment and frowns deeper like I’ve done something wrong. Which I haven’t, have I? I’m not drooling, am I? Shit! What if I’m drooling?

Finally, he takes my hand, and I have a few moments to squeal internally at how strong his fingers feel before he drops it. “Blake West.” His voice is like honey, and I want to coat myself in it.

“Yeah, I… oh… you’re sitting? Okay.”

He takes the seat in front of me, but not before taking off his overcoat to reveal a long-sleeved shirt that hugs his athletic body and makes my brain short-circuit for a moment. Then he sits down, and it isn’t until he’s resting his elbows on the table in front of him that I realize I’m still standing. I scramble to sit.

“So, nice to meet you,” I say.

“You said that already.”

“Well, would you rather I tell you that it’s not nice?”

He shrugs, looking away from me and scanning the crowded tables on either side of us. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Okay, so that’s… disappointing.

It’s always a bummer when I meet a handsome man only to find he’s a bit of an asshole. I could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s just having a bad day, but at the same time, his attitude is not really making me want to. Besides, the way his browline dips over his eyes and the grim set of his jaw gives me the impression he doesn’t smile much. How can someone be pleasant to be around if they don’t smile?

“So, Blake, it’s…”

Shit! I almost tell him it’s nice to meet him. Again. Because I’m a fucking lunatic, apparently, and I’m stuck on a loop like a broken record.

“… short-notice, I know, but I’m glad we could make the time to meet.”

“The firm makes the appointments.”

“And you keep them. Good job!” Sometimes, when I meet someone particularly unpleasant, my brain goes in the opposite direction, and I become sickeningly sweet in a really passive-aggressive way. My parents think it’s a character flaw, and Shane finds it hilarious. “Really, I’m very glad to meet you. Have you done a lot of this kind of work before?”

He frowns even more deeply, which I hadn’t thought could be possible. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve been on leave for a while. I wasn’t supposed to take this job. A buddy of mine was assigned to you, but when your manager changed the dates, they called me in instead.”

It’s the most words he’s said yet, and they’re not doing a thing to make me feel any better about this arrangement. “Well, your buddy is missing out because we’re going to have loads of fun.”

Blake looks like he’s seriously considering jabbing a fork in his jugular and ending it all, and I consider handing him mine. It’s a strange situation to be in. My hormones are telling me to climb over the table and place myself directly in this lap, which is a level of attraction I’m not used to feeling when I see a man for the first time. My brain is telling me to be as cheerful as possible to offset the douchebag vibes he’s giving off. It’s also telling my hormones to stop because this man, while gorgeous, is acting like a jerk, and I’ve never been into jerks.

Can a beautiful face offset personality? I would have said ‘no’ this morning.

Thankfully, the waiter comes and saves me from myself. I take the sunglasses off and finally look at Blake without the glasses between us. His skin is paler, and when I put the glasses down, I see that one of his sleeves has rolled up revealing the black edge of a tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos, but I’ve always wanted one. Maybe Melpomene and Thalia or the musical notations for ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’

Blake orders a black coffee because, of course, he does—black with no sugar. He glances back at me and then squints at the sunglasses I’ve left on the table between us.

“Your manager said you’ve been dealing with some trouble?”

All business. I can work with that.

“Just some issues at school. Some people wanted selfies, and it got a bit out of hand.”

“I can’t protect you if you insist on taking selfies with everyone who asks.”

“Well, that’s… fair, but in my defense, I haven’t, um… insisted anything. We just met.”

“I want to make myself perfectly clear. There’s only so much I can do, and if you’re going to put yourself in harm’s way, then you’ll have to accept the consequences.”

I tilt my head at him trying to get a sense of whether he’s frowning at me or just at the general situation. This is technically a job interview, after all. Magnus had set this up so I could get to know my bodyguard before we start the press rounds before my tour. I would never have thought anyone would be so surly in this situation. It’s almost like he’s trying to make the worst impression possible. Why is he like this?

“Is this one of those deals where you try really hard to be mean to me, so I’ll ask for you to be replaced?”

Blake just stares. His eyes flicker back up to mine and hold my gaze, and I find myself chewing my tongue to give my brain something to focus on instead of the pinkish hue of his lips. They look so damn kissable, and it’s taking everything I have in me not to lean forward and assume the flirting pose.

Because this isn’t a flirty time.

No, Natalie.

Bad Natalie!

“I’m sorry, what?” Blake asks.

“You seem like you really don’t want to be here,” I say. Deliberately, I lean back in my seat taking the opposite approach to the one my brain and libido want and grab my drink to take a sip. Because, apparently, I’m fucking thirsty as hell. “It’s okay if you don’t. I’m fine with it, but you don’t have to be rude to me, though.”

He taps the table in almost the same beat I’d been tapping when he’d called me. Finally, he leans forward a little in his chair.

“It’s not that I don’t want to be here,” he says, simply. “I just want to make this clear.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “This is a working relationship. I’m not here to be your friend. If you saw The Bodyguard and thought this would be some lasting, deep connection, you’re wrong.”

“First of all, thank you for casting me as Whitney Houston in your The Bodyguard fantasy. I would kill for her cheekbones.” Blake clicks his tongue and looks away from me as I go on. “Second, at what point did I give you the idea I want a Bodyguard type scenario?”

He shrugs, the sleeves of his shirt rising a bit more to reveal more of that mysterious tattoo. “A lot of green celebrities think it’s going to be champagne and caviar, flying first class, and fucking their entourage.”

I think about Shane, my only entourage since I started this ridiculous adventure, and the thought of us fucking makes me want to laugh out loud. It would be so awkward, and Shane would probably spend the entire time complimenting me on my toned abs while resolutely not looking at my tits.

“I’m not green, Blake, I’m brown. And I’m not in this for the champagne and caviar.”

“Right, because social media stars are just doing it for the fans?”

“Only if bodyguards are just doing it for the aesthetic,” I reply. I’ve still got a smile on my lips, and I have no idea how it’s still there. He’s pushing every one of my buttons. The fact that the tight shirt is stretched tantalizingly over his chest is also not helping matters.

This is bad. So very bad.

Blake seems to think over what I said, though I can’t tell if he thinks I’ve said something profound or if he’s just trying to unravel whether he’s been insulted.

“Besides, fucking my entourage sounds like a lot of work,” I go on. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do for the tour, and I really don’t have time for it.”

Blake’s facial expression doesn’t change which is really starting to infuriate me. It’s bad enough I’ve been blessed with a permanent frowner as my new bodyguard, but how the hell am I supposed to talk to him if he won’t even crack a smile?

“Just as long as you know not to try it,” Blake says.

“I promise, your virtue is safe,” I tell him. “So, are you okay with talking about something else? Like whether you need to come to my classes or just to press things?”

I’m trying to make it professional again aiming for a jovial tone even as I feel his half-frown, half-glare boring into me.

And, really, why is he the one bringing up The Bodyguard? Why is he so insistent on making sure I understand this is a business relationship? I wouldn’t have thought anything different if he hadn’t brought it up. Yes, my surprisingly vocal hormones are pretty excited about the prospect of getting to be near him for several hours a day, but I would never have entertained the idea of trying anything. That’s the sort of thing that only happens in the movies. Just like a girl going all slack-jawed at the sight of a good-looking man. That stuff never happens in real life.

The point is, he shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. He’s the one who made it weird, not me. I tell myself that a couple of times to make sure I have it clear in my mind so later on, when I explain myself to Shane, I’ll be able to convince him of it, too.

“If you’re having problems with your classmates, then I should be there.”

“Great. You’ll need a pass to come on campus, assuming you’re going to take me as a client?” I add, unsure. “Or is your firm going to send someone else? Because, as I said, you don’t need to be here.”

Because, really, we haven’t gotten off to the best start. Even though his ‘buddy’ has a conflicting schedule, surely the firm will be able to send someone else if necessary? I’m torn between wanting him to stay and wanting him gone. I can’t decide whether it will be better to get rid of this man who makes my body tremble in a way it never has before, or keep him as close as possible so I can try to figure out what it is about him that makes me feel this way.

The waiter comes back and gives Blake his coffee. Blake doesn’t take his eyes off of me, and I am once again hit with the feeling he’s scanning me, taking everything in.

I wonder what he can tell just by looking at me. Can he tell my fingers are aching to reach out and touch? Can he tell his light-colored eyebrows make me want to lean forward and press my cheek to his face so I can feel them on my skin? Was there ever a The Bodyguard porno? I’ll have to ask Shane, he’ll know.

“It’ll be me,” he says, finally. “I look forward to working with you.”

And I would have believed him if he’d managed to say the words in any other tone. It’s like he’s reciting a script after only a week’s worth of acting lessons, and he still has a while to go before he can make it believable.

“Great!” I reply, wondering how long I’ll be able to keep up the passive-aggressive cheerfulness.

Blake follows me to classes for the rest of the week as well as my first press interview. He is determined and ridiculously stoic the entire time. The first time Shane saw a photo of us both on a gossip blog, he said the sex would be just as good if Blake covered up his face since he’d probably be frowning all the time.

“Or you can do doggie style. Just make sure he’s a gentleman and helps you finish.”

“Why don’t you sleep with him since you’re putting so much thought into this?”

“I’m saving myself for the hot manager, the hot bodyguard is all yours.”

The hot manager, for his part, has already arranged a couple of photo shoots for Shane and several auditions for commercials. Shane has flirted more in the past week than he has in his entire life, and, though Magnus clearly shares an interest, Shane keeps getting shut down.

The poor guy has never been so frustrated.

Blake turned out to be just as charming as he had the first time we met. On campus, I quickly learned people were more likely to be polite and gentle when he was lurking behind me. A couple of girls came to me in the cafeteria to ask for a selfie, and Blake nearly glared them into oblivion. They could hardly smile when they were taking the picture.

“You could be nicer,” I told him when the girls had scurried off.

“It’s not my job to be nice.”

“No, it’s your job to protect me,” I say. “But those girls hardly looked like serial killers.”

“Serial killers look like everyone else.”

“Is that a warning? Do you have something you want to tell me, Blake?”

I think he’s starting to get used to my deflections and passive-aggressive cheerfulness. He doesn’t look as sour with me as he had when we’d first met. Just kind of… tired and done. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than tagging along to my lecture on Strasberg’s Method or my vocal classes.

On the morning I have to give my first TV interview, I think I’m going to explode with nerves. Shane has an audition which he tried hard to get out of to be here for me, but in the end, the stars had aligned against us.

“I’ll be thinking of you,” he’d said while he’d given me a hug and kiss that morning. “You’re gonna be great!”

Magnus is there, though. He’s got an encouraging smile on his lips as he leans into the plush chairs in my changing room.

Yeah, I get a changing room.

The makeup lady just left, and I’m left sitting in front of the mirror with a soft pink blush on my cheeks and smoky eyes. My outfit is pretty beauty blogger—a cute white dress with silver bracelets and dark rose pumps. My hair is piled up high on my head, and I feel like if I turn it the wrong way, it might start wobbling like a bobble head. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and all I can think is I don’t look anything like myself.

“Is everything okay?” Magnus asks.

I turn in my chair. Beyond Magnus, leaning against the door, Blake is texting. His eyes are downcast, and his hips are leaning against the solid wood displaying the taut lines of his body in a way that makes me want to walk over and lick him from top to bottom.

But I don’t. Because I have self-control, goddammit.

“I don’t really look like myself,” I say to Magnus, trying to distract myself from my stupid libido. I’ve been in a dry spell—that’s all this is. “I mean, it’s cute and all, but it’s not really me?”

Magnus purses his lips. “Why didn’t you say anything when the makeup woman was here?”

“It’s not… it’s not just the makeup,” I say. “It’s… look, I don’t wear heels. I can’t wear heels. I’m worried I’m going to trip and fall on my ass. And this dress is a bit short for a morning show, isn’t it?”

Not that the viewers of the Today show would probably mind if I flash a bit of leg, but most of the time when I’m on YouTube, I’m wearing a cute top and skirt combo, or maybe a nice dress that goes below my knees. My hair is too fussed with, and I’m worried when I perform at the end of the segment, and I’m resolutely not thinking about how nervous that makes me, it’s going to spill forward over my face, and I won’t be able to see my uke.

“Hmm,” Magnus says, frowning and tapping his chin. “I’m sorry, Natalie. If you’d told me sooner, I might have been able to do something about it.”

“You’re right, it’s my fault,” I say. “Could we… maybe just change the hair? I feel like I’ll be more comfortable if I have it out? Please?”

Magnus nods and pushes himself out of the chair leaving me alone with Blake.

I turn away from him and start fiddling with my uke. It’s got a butterfly decal on it, and I quickly tune the strings even though I’ve done it a million times today. Pretty soon a string will snap, and I’ll have a fucking breakdown, but I need to do something with my hands.

“You’re nervous,” Blake says.

I don’t jump. I flinch. Like a fucking lady.

“What gave it away?” I ask, aiming for casual. “The nervous sweats? The general air of blind terror?”

Blake watches me for a moment, then sticks his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small cube, walking across the room and handing it to me. “Play with this before you tear that ukulele in half.”

I stare at the cube, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. It’s one of those distraction cubes that have clickable buttons and fiddly bits. I’ve seen them advertised on Facebook.

“You carry one of these?” I ask, taking it and clicking the buttons. It gives me something to do with my hands, and I instantly feel grateful.

Blake nods. “One of my friends is PDD-NOS.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a form of autism. When he gets overstimulated, this helps. All of us carry one.”

“That’s cool,” I say.

I keep clicking the buttons feeling slightly calmer though in no way more prepared. I wonder if it might be possible for me to take this into the interview with me, but something tells me it’s not appropriate.

Blake leans against the makeup table and watches me play with the cube for a while, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that accentuates his beautiful biceps. I am once again glad I’ve got the cube—it’s something to focus on so I’m not tempted to reach out and run my finger over his arms.

“When you get out there, pretend it’s a really high-budget collaboration with another YouTuber,” Blake says.

“Won’t help,” I tell him, though I’m grateful he’s at least trying to offer something. It’s the first time he’s ever reached out, and if I weren’t so freaked out, I would be able to appreciate it more. “I’d never collab looking like this.”

“Right, it’s not part of your aesthetic.”

“No, it’s because I can’t move,” I tell him. I don’t take my eyes off the cube, but I kick out one of my pumps. “I hate wearing shoes I can’t run in.”

I don’t see his expression, but I hear the disbelief in his voice. “You think you’re going to be running today?”

“I run every day,” I say. “But that’s not… look, it’s a girl thing, okay? I don’t like wearing shoes that keep me from running away.”

It’s a stupid insecurity, but when I’m already feeling super vulnerable, the idea that I’ll be hampered even more makes me queasy. Some women have mastered the art of running in heels—those women are to be feared and respected—but I am not one of them. And right now, with the straps pinching me, my toes squeezed, and my ankle already trembling even though I haven’t even stood up in them, all I can think about is how hard it will be to get onto the set for the interview much less leave the room when I’m done.

Blake doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, after a beat, he kneels down, and I flinch back again when he grabs my foot.

“What size are you?”

“Ah… an eight.” I have big feet for a girl.

He grunts then leans back and starts taking off his boots—his black, heavy-looking, steel-capped combat boots.

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously.

“I’m a ten. You’ll have to stuff the toes with socks.”

I’m already taking off my pumps because this is perfect. The combination of chic lady and badass is too much to pass up, and I can already imagine what Shane will say when he sees me. If he sees me, since the broadcast probably won’t show below my knees, but I’ll tell him.

Blake gives me his shoes, stuffing his socks into the toes and leaving himself barefoot. With the socks, they actually fit pretty snuggly, and when I stand up, I instantly feel about a million degrees cooler and more confident. I leave the cube on the makeup table and trot over to the full-length mirror to examine my feet. The boots are scuffed and well-worn, but they’re clean, and combined with the white dress and smoky makeup, make me look kind of punk rock.

“Brilliant,” I exclaim, spinning around on the toes and beaming at Blake. “Thank you so much.”

Blake nods. He doesn’t smile, but he looks less frowny than usual as he surveys me from head to toe. “Now, if you feel the need, you’ll be able to run away.”

“You wanna wear my pumps?” I say, waving at the abandoned shoes. “They’ll make your calves look great.”

This time, there is the barest hint of a quirk to his lip. “No, thank you.”

“Your loss,” I reply, spinning back to have another look in the mirror. The hair is still an issue, but Magnus is working on that.

I pull out my phone, snap a picture of my skirt and legs, and tweet it with the caption When your bodyguard wants you to be comfortable in interviews #squadgoals.

Since my YouTube blew up, my Twitter blew up with it, and I’ve got about a million followers now. I try to tweet at least twice a day. Magnus tried to get me to get Instagram, too, but I don’t take very good pictures. With content like this, I don’t need to.

Magnus returns within a few minutes, and when he sees my boots, he smiles. “That’s one way to do it.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’ve got you on Twitter notifications, Natalie.”

Aww!

The makeup girl is nice about the fact she’s being asked to do my hair again, and on a time crunch, too, as I’m supposed to be on in a few minutes. She pulls my hair out of the up-do, and since it’s a bit hard from the hair spray, braids it down my back for a Katniss Everdeen look. I apologize over and over while she’s doing the extra work, and when she’s done, I give her a big hug.

Finally, I’m ready to go on.

It occurs to me as I’m walking down the hall toward the soundstage that I’m not as nervous as I had been. I’ve still got Blake’s cube, and I’m idly playing with it as I walk. My feet are heavy but much more comfortable than they would have been in the pumps. My head doesn’t hurt from where the hair was pulling at it anymore. Overall, I feel pretty good—like I’m going to crush this.

Magnus joins me on the long walk to the soundstage with Blake taking up the rear. When I glance behind, I see him with his arms crossed over his chest and his bare feet make soft pattering noises on the smooth linoleum. He looks kind of cute like that. The bare feet humanize him a bit.

When our eyes meet, I give him another grateful smile. He nods, before quickly looking away and surveying a group of interns who are watching excitedly as our little group passes.

I’ve had a bodyguard for over a week, but this is the first time I’ve felt safe.

It’s not until I’m about halfway down the path toward the road when I realize Blake is at the end of it.

The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but there is a low purple line on the horizon that hints at a beautiful day to come. My breath rises in soft, misty clouds in front of my lips, and my hands are snuggly wrapped up in thin gloves. I’ve got a set of earbuds around my shoulders, but I haven’t turned on any music yet. When I run, I like to let the morning songs lull me into a daze before I put music in my ears. I’ve already got Lana Del Ray’s ‘Lust for Life’ queued up on my iPod.

There are beautiful gardens around Hyde Park, which is only about a five-minute run away from where my dorm is. My roommate, Kelsey, practically lives with her boyfriend off-campus to the point where I’m not entirely sure what she looks like anymore, and I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her in a lecture. Every morning, I roll out of bed and run down the road before turning into a walking path crowded with low-hanging trees and gorgeous flower beds running in straight, well-maintained lines.

Shane says my morning runs are proof I am literally Satan, but I love them. There’s a sweet hope to early mornings.

I had been planning on running out some of my worries. The interview on the Today show was about a week ago, and since then I’ve had a lot more. Since the first near-disaster, Magnus made sure I would be allowed to pick my outfits, and now I’m a lot more confident before I go on. I’m able to joke with Blake, or at least try to, and I’m starting to actually enjoy the spotlight instead of generally being confused by it.

Soon, however, I’ll have my next challenge—my first red carpet. A YouTuber from California is coming to New York for the premiere of her movie, and I’ve been invited to the screening. Or, rather, Bass Note had swindled a few tickets for its clients. I think I remember Magnus saying that Black Lilith would be playing at the event, and since Shane couldn’t make it—he’d never been so infuriated about a college dress rehearsal in his life—I would probably be flying solo. My first red carpet and I wouldn’t have my best friend to lean on. The thought haunted me even as I walked down the drive to prepare for my run. I was hoping I could run hard enough to forget what a red carpet even was.

But I wasn’t expecting Blake. I self-consciously touch my face—no makeup, because I’m not some Instagram alien who works out with a full face of makeup—before reminding myself I shouldn’t be self-conscious. He’s my bodyguard, not my boyfriend.

“Blake!” I say. “What brings you here?”

He’s wearing running gear. I realize this a moment too late, and he raises his eyebrow at me before giving his clean but well-worn joggers a very obvious look.

“I’m here to run,” he says.

“How come?”

He licks his lips, and I watch the progression of his tongue like it’s my destiny. “Because you’re running, and I’m your bodyguard. I wish you’d told me you were running through the forest, alone, before dawn, sooner. Communication, Natalie… it makes my job easier.”

“My bad, Mr. West,” I mumble.

Right, he’s here to keep me safe. That’s sweet, but I really can’t see how this is going to get me hurt. Half of the campus is still asleep—it’s Saturday, so some people might even still be drunk from last night. It’s hardly the most dangerous campus in the world.

Nevertheless, I smile and dip into a curtsy. “Such a gentleman,” I say.

His mouth does that quirk thing again telling me he might have been smiling if he were anyone else. That’s something I’ve started working hard to try and earn. Someday, I’ve decided, I will make this man laugh. I only hope I have the presence of mind to get him on camera first.

“You can set the pace,” he says as we walk together toward the road.

“Now you’re just trying to get on my good side.”

I want to start sprinting—to show off, to impress him, I’m not sure—but, in the end, I decide to go with my usual pace. It’s not worth winding up as a winded, heaving mess at the end of the run just because I’ve got a partner for the first time in ages. Instead, I set a gentle pace to warm up. He follows easily.

For the first little while, it’s just the sound of our even breathing and the soft pat-pat of our shoes on the tarmac. We run through a street lined with student dorms, decorated with evenly-trimmed hedges, and filled with the soft, sweet smell of freshly-mowed grass.

“Don’t you just love spring?” I ask when we pass a bunch of flower beds getting ready to bloom.

Blake hums noncommittally, but I do notice the way his head turns toward the flowers so maybe he’s not as much as an automaton as he would like me to think he is.

No matter what I do, or how hard I try, I’m still not used to how good he looks. It’s like I’m hit in the face with it every time I see him. Even now, when he’s running beside me, I’m struck by the even lines of his face and the easy strength in his muscles as though I’m seeing them for the first time. Maybe if I were a little more fearless, I might consider dragging him into one of the many bushes we’re running past. We’re the only ones on the road after all.

“So, are you excited for the red carpet?” I ask, grateful my breathing isn’t even close to labored yet as we come to the edge of the street, and turn down a dirt track which will take us to the grounds around Hyde Park.

“I’d rather eat my own colon,” Blake replies. His voice is completely normal.

I throw my head back and laugh. Blake has started making a lot of these snarky, deadpan comments in response to my forced cheer, and I think it’s hilarious. And I’m just a touch excited at the thought that, even though it’s not exactly the warmth and cheerfulness I’d hoped for, he is reacting to me. He’s not as cold as he was when we met.

“Why is that?” I ask.

I glance over and realize his eyes are on me. He’s watching me with an expression I don’t understand, and when our eyes meet, he turns his chin to focus on the road.

“I’ve been on a lot of red carpets. They’re all the same.”

“Well, I’ve never been on any red carpet. So if you can channel some of that boredom my way, that’d be great.”

He grunts and sidesteps a wayward root which has grown into the path. “You’ll be fine. You’re fearless.”

For a moment, I think he’s joking. But when I look closely at his face, I don’t see a hint of irony. He’s still not looking at me, though.

What does he mean? Surely he’s not being honest—he saw how nervous I was before that first live interview. He saw the way I’d tried to calm myself by fiddling with my uke to the point where he’d had to hand me his friend’s stim toy—which I’d ordered one for myself the moment I arrived back home.

But then, I think, maybe he’s referring to all the times after that since I’d been allowed to pick my outfits and got the courage to ask for what I wanted instead of hoping I would get something I liked. That was a game changer. Since then, I’d noticed I was more relaxed during interviews. Shane had commented on it. Magnus had looked even more excited every time I came back to the dressing room. Plus, there was the fact I kept smiling whenever Blake scowled at me. Maybe he wasn’t used to that.

“Still,” I say, choosing to ignore his last comment because I’m worried I won’t be able to pass the blush off as a flush from running. “What if I end up meeting Will Smith and throw up all over him?”

He looks at me then, and there’s a bemused quirk to his lips. “Is that something you’re likely to do?”

“No, but this whole thing has been one giant accident. So who knows?”

“You’re not going to throw up on Will Smith,” he assures me.

We run in silence for a little while. There are blackbirds in the trees above us, and the gentle warbling of larger birds I can’t identify through sound alone. We run along the groves deeper into the heart of the grounds. Thankfully, my breathing is still pretty even. This would be where I would normally put on my headphones, but I’m enjoying the sound of Blake’s breathing instead.

Would his breathing be this even if he were kissing me? If he were…

No, Natalie. Bad Natalie!

“You’re going to be with me, aren’t you?” I ask, and I hope to every god I can think of I don’t sound desperate.

Blake’s lips quirk downward, and I suddenly wonder if maybe there’s more to his aversion to red carpets than the fact they’re all the same. If there’s one thing that’s always consistent about Blake, it’s that he seems to genuinely hate celebrity in all of its forms. He tolerates me on some days—like today, when he’s running beside me before the sun has risen—and I can convince myself he’s even invested in my well-being instead of just doing this for a paycheck. But then there are moments when I’m reading through a trashy magazine or someone on campus asks for a selfie with me when I see a look of genuine anger in his eyes.

What happened?

Why is he like this?

Before I can even begin to formulate how I would ask the question, he’s answering, “Of course, I’ll be there, I’m your bodyguard. You’re not going to a red carpet event without me.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You make it sound like you’re worried I’ll get stabbed the moment I set foot out of the limo.”

“You won’t get stabbed.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ll be there. I won’t let anyone stab you.”

“So you’re admitting an attempted stabbing is a possibility?”

He sighs. He doesn’t even break stride while he’s running. “You’re not exactly the president, Natalie. No one is going to try to kill you.”

Then why are you here? I want to ask. But I don’t because that would imply I don’t actually want him here when the opposite is true.

I’m starting to feel the pleasant burn in my lungs and legs telling me I’m getting a decent workout. I didn’t realize it, but I’m actually going much faster now than I usually would on my own. Having a partner to run with is pushing me further than I’d thought I could go.

Technically, I don’t even have time for a red carpet event. I’ve got the tour to plan, and I’ve actually been working on an EP to release on Spotify in a few weeks—a better, more technically difficult version of the song which sent me viral. Magnus had set time in my schedule for a studio recording, and I have to prepare songs for that as well. If it weren’t for the fact he’s been insisting I keep my face in the public consciousness, and keep people remembering my name, I would be at home every night in my comfiest pajamas writing and snacking.

But I can’t do that. I have to brave this red carpet, and even though I know Blake will be between me and any physical danger, it’s not the same as having a friend. Someone to support me in the other stuff.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say, pulling up short so my sneakers crunch on the path.

Blake runs forward a few yards before he slows himself down and turns. “What?” he asks.

His cheeks are slightly flushed, and his chest moves deliciously. He’s wearing his signature black everything, and his arm muscles bulge in his shirt to the point where I wonder if he’s going to bust out of it.

“A bodyguard will just make me nervous,” I say. “So wear a suit and be my date.”

His reaction is not what I was expecting. Instead of looking at me like I’m crazy, he blanches like he’s been struck. He takes a step back away from me, and I wonder if maybe I’ve triggered a dark memory from his childhood.

“A date?” he asks, unsure.

“Yes,” I say slowly, also unsure. “Not, like I don’t expect you to be doing anything romantic, so get that stuff out of your head.” Not that I would be opposed the idea, but I think hearing that might make him look less like a deer caught in headlights. “I just… it would make me feel a lot better if I had a date and not a bodyguard.”

He’s still frowning. I wonder if it’s possible for me to take it all back at this point.

“I’m not a good date,” Blake says.

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to be… just be something other than the creeper in the corner who eyes off everyone who comes within three feet of me,” I say. “Besides, wouldn’t it make keeping me safe easier? If you were literally by my side the whole night?”

For some reason, he looks almost sad when I say that. Something flashes behind his eyes and the corners of his lips dip even further as he looks down and kicks a rock next to his feet.

Finally, I realize I should probably just abandon this line of thought. Sure, it would have been nice to have Blake dress up all fancy and offer me his elbow instead of crossing his arms and standing menacingly in my periphery, but if he hates this celebrity stuff, then why would he agree to walk the carpet with me?

Stupid Natalie.

“Forget it…” I begin.

“I’ll do it,” he replies.

I blink. “Seriously, you don’t have to…”

“You’ve got a point, it’ll be easier to do my job this way.”

“But…”

“I said I’ll do it.”

He doesn’t seem particularly happy about it, but before I can say anything, he’s already turning back to the path, picking up the pace, so I have to scramble to follow as the sun begins to rise over the treetops to the east.

We don’t speak again for the rest of the run.

In retrospect, I can admit asking Blake to be my date was a mistake.

For one thing, Shane has been teasing me nonstop since that day. For another, the idea of Blake in formal wear—something that had filled me with a special kind of joy the morning of our run—is becoming more and more terrifying the longer I imagine it. If I can barely reign myself in when he’s dressed normally, then how the hell am I going to keep it together when he’s dressed to the nines? Yeah, I didn’t think this through.

He comes to me every morning to join me for my run. I’m starting to get used to the sound of our breathing mixing together. We don’t talk much, but I get the feeling he enjoys it. I can tell by the way he bounces on the balls of his feet when he sees me coming down the drive. Or maybe he’s just impatient. That’s also a possibility.

But even though we don’t talk, I still think he’s warming up to me. He’s starting to smile when I hum to myself on our runs. During one interview when I was feeling a bit nervous, he came up to me during the break and told me to poke the interviewer in the eye.

“I’ve never met anyone who was still intimidating after they’d been poked in the eye.”

I’d laughed so hard the makeup girl had to touch up my mascara, and the look on Blake’s face like he’d accomplished something good was enough to get me through the rest of the interview without assaulting anyone, thank you very much.

Sometimes, I catch him looking at me. Not really a big deal, since he’s my bodyguard and by rights, he should be looking at me, but sometimes there’s a softness to the way he stares.

I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything, but I’m not very good at making myself believe it. If Blake were anyone else, I would have thrown caution to the wind and kissed him already. The only thing stopping me is the way his face would close off, and he’d look all withdrawn whenever I got too close. It was like he was deliberately trying to avoid anything beyond a simple protector/protectee relationship. Which was a shame because it was getting harder and harder for me to ignore my attraction to him. His random bursts of humor, and the way he seemed to genuinely care whether or not I was okay, did not help matters.

On the afternoon of the premiere, Magnus’ stylist meets me in my dorm room with a dress I’d picked out the week before. I’d chosen it from a magazine, and I hadn’t realized until later on that the dresses in that magazine were one-of-a-kind pieces made by designers specifically for events like the one I would be attending.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” I’d muttered into the phone hours later while Shane was on the other end cussing me off for not picking a tux for him. Even if he’s not going to the event, he’d said, he still wanted a fucking tux.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing Givenchy on the red carpet, you lucky bitch,” he’d said. There had been no venom in his voice just an overwhelming sense of awe. “You’d better selfie the shit out of that. Also, let me know the dates for the next bash. I don’t care if I have to kill every one of my castmates and half this campus, I’m going with you!”

The dress I chose is a muted red halter dress with a flowing skirt that shimmers when I walk. I feel unbearably elegant when I wear it, especially when the designer gave me a matching pair of ballet flats that hug my feet like socks and make me feel like I’m walking on a cloud.

Shane had also been instrumental in helping me discover something about Blake. He’d Googled my bodyguard, something I’d never even considered doing, and came to me with dozens of photos of him taken by paparazzi. They were all the same. He would be lingering at the edge of the frame, or just out of it, standing with Sadie Hawks, one of Hollywood’s rising stars, who got a gig in the last Harry Potter movie and will probably wind up owning most of Hollywood one day.

The pictures were taken before her sudden, astronomical rise. I’d been surprised to see Shane was so well-connected, and even more surprised to know he isn’t that connected anymore. Why did he end up protecting my viral ass when he could have been living it up on a yacht in St. Tropez? In some of the pictures, he’d even been smiling. Honest-to-God smiling! What I wouldn’t give for him to smile at me like that.

In a couple of the pictures, pictures where Sadie had been enjoying lunch with other women while Blake had lingered at another table, there had been other bodyguards as well—one man was blond like Blake, but more muscular with the air of someone who could probably break your fingers and enjoy it. While another handsome African American man had gazed at the pair of them with amusement. I wondered if they had been Blake’s friends. Was he still in contact with them? What must it be like to be friends with a man like Blake… real, genuine friends?

I thought it might be nice. Not as nice as dating him probably would be, but maybe there wasn’t much of a chance of us separating business from pleasure. If I couldn’t date him, I would like to be his friend.

My makeup and hair only take about an hour, and by the time Magnus calls to let me know the limo is ready to pick me up, I’m feeling all sorts of nerves. Nerves at the thought of walking that carpet in a dress that, two years ago, I could never have dreamed of wearing. Nerves at the thought of having to smile for the cameras, and try to pretend I deserve to be there even with the niggling doubt at the back of my mind.

Outside, the sun is setting in soft, muted tones over the trees around the dorms. I feel a gentle breeze caress my cheek as I walk toward the street where the limo will be waiting. My mind buzzing so much that I can barely appreciate the thought I will be riding in a limo for the first time. This is my first red carpet walk, and I might be rubbing elbows with actual celebrities while I’m there.

Blake doesn’t even cross my mind until I’m walking down the drive, and then he’s there standing by the limo with his hands crossed over his front. His posture says bodyguard, but his suit says sex machine.

I stop on the drive. “Holy crap, you look great,” I say, and then immediately want to kick myself because it’s one thing to think it and another thing to say it.

He doesn’t react for a moment, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s looking at me as intensely as I’m looking at him.

His suit is just so… perfect. It’s a creamy gray color which sets off his blond hair perfectly, and his cuffs are rolled up a little so his forearms are on display and a hint of his tattoos are visible. The shoulders and chest are tailored perfectly, and I am wondering yet again whether it is even possible for me to get through an entire night of him looking like that.

“Seriously, where did you get this suit?” I say. I’m babbling, but it’s all I can do as I make my way the last few feet to the limo where he is waiting. “It looks great. You didn’t get it just for tonight, did you?”

“No,” he says. His Adam’s apple bobs as he looks me up and down. The sight of it reminds me of something Shane once told me—that a man’s feet point to what he wants most. I look down and see Blake’s black dress shoes pointed squarely in my direction. “I’ve had it for about a year.”

“Go on a lot of red carpet dates, do you?” I ask. I know he has, of course. In some of the paparazzi pics Shane had found, Blake had been on red carpets with his elbow crooked, Sadie Hawks’ perfectly manicured fingers tucked into it. And damn if that didn’t make me jealous as hell.

And suddenly, as if a switch flipped behind his eyes, his expression darkens. “I used to.”

He looks like he’s starting to close in on himself, and I don’t want that. I’m nervous as hell, but this is my first red carpet, and I don’t want to spend it feeling bad or standing beside a man who clearly doesn’t want to be there. So before I can tell myself what a stupid idea it is, before my brain even registers what I’m doing, I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a bear hug.

“Thank you for doing this,” I say into his ear.

His cheek is covered in gentle stubble that tickles when I press against him. He seems to hesitate for a moment before finally putting his arms around me.

Victory! I think. And then I think, Oh no, he’s so warm.

Blake leans into my ear and whispers, “You look great, too, by the way.”

Oh, boy.

What I wouldn’t give to just lean back and press my lips to his. The way he held me felt so good, and the way I felt like I was the only person in the world didn’t help. In fact, the only thing that stopped me was the fact I was still not entirely sure how he would react. Would he kiss me back? Or would he pull away?

Eventually, it’s Magnus who breaks through the little bubble I’ve built around Blake and myself.

“Hey, Natalie, don’t forget we’ve still got an event to go to,” he says.

I pull away from Blake and look over at my manager who looks very dapper in a blue tailored suit and is giving me a kind smile.

“Right, yeah, of course.”

And, just as I’ve half-feared and half-expected, Blake has already gone back to full professional mode.

What will it take for him to finally open up?

Inside the limo, Magnus fusses over my hair—which is in an up-do that extends my neck and makes me look like a graceful ballerina—before sliding into one of the opposite seats and tapping on his phone preparing for whatever is coming.

Blake sits at my side. I’ve never been in a limo before, and I spend some time poking at the buttons on my armrest revealing a fridge in the seat opposite, a set of coffee mugs, and a sunroof that opens up and sends gentle sunlight into the cabin. I close the roof and glance over at Blake. He’s frowning at his armrest as though it’s offended him.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask, leaning over so he can hear me over the gentle hum of Rhianna’s ‘Love on the Brain,’ which is playing through the limo’s speakers.

He glances over at me, his frown fading. “Sure,” he says.

“How come you hate this stuff? Did something happen?” His face says it all, but before he can shut himself down, I reach out and put a hand on his. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I say. “I just… want to understand, I guess. And I want to make it better for you if I can, but I don’t know how.”

“It’s not something you can fix,” he says.

I push on. “But is it fixable?”

He shrugs. I notice with some interest his hand doesn’t leave mine. “It’s… complicated.”

“I have a 4.0,” I say. His lips quirk up a bit, and I think he might be trying to stifle a smile. “Come on, you don’t need to give me any details you’re not comfortable with.”

He clicks his tongue apparently thinking for a moment. Finally, he looks out the window at the same time he leans into me guiding our heads together so he can talk to me at the same time he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“I’ve just been in the business too long,” he says. “I’ve seen what fame does to people. I don’t like it.”

Is that it? I want to ask, but I can tell this is an issue for him. I wonder if he’s talking about Sadie, the woman he’d protected before. Shane had tried hard to find more pictures of Blake after Sadie’s sudden rise to fame, but it had seemed as though Blake had completely fallen off the grid. All of Sadie’s paparazzi pics had new bodyguards in them after the movie had been released, and Blake’s face was absent from every other candid celebrity pic after that.

“You think I’m gonna wind up as one of the army of celebrity beauty bloggers?” I ask. “That I’m gonna join the cult?”

He looks over at me, tearing his eyes away from the New York streets starting to bleed into one another. “No,” he says. His gaze is shrewd as he looks me up and down. “I don’t think that.”

“Well, good, because I won’t,” I assure him.

“I still don’t like it.”

I squeeze his hand, and it’s warm enough to heat me from the pads of my fingers to the bones of my feet. “I’ll protect you from the big, bad celebrities.”

His lips quirk up again, and this time I’m close enough to see the way his eyes wrinkle when he does it. “And I’ll protect you from everyone else.”

Oh, boy.

The red carpet is… interesting.

For one thing, I never realized all of those pictures I see in magazines are the result of a series of corralling movements where celebrities are herded like cats into a line. Blake is sent away—he gives me a reassuring nod as he goes—and then I am pushed into the center of a group of women wearing dresses and hairstyles which makes me feel woefully inadequate even if I am styling Givenchy.

We are given a long spiel I’m too excited to really listen to, and then we are pushed in front of dozens of paparazzi, but they don’t scream out my name and vie for my attention like I’ve seen in the movies. Instead, there is a brief pause as Magnus tells them my name and my handle ‘Social Media Entrepreneur.’

There’s a moment when everyone looks at each other. There’s some whispering, and I feel my cheeks start to get a little bit warm. None of the paparazzi seems interested in taking my picture, and I’m considering trying to slink away and cover my face in shame when someone in the back of the group shouts, “She’s the Ukulele Girl!”

“Oh, yeah!”

“That’s right, I remember…”

“Ukulele Girl, look over here!”

There’s a smattering of interest now, and I want to kiss whoever said that, but I can’t see them and by the time Magnus is ushering me down the line, they’ve taken a decent number of pictures of me, and I’m feeling much more validated.

Behind me, a couple of the women in fancy dresses snigger. I don’t recognize any of them, but that doesn’t mean much. I don’t watch much TV.

Shane probably would have fangirled himself into an early grave if he were here.

At the end of the wall of paparazzi, there are rows and rows of young women holding signs proclaiming their favorite celebrities and pushing each other to get better views. Blake joins me at my elbow moving so quickly I didn’t even realize he was there, until I felt his fingers gently brush against the exposed skin of my arm. Without speaking, he guides me over to the opposite side of the carpet where a bunch of cameramen are waiting. Magnus, who had been reaching for me at the same time, nods approvingly and follows in our wake.

“Natalie Summers,” Magnus tells the cameramen, one by one. A couple of them don’t even acknowledge me, but one man waves his hand, and Magnus directs me over to him.

Blake follows and pulls his arm away so he’s standing out of the shot. I want to pull him back. I don’t like the idea of standing by myself in front of that massive camera, but I take some comfort in the knowledge he is within reach, and I can pull him over if I have to.

“So, is this your first red carpet event?” he asks, shoving a microphone in my face at the same time he operates the camera one-handed.

It takes me a second to realize the interview has started. I’d thought there would at least be some lead-in, but I can roll with this.

“This is my first time, and I’m having a blast,” I say, putting on my sunniest smile. “Everyone has been super nice.”

I sound like an asshole even to my own ears, but he’s moving on before I can redeem myself. “What do you say to people who think you’re a flavor of the month, and by next month no one will even remember your name?”

Ouch, I think. What a shitty question to ask someone on their first red carpet.

Blake shifts his body a little bit, and I imagine him tackling the cameraman. It’s a funny image, and it makes me smile as I say, “Well, I guess they’re right to feel that way. There have certainly been a lot of people like me who wake up one morning and find their life has completely changed. I just hope I can keep working hard and making people happy with my music, and enjoy it all while it lasts.”

“And who’s your date?”

No reaction to what I said. I get the feeling he only wants me for my sound bites, and even though it puts a damper on the rest of my performance, I can’t help but perk up as I gesture to Blake.

“This is my bodyguard! His name’s Blake, and he’s the best bodyguard I’ve ever had.”

Blake, predictably, doesn’t react much. He just nods to the camera and looks away as soon as he can. A part of me wishes he would play it up for the camera, maybe even come over and put his arm around me. But then I remember what he’d said about celebrity changing people, and I think, of course, he doesn’t want to be involved in an interview. He probably wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“What about you?” I ask the cameraman. “Who’s your date?”

He looks surprised. “I don’t have one.”

“Aw, that’s a shame. Maybe if I get bored with Blake, I’ll come back for you.”

The cameraman actually laughs at that, and I know I’ve won him over. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blake’s lips turn up at the corners.

Beyond him, I see a flash of gold and have to stifle my gasp. For a moment, I thought it might be Linda Stirling, the YouTuber who is putting on this event, but her blonde hair is the wrong shade, and her shoulders are too slim. When she turns, I can see her face. It’s Sadie Hawks. Blake’s ex-girlfriend.

What would she be doing here? She’s a big movie star. Why would she need to make an appearance at the premiere for a documentary on YouTube Red? I almost reach out for Blake, wanting to pull him closer and shield him—from what, I’m not sure—but my fingers are frozen, and I just keep up that stupid smile as the cameraman asks me another question.

“So are you working on the tour?”

“Yes, I am,” I tell him. Half my mind is in the conversation while the other half is focused entirely on the movements of the blonde in the golden dress. “I’ve got a lot of big ideas, and I’m really lucky that Bass Note, my management, is so accommodating.”

Magnus smiles at that. Blake seems to be watching the crowd checking to make sure there are no threats? I’m not even sure. All I can do is be glad he’s not watching the celebrities making their way through the wall of paparazzi toward the cameramen.

At one point, Sadie comes close to us, and it takes everything in me not to say anything, but to keep talking and not skip a moment. But then she turns and starts signing autographs out of Blake’s line of sight, and I can breathe again.

“Can you give us any hints?” the cameraman asks.

“Well…” I say, exaggeratingly looking at Magnus for approval. We’d already discussed what details I can and cannot reveal. “I can tell you it’s going to be a lot bigger than anything I’ve ever done on my YouTube videos, and I’m going to be playing songs no one’s ever heard before.”

“Great, that should do it,” the cameraman says, dipping the mic out of my face and nodding to me.

“Okay, thank you for your time.”

Magnus ushers me over to the next cameraman who’s waiting expectantly for me—a welcome change.

I go through this line as well, answering questions as best as I can without tripping over my dress or committing myself to too many answers. Blake is at my side the entire time keeping a respectable distance, and then I feel the moment he sees her. His whole body tenses. I sense the way his breathing changes, thanks to our running dates—they’re not dates, stop telling yourself they’re dates—I know his breathing pretty intimately. I look over and see the way his eyes have zeroed in on her, and I feel stupidly and ridiculously jealous.

Does he still love her?

Does he think she’s prettier than me?

I hate myself as soon as the thought comes to my mind. The last thing any woman should do is compare herself to others especially in entertainment where people will be comparing us enough without it.

When we get to the end of the line, after about ten interviews where the cameramen asked the same questions over and over, I turn to Blake and try to ask him without words if he’s okay. But he’s not even looking at me. He’s watching Sadie like he’s worried she’ll attack.

“Blake?” I say.

Before he can answer, Sadie turns, and their eyes meet. She puts on this awful, bright smile that Blake instantly responds to with a scowl.

“Blake,” she says, coming forward with her arms outstretched for a hug. Blake tries to dodge her, but she’s surprisingly fast for a woman trying to hug a trained bodyguard. He manages to squirm out pretty quickly, and she doesn’t skip a beat or even seem to notice. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in forever! What brings you here? Who are you with?” She asks the questions so quickly I can’t imagine for a second she has any interest in the answers. Blake’s frown is deepening, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. Magnus saunters up to join us and seems to cock his head in confusion while Sadie is talking.

“Blake, come on, don’t look so sour,” she says, her smile not slipping for even a moment. “You never smile, it makes the pictures look awful.”

I promised I would protect Blake from the big bad celebrities, and I guess this is what I meant. I move forward and dip my hand into the curve of his elbow reaching my other hand out to offer a handshake.

“Hi, you must be Sadie Hawks, I’m Natalie Summers,” I say, trying to match her smile for smile as I feel Blake’s bicep tightening under my grip. I wonder if he’s annoyed I’ve intervened or glad he doesn’t have to say anything. Probably a mixture of both.

Magnus nods in approval. Apparently, me meeting celebrities is a good thing.

“Oh, I’m, ah… it’s nice to meet you,” she says. Her voice pitches up as though she’s unsure whether it is, in fact, nice to meet me, but I smile at her anyway.

“I’m the Ukulele Girl. From YouTube?”

Recognition dawns on her, and she looks between Blake and me with confusion. “I didn’t know YouTube girls needed bodyguards.”

“We don’t,” I say cheerfully. “Blake’s my boyfriend.”

Magnus’ eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t say anything. Blake’s muscles tense for a moment, then relax as the look of surprise on Sadie’s face starts to morph into shock.

“Oh!”

Blake sidles a little bit closer to me and nods, still looking a bit sour but not quite as disturbingly so as he had when she’d first hugged him.

“I didn’t realize you were dating again.”

“I don’t see why it’s surprising,” Blake says, looking at his feet, “It’s been over a year.”

“But…”

“So what brings you here?” I ask, cutting through whatever it was she had been about to say. “I didn’t expect any big celebrities.”

When I call her a big celebrity, her attitude instantly changes to one of delight as though I’ve somehow given her a gift.

“Well, I love these kinds of events… any excuse to dress up.”

And get your face in the tabloids, I add silently. Blake shares a look with me, and I can see he’s probably thinking the same thing.

“Well, we YouTubers love the support. Have you spoken to Linda?”

“Who?”

“Linda Stirling?” I ask. No recognition. “The girl that the documentary is about?”

“Oh!” Sadie says with sudden recognition. “No, not yet, but soon.”

“Great,” I reply, thinking that Sadie probably couldn’t pick Linda Stirling out of a line-up nor would she care to. “Well, I’ve got to go and find our seats, but hopefully Blake and I can catch up with you later?”

Before she can answer—and she looks like she’s going to answer at length—I pull Blake away and guide him toward the funnel at the end of the carpet leading into the theater. There are rows of paparazzi here as well, but they’re a lot more subdued and more interested in taking pictures as the well-dressed men and women of the industry meet up with each other, hug and kiss, and generally enjoy themselves before going into the venue.

Magnus walks on my other side and leans over. “Didn’t think you two were an item, but now the red carpet date makes more sense.”

“We’re not together,” I tell him. “This is subterfuge.” Then I turn to Blake, and he’s looking at me with an unreadable expression. “I’m sorry about that, but I thought it might be better than saying you were working.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says. He doesn’t look particularly happy, but at least he doesn’t look annoyed or angry. “I’m just glad we got away quickly.”

“Yeah, but to be fair, she didn’t really seem interested in actually talking to us.”

“She didn’t always like to hear the sound of her own voice,” he says, and there’s a sad edge to his voice as we slowly continue the long walk down the red carpet.

Sadie keeps her eyes on us for most of the night. I can feel them on the back of my neck when I fight through the crowds of well-wishers to give Linda her congratulatory hug. I feel them when I walk around with Blake at my side. Blake, for his part, plays the perfect boyfriend—aloof, but attentive—and good enough I can imagine we’re actually together, and he’s not just attentive because it’s his job to jump in front of any bullets heading in my direction.

But there are no bullets. Only smiles and camera flashes.

The more I watch Sadie, the more I see what Blake must have meant when he’d said that fame had changed her. She seems, on the surface, to be wonderfully engaged with everyone around her—she hugs and kisses and laughs at all the right jokes and signs autographs for her fans. But she seems to be drawn to the fans that are near cameramen, turning her head just so to smile in the cameramen’s direction even as she moves her Sharpie over the fans’ notebooks and posters.

Plus, the smile never reaches her eyes. She seems to be going through the motions and making well-practiced movements designed to make her look great. How long must it have taken her to practice this?

“Has she come to see you?” I ask Linda as she and I pose for selfies with some fans at the very end of the row.

“Who?” Linda’s beautiful long braid, a tribute to her Indian heritage, is swept over her shoulder, and she’s dressed in a sparkling rainbow dress that would have looked gaudy on anyone else.

“Sadie Hawks?”

“Sadie Hawks is here?”

“Yeah,” I point toward a batch of paparazzi who are excitedly taking her picture. “I wasn’t expecting mainstream Hollywood to be here. You must be doing well!”

Linda squints at the paparazzi and shrugs. “Weird. I’ve never even met her.”

So it really is just a photo op for Sadie.

Blake and I take our seats, and my leg brushes up against his as we sit. My dress is thin enough I can feel the smooth material and the crease in his pant leg. When I glance over, I see Blake’s eyes on me. It’s dark in the theater, and his expression is difficult to discern. Blake’s hand trails over the armrest between us, and, unthinking, I reach up and run my fingernails over his arm. There are goosebumps in the wake of my touch, and I stare at them, wondering if they mean what I think they mean.

“Everything all right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. He leans back in his seat, so the light casts onto his face. I can see the crease between his brows and his lips tilted just slightly upward. “You’re doing really well.”

“Thanks,” I say. It means a lot coming from him—he would know, after all. “I’m glad you’re here, you’re good arm candy.”

It’s supposed to be teasing, but there’s a little too much truth in the statement. He seems to catch it because he leans over a little bit, and his eyes are cast into shadow again.

“I’m nothing on you. You make that dress look like something from a dream.”

What kind of dream? I want to ask. But I don’t because that way leads to bad, bad thoughts.

Bad Natalie.

But it’s hard not to think about that when his eyelids are lowered, and he licks his lips while he’s looking directly at me.

“Do you… ah… did you miss being on the carpet?” A fucking stupid question that the moment it’s left my lips, I want to punch myself in the face.

Blake doesn’t react too much. Before he can answer, the lights fall, and Linda comes onstage to introduce the movie, and the crowd starts shushing each other after a brief round of applause.

“No,” Blake says decisively. Then he leans over, so his lips are right next to my ear, whispering, “But you make it better.” His lips brush against the shell of my ear, and I feel a swooping in my belly and a sudden rush of heat I wouldn’t have expected from such a small gesture.

By the time the movie is over—it was amazing, Linda deserves all the hype, and I tell her that before the after-party starts—and the after-party is winding down, it’s nearly 2:00 a.m. and my feet are killing me.

Magnus guided me through the after-party and introduced me to dozens of producers and other men and women in the industry to the point where their faces and names began to blur together.

Blake never left my side.

Sadie Hawks disappeared before the after-party even started, but Blake still stayed with me.

“Well, Natalie, I think tonight was a success,” Magnus says, finally deciding that I’ve schmoozed enough. “Blake, can you get her home? I’m going to stay for a while longer.”

“Longer?” I ask. I wonder if even Shane could turn up for as long after an evening of networking. “When do you sleep?”

“Sundays.”

“I’ll take her home,” Blake says, catching my hand and curling it over his elbow. I try to ignore the way his fingers feel—the pads of them are remarkably soft considering his work must be hands-on. “Try to get an early night,” he adds to Magnus.

Early night? It’s already morning!

Blake guides me toward the red carpet again where the limos are waiting. I can’t pick ours out—I haven’t had a lot to drink because Magnus had stressed getting knocked out on my first red carpet will do irreparable damage to my reputation—but Blake seems to recognize it easily moving quickly as though he’s attached to a homing beacon.

He shows me into the limo, then climbs in himself. I’m so dazed from the lights and the crowds and the amazing evening I’ve had, I hardly even notice when Blake tells the driver my address. It’s the same driver, isn’t it? Maybe he’s used to taking people to hotels instead of student dorms.

I rest my head on the seat as the car rumbles to life. I close my eyes. At the moment, I just want to bask in the warmth of Blake’s body at my side and the memories I’ve made.

The radio is on playing the soft music of Little Mix’s ‘Touch’ in my ears and lulling me into an almost meditative state.

“How did you like your first red carpet?” Blake asks, pulling me back to reality.

That’s unusual, he doesn’t usually start our conversations.

“It was… overwhelming,” I say, realizing belatedly my throat is sore from screaming into the ears of the people Magnus kept introducing me to because I’d had to make myself heard over the music pumping in the room. “Honestly, I could do without the networking. But I’m so proud of Linda, she really deserves all the success.”

Opening my eyes, I realize Blake is watching me shrewdly.

“Networking is important,” he says. “You won’t make it far without it.”

I shrug. My shoulders rise and fall with such lackluster energy I wonder whether it’s possible to take a quick nap here in the limo before I get back to the dorm.

Would Blake carry me into the dorm?

God, I would hate to sleep through that.

“I guess. But I mean, it’s like what Magnus said, fame is a side effect of doing well in the industry. I just want to act and make music, and be on Broadway one day. People can spend their whole lives on Broadway and never walk a red carpet.”

“But don’t you like it?”

I think about it for a moment. The whole time I’m thinking, he’s watching me. “I liked signing autographs for the fans. That’s cool, and most of them are really sweet. And I loved seeing how excited Linda was with all of this.”

He watches me for a little while longer, and I wonder what he’s looking for.

“Good,” he says, finally. “Hang onto that.”

Oh, I think. He’s worried that I’m going to sell out.

I lean over and pat his hand, hoping it comes across as reassuring and not… me wanting to touch him. “It would have been more fun if they had napping pods.”

He smiles. Or, he comes as close to a smile as he usually gets. His lips quirk up, and I stare at them a little too long, and by the time I realize I’m doing it, I notice he is staring at my lips. I remember the feeling of his lips on my ear and the sight of goosebumps left when my fingernails ran along his skin. My mind starts running over all of the possibilities imagining the other places I could touch, and the other places I could make goosebumps rise.

Blake’s eyes are dark, and even in the low light of the limo, I can see the way his pupils have dilated. I realize I’ve shifted my body almost completely toward him. My knee is pressed against his. My fingers are drifting toward his seat aiming toward his pants. My heart is pounding, and the longer he looks unblinkingly at my lips, the more I want to surge forward.

I shouldn’t.

But why the fuck not?

Because… reasons? Honestly, I don’t even know.

But there’s something in the heat of his gaze that makes me think crossing the invisible barrier between us—crossing the last few inches between our lips—is just too much for me to manage right now. It’s like staring at a piece of sheet music and knowing it’s too complicated, and so I delay the beginning out of some misguided desire to procrastinate. I feel my whole body shudder when his eyes flicker from my lips, to my breasts, to my eyes.

“Hey, does that sunroof open up?” I ask quickly.

Blake’s eyes shift up. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes dip a little bit when he looks back down at me. “I think so.”

“Cool!”

After fiddling around the panel for a while, Blake finds the button that opens the sunroof. As soon as it’s open, I’m mounting the seat and climbing to stick my body through the gap.

It’s a surreal experience, driving through the New York streets standing in the sunroof of a limo. My hair cascades behind my back and whips around after me in the wind, and my red dress lights up as the lights around me shatter the color over and over. We’re nowhere near Broadway, but there are ads for some of the shows—Wicked and Hamilton, in particular. I imagine what it would be like to be driving away from a show, maybe the premiere of my first headliner.

Leaning my elbows on the roof, I gaze around and breathe in the polluted New York air.

I feel a hand on my ankle and nearly jump out of my skirt.

“Jesus,” I mutter. The word is lost to the streets of New York.

I flinch, but fingers curl around the sensitive skin on my ankle, right above the strap of my shoe, holding me. I want to duck back down into the limo, and at the same time, I want to freeze and see where this goes.

What is Blake up to?

Did he think I was about to fall out of the sunroof?

I would have thought that if he weren’t running the pad of his thumb over my skin slowly raising his hand up to the calf.

“Oh shit,” I say, and this time I don’t even hear the words in my ears, only the vibration in my throat told me that I had spoken.

The hand runs up further to the back of my knee, and I feel shivers creep up my leg and settle into my groin. Blake can’t be doing this by accident—this is a deliberate movement, a deliberate touch. Is he serious? Again, I think about ducking back down into the cabin and kissing him, wrapping my legs around him, doing any of the dozens of things I’ve been thinking about since I first met him. But at the same time, I don’t want to move because his hand is moving higher and higher, and if I stay still, then maybe I won’t break whatever spell has fallen over this limo.

People are walking on the streets as we drive. They wave at me, and I know that we’re moving too fast for them to really know who I am. They’re probably just excited to see a girl dressed up and standing through the roof of a limo. If only they knew what was happening beneath the roof out of sight of the pedestrians’ eyes.

Finally, I feel Blake’s hand curling around the top of my thigh, toying with the edge of my panties, and I feel my breathing start to speed up as he slowly dips a finger into them.

“Fuck.”

My skirt is riding up. I wonder if he’s holding it up, but then I feel my panties slowly lowering, and I don’t care what’s going on with my skirt because I’m more concerned with what’s happening underneath it. His thumb brushes over the edge of my bikini line, and I think I might actually explode.

I spread my legs a little, thanking every god I can think of that I had thought to shave this morning. Apparently, I wasn’t just getting ready for a red carpet when I was running my razor over my skin.

A thumb brushes over my slit and my hands grip at nothing. The roof is too smooth for me to hold onto, and I don’t want to lean forward too much, or else people might realize something’s not quite right at the moment. Even if no one can see what’s happening, I know, and I’m too paranoid not to think about it.

Blake’s thumb runs over me a few times before breaching my clit to rub against my pussy in slow circles. Although it is amazing to think that Blake is doing this, it’s not getting me off any faster than just the thought of him would. But then I feel something firm and wet press against my clit, and I gasp.

He’s … oh, holy shit.

Blake’s tongue laps slowly at my clit while his thumb keeps rubbing gently but constantly, as though he’s worried he might hurt me by going too hard.

I try to grind down on him—not enough to push it, but enough so he can tell I need more. It’s tough to do when I’m standing up, and I can’t see what’s happening below the sunroof, but by spreading my legs a little and thrusting enticingly against his exploring tongue, Blake seems to take the hint and press harder.

He’s circling my clit, his thumb is replaced by two fingers, and now he’s slowly fucking me with them. The street lights of New York City create a surreal landscape that passes me in a series of blurred half-noticed images. I keep my face straight while my entire bottom half is worked to within an inch of my ability to handle it.

It’s good. I sense the slow burn creeping up my legs, and I can feel my orgasm building steadily. Even so, the entire time he’s doing this, just the thought of climbing down into the cabin and feeling his strong arms wrap around me, his body heat pressing against me, his lips, so pink and sweet-looking that most likely taste like the popcorn we just had, gets me off.

He keeps pushing his fingers into me, pressing his tongue more earnestly against me, and the pressure in my lower half steadily builds until a shuddering orgasm envelopes me. It’s not a crashing wave, more of a gentle, invigorating shock of pleasure that takes over my entire body.

Blake must be able to feel it when I climax. He pumps his fingers into me a few more times, gives me one more lick that makes me jerk enough to make my arms slip on the roof. The limo pulls up to a set of lights, and Blake pulls my panties back up. I slide back into the cabin.

I land in his lap and pull him into a kiss.

Blake’s tongue is immediately in my mouth, and I can taste myself on him. That, and popcorn. It’s weird, but the feeling of his arms wrapping around me and pulling me close enough to press his entire body against mine excites me. I feel the bulge in his pants, and I reach for it.

He pulls away.

“Sorry… wait, no. I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

What the fuck.

“What?” I say, keeping the ‘fuck’ to myself.

“That was… out of line. I’m so fucking sorry,” he says.

That’s an understatement, but wasn’t that the point?

“I don’t mind,” I say, trying to pull him back into a kiss.

He picks me up as easily as if I were a paper doll and puts me in the seat next to him. He adjusts himself in his pants—the bulge is impressive, and all I want is to address the issue, but he’s already crossing his ankle over his knee and scooting over, so his entire side is pressed against the window.

“I should know better,” he mutters, looking out the window and avoiding my eyes.

I stare at him. I’m still warm and tender from the orgasm, but my high is already gone, fizzled out thanks to the cold shoulder he’s now sending my way.

“Blake…”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Why did it happen in the first place?” I demand. I try to get closer, but he has closed himself off, and he looks like he’s willing to move across to one of the facing seats if it means getting away from me. “Why? Blake, you can’t do that and then pull away like this.”

“It was a lapse in judgment. I won’t do it again.”

“Blake…”

His lips are thin, and he shakes his head at me. “Just drop it, please.”

A lapse in judgment.

That’s what he calls it, as though he hadn’t just gone down on me while we drove through the streets of New York City. If he’d thought it would be a lapse in judgment, why start in the first place? He’d clearly enjoyed it. Wanted it.

I cross my legs and cross my arms over my chest, and I’m horrified to realize there are tears rising in my eyes. But I will not cry. I refuse to cry just because some guy won’t fuck me.

I am not that girl.

I tell myself that even though I know the sex thing isn’t even half of the reason. It’s the fact I’d felt him running his hands over me, and he’d never even asked permission or tried to check in to see whether it was okay to touch me, but I’d felt completely safe. I was more concerned with the thought someone might see than I was with the thought I hadn’t consented to anything, because Blake makes me feel safe. And he’d made me feel great for a few minutes, only to throw a cold bucket of water over the whole thing.

I’d thought…I’d hoped…

We don’t speak for the rest of the ride to my dorm.

I don’t sleep well that night. I get into my dorm, and find Shane strewn across my bed, drooling on my pillow. Instead of waking him up and explaining why I’m in such a foul mood, I go to the bathroom and scrub my makeup off, hang the Givenchy dress on its hanger, and climb into bed next to him wearing nothing but a bra and panties.

“Hrum hrum,” he says, rolling over and squeezing himself against the wall without opening his eyes.

Curling up against Shane’s back, I try to get my head around my thoughts. When I was a teenager, my mom would sit me down whenever I had boy troubles and make me write down my feelings. She said it was the best way to work through things and get it straight, so I wouldn’t end up acting super emotional.

In the end, writing down my thoughts turned into songwriting. That was my angsty, emotional phase.

Blake’s hands and tongue remain in my memory throbbing like a tattoo on my skin. I rub my back up against Shane’s, but he’s not muscular enough for me to pretend I was sleeping next to my bodyguard.

There are so many things I need to think about, but in the end, my mind boils this situation down to a few main points. One… Blake is damn good with his tongue. Two… he wants me as much as I want him—because no man goes down on a woman unless he wants her. And three… he seems to think he crossed some line.

That final point excites me a little bit. I let myself imagine he was so desperate to touch me, he forgot we work together. I let myself believe Blake’s desire for me squashed his better judgment. It’s the only way I can make myself feel better after he promised it wouldn’t happen again.

Shane snuffles a little and rolls over, so he’s spooning me from behind, pulling me close. He’s a cuddler, and that’s usually okay unless he dreams of hot men. In that case, I wake up with a boner in my back and a smirking best friend telling me how lucky I am I don’t have a Y chromosome. At the moment, I’ll take the boost to my self-esteem.

Finally, I fall asleep, only to wake up at my usual time the next morning when my alarm goes off.

“I will kill everything you love,” Shane mutters into my neck as he rolls over on top of me, groping for the bedside table to trying and get hold of the alarm clock. He shuts it off and rolls back off of my prone body.

Eventually, I sigh and pull myself out of bed, reaching for my workout clothes.

“Seriously?” Shane asks.

“I need a run.”

“Tell me about the red carpet,” he says, even as his eyes droop and he flops back onto the bed.

“I’ll tell you when I get back.”

“Did you meet any celebrities?”

“Mmm… yeah. I’ll tell you later.”

“Good girl,” he says.

I throw my workout gear on, put my hair up into a ponytail, and grab my iPod. It isn’t until I get to the bottom of the driveway and realize I’ve forgotten one very important thing—Blake joins me on my runs.

Crap, I think as I walk down to the street to find him waiting there, the sun rising behind his back and pouring through his blond hair.

He looks good enough to eat, as usual. Standing there with his arms crossed over his chest and his black T-shirt tight on his biceps, it makes me want to run up and leap at him, wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him. Last night, I’d been orgasm-drunk and hardly appreciated the way his tongue and lips had felt. If I could kiss him now, I’d memorize every moment.

But when I try to smile at him and test the waters, his face is impassive.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks.

Business as usual, then.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak even though I feel like screaming. I even go as far as to stuff my iPod in my ears, so I won’t hear his breathing. I try to convince myself that the look on his face—half-confused, half-hurt—is just my imagination.

As we run together, my ears filling with the sounds of songs I can’t even bring myself to pay attention to, I am hyper-aware of him. My brain is swirling with everything I want to say to him and everything I wish he would say to me.

I wish I could grab him and pull him off the road, and tell him I don’t care that we work together because I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life. I wish I could ask him why he’s so damn uptight about this. Is it because of Sadie? I feel my heart clench, and it’s got nothing to do with the exercise. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe he’s convinced himself that because Sadie lost herself to fame that I will, too. And if he lets himself date me—I can barely think the word because I haven’t given it much thought either as I’ve spent more time thinking about fucking him than I have actually getting to know him—that I’ll turn out the way she did?

I stop in the middle of the road. We’re about ten minutes into the run, right near a copse of trees that sends a long shadow over the path.

Blake runs a little way further before stopping and turning to look at me.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks.

“No,” I say. He looks confused, and I push on, “Do you think I’ll end up like Sadie?”

Blake’s face immediately closes up. There’s tension all around his eyes and mouth, his fingers curl up into loose balls, and his chest, easily visible beneath his tight shirt, freezes as though he’s forgotten to breathe.

“I’m not, I was just curious.” I go on, “Because I think you’re probably worried about that. Are you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, still frowning.

“Do you think I’m anything like her right now?”

“I don’t think so.”

That makes me feel better, but it doesn’t help the situation between us. It doesn’t help the fact I can still taste him as a memory on my lips, and I can still remember what he did to me, and what he said afterward.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Blake looks almost like he wants to ask, but after a moment his eyes clear, and I can see he understands what I’m getting at.

“I already apologized for that.”

“I don’t remember asking for an apology.”

“You should have,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down to his left at the clump of trees at the side of the path. “What I did was stupid and immature. I should know better.”

“I didn’t want you to stop,” I say while taking a step forward, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t step away. His arms are still crossed over his chest, but his eyes are hooded, and his tongue creeps out to lick his lips. “I still don’t.”

His legs twitch, but he doesn’t move away.

“I made the mistake of mixing business with pleasure once,” he says.

“You just said you don’t think I’m like her,” I remind him. I take another step closer. “And that sure as hell didn’t stop you before. Why did you do it, Blake? Why?”

The next words that come out of his mouth are barely a whisper. “Because I wanted you.”

His words make me want to sigh, to stretch like a cat in the sunlight, to jump and wrap my legs around him, but he’s still too far away for me to do that. “You can have me,” I say instead.

“I’m not interested in a relationship.”

I almost want to laugh. I’m so desperate for his touch that the thought of a relationship hadn’t even crossed my mind. I want him against me and inside me, but dating me? It hadn’t even registered.

“Who said anything about a relationship?” I ask.

Blake doesn’t move. The air between us is so tight with tension I almost want to pull away, but I can feel him wavering, I can feel him tearing through my shirt with his eyes. The muscles in his forearms are taut with the effort he’s taking to hold himself.

“I shouldn’t,” he says.

“I want you to.”

And then I take a chance. I step close so quickly he only has time to drop his hands to his sides before I’m throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him.

His skin is warm, not sweaty, because we’ve barely had the chance to get breathless before we stopped. His whole body tenses, and I think he’s going to pull away and tell me I’m being unprofessional. He’d be right, but I’m starting to think I might go crazy with only the memory of his touch to keep me going.

Then he wraps his arms around me, crushes me to his chest, and kisses me so hard all I can do is hang on for dear life.

Somehow, I find myself with my back pressed up against a tree. I don’t know when he pulled us into the copse of trees next to the path. I was so high on his kisses I didn’t even realize we were moving until I felt the rough bark against my back contrasting sharply with the feeling of his hot, firm chest against my own.

Blake’s kisses are hungry and demanding. I have to keep up with him, to match him move for move, because there’s a dull part of my mind that thinks this might be the only chance I have to convince him this is a good idea. I have to make it good for him.

But after a few moments, I’m hopelessly outmatched. He takes my attempts to kiss him with equal fervor and seems to triple them until I can do nothing but pant and scratch my fingers down his back while he has his way with my lips and tongue.

Yes, yes, yes, is all I can think while he’s kissing me. It feels like I’ve been wanting this for years even though it’s only been a few weeks.

“I want you, so fucking bad,” he whispers into my lips, though he doesn’t let up on the bruising pressure even for a moment. His hands trail hot lines down my waist to cup my ass. “Can’t wait.”

“I’m done waiting,” I say. I press down on the bulge in his shorts, the bulge that had been pressing against my belly while we were kissing. It’s harder than it had been in the limo last night.

While I apply pressure, he groans and pulls out of the kiss long enough to latch himself onto my neck pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. He runs his hands over my stomach and down to slide his fingers into the front of my running shorts. I want to do the same for him, but when my fingers creep to his waistband, he swats them away.

“Blake…”

“Yes, Natalie. Wait,” he says.

I feel his hot breath on my neck, and I want to melt against the tree.

It occurs to me, dimly, that anyone could run past at any moment and catch us. The sun has risen in the sky, and the trees cast a very dull shadow that gives the illusion of privacy, but it’s not nearly enough to keep our identities secret if someone were to pass by. I’m not naïve enough to think I’m being completely silent right now either. Blake’s mouth on my neck and his fingers digging in under the waistband of my panties is enough to get me panting, gasping, and moaning in short intervals. Even if a stranger passes and doesn’t see us, they’ll be able to hear us.

One photo from a camera phone and they’ll probably have magazines lining up to shower them with money.

Thoughts of what damage that could do to my career—or maybe it would even give it a boost, Kim Kardashian’s career hadn’t hurt from her sex tape leaking—are violently thrown out of my mind when Blake’s fingers finally get into my panties and rub at my clit, practically attacking it as he keeps kissing my neck. If anything, the fact that someone could come past at any moment, only makes this more exciting.

I grip Blake’s shoulders so tightly I think my nails might break while my breathing starts to quicken. Heat is already pooling in my veins, and I know I’m not going to last long. With the way he’s touching me—impatient, desperate—I think it’s only going to be moments.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, leaning up to bite Blake’s ear, desperate for some sort of revenge for the way he’s making me feel.

His fingers jerk and he gasps against my neck before leaning a little to the side and changing the angle of his fingers. I lean back a little bit to give him more room, and I’m rewarded by the feeling of two fingers filling me while his thumb aggressively rubs my clit in hard, even strokes.

My orgasm rips through me so quickly and thoroughly, I all but collapse against the tree.

My arms are still around his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin with a force that surprises me. I feel my hips moving of their own accord, humping his arm and riding out the waves of bliss he sent shooting through me. I don’t want this feeling to end, and my body seems to be acting as though it, too, wants to stay like this forever.

But before the last shockwaves of my orgasm have passed, Blake is pulling away. He pulls his hand out of my waistband and grips my hips. I barely have time to look at his face—red cheeks, pupils blown out so black that he looks almost demonic—before he’s turning me roughly around and shoving me against the tree trunk face first.

“Oof.” The breath is knocked out of me, and I was already breathless, so that’s quite an achievement, as Blake pushes on my back until my chest is pressed against the bark. One hand on my back, one on my hip.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Never.”

“It’s gonna get rough.”

“Big words,” I say, leaning my cheek on the bark and straining to look over my shoulder. “You’re gonna need to prove that to me.”

Blake stares at me for a moment before a small smile graces his lips. It’s just a moment, one breath of a pause in the midst of all that heat and desire, but it’s wonderful. I’m pressed up against a tree, my legs spread-eagled, my pussy still throbbing, and my neck sore from the hickey that’s blooming there—standing in the semi-dark of the trees and knowing that someone could come by at any moment—but I feel completely safe.

And then his face goes dark, and he seems to be moving with pure lust as he shoves my pants down. I barely have time to brace myself against the tree before I feel the hot, burning pressure of his cock breaching me from behind—bigger than I was expecting—and I moan at the feeling of the pleasant stretch as he takes me.

At first, I try to hold myself up. I attempt to keep my legs from buckling and my cheek from scratching against the bark. But after a moment, I realize it’s futile. I have no more control over this situation than I have had over anything since I met Blake. All I can do is hold onto the tree for dear life as Blake pounds into me as hard and fast as I’d been hoping.

I can hear my breathing jerking with every movement he makes, little moans breaking through, and behind me Blake grunts and mutters inaudibly as he grips my hips and takes me hard.

I gasp and drop my cheek against the bark, feeling it scrape a little, and Blake’s hand coils around my throat and pulls me back. The pressure of his hand and the knowledge that he could rip the life out of me without another thought makes my still-quivering clitoris throb. He’s squeezing with a grip that could be deadly if he wanted it to be. Blake’s pounding into me, and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping and my own gasps. It’s a sound I know someone walking past would be able to hear.

While he holds me with one hand, the other is reaching down to rub at my clitoris again. It’s still sore from his rough treatment before, but it feels so good. It feels like he’s stoking the fire that had blazed only moments before, and it’s not going to take long for him to make it explode all over again.

He wasn’t lying when he said it would be rough. If he were any other man, I don’t think I would feel safe with his hand on my throat like this. As it is, I almost want him to hold me harder, to push me to the edge of losing control, to hold me so tight I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to—not that I ever would.

I don’t know how long we’ve been here. It feels like hours. My muscles are beginning to ache, and I can feel myself shuddering as he pushes me harder, shoving himself deeper inside of me. I wonder if he can hear how turned on I am. He probably can. If he can’t, he’ll probably be able to feel it in the wetness between my legs.

Blake’s chest is heaving against my back. He’s long enough and thick enough that I can feel him rubbing against my g-spot, hastening my second orgasm.

“Keep going, don’t stop…”

He doesn’t. He goes faster and harder. Blake’s hand on my throat spasms and his fingers on my clit are moving faster and faster. His hips are jerking, and he seems to be fighting with me or something, which is ridiculous because I couldn’t put up a fight even if I weren’t entirely fixated on the way he is moving.

And then my orgasm slams into me. It is the most intense orgasm I’ve ever experienced. Whether it’s the combination of safety and danger, or whether it’s the desire that has been developing inside of me ever since I met him, my entire body feels as though it’s on fire and frozen at the same time.

I open my mouth in a silent scream, and Blake’s hands tighten on my throat and pussy. His thrusts become erratic. His groan in my ear is so erotic I think my legs might buckle under the strain of my own want. I feel him throbbing inside of me.

Blake’s hand loosens over my throat, and I gasp for breath, pulling hands away from the tree and resting them against the bark, resting my sweaty forehead against my palms as I try to get my mind in order. My crotch still throbs. My heart is racing faster than it ever has after sex. I want to turn around to kiss him, but my head is still spinning.

I feel Blake pull out of me, and I gasp. And then he is kneeling down and pulling my pants back up, unerringly gentle and achingly slow. He presses a kiss to my hip before straightening up.

“That was…” He seems lost for words, and his voice is ragged.

“Yeah,” I say.

I turn around and lean back against the tree. Blake’s eyes are still blown out with lust, and his cheeks are red. He looks immediately down at my neck, and his eyes go remorseful as he reaches out to brush his fingers gently against the skin there. I shiver.

“Sorry, that’ll bruise.”

“I’ve got a friend who knows concealer better than I know my ukulele,” I say, thinking about all the shit Shane will give me when he sees the bruises. “I can handle it.”

His touch is so gentle I feel my eyelids fluttering. Then he leans forward and kisses me, and it’s achingly gentle. His fingers find their way into my hair, and I wrap my arms around his neck, anchoring myself to him and hooking an ankle over his calf. My whole body is reacting to him. I want to lose myself inside of his kisses.

I can smell sweat, sex, and damp leaves. It’s a natural, warm scent I desperately love. I want to bottle it and wear it to my next red carpet event, preferably when Sadie Hawks is nearby so she can get a whiff of it.

That thought gives me some vicious satisfaction, and when my eyes meet Blake, he has his head cocked at a weird angle. Am I smiling strangely? I want to rearrange my face, but my body seems to be completely out of my control right now. I have a disturbing suspicion I’m smiling goofily.

“That was… everything I hoped it would be,” I tell him, and then I want to drag the words back into my mouth, but it’s too late.

Blessedly, Blake just smiles back. It’s not the wide, blissful smile I wish for that I think is probably on my face, but it’s something.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

For the last two weeks, things seem to be going perfectly. Blake and I fall into a companionship that could look to the casual observer like a relationship, but I try hard to remind myself we’re not a couple and he’s not ready for a relationship. But sweet Jesus, do I wish he was.

Because the thing is? It’s so damn easy.

Every engagement I go to, Blake is there. Blake follows me wherever I go, and where there used to be slightly awkward silence, there’s now curiosity and ease. We’re friendly, which is something we weren’t quite making it to before. Before, Blake and I could sit together, but we couldn’t talk like we do now. I ask him what made him want to be a bodyguard, and he asks me what made me want to be a Broadway actress.

“I’ve always liked playing pretend,” I tell him. “And Broadway is so exciting. It would be like a new show every night.”

“I trained with the Marines, but I never liked the combat,” he tells me. “I prefer having something to protect, rather than going out and trying to take things from someone else, and that’s really what combat is.”

He was so cold and aloof when we met, and now that he’s finally warming up. It’s like a bright light has been cast over the two of us. We trade jokes in the wings of the shows and interviews I go to. When I hate my wardrobe, he leaves Magnus to sort it out while he kisses my cares away. We’ve become a lot more comfortable with touch, though there is an unspoken agreement we never touch or kiss somewhere where there could be cameras.

I find out he has a younger brother who’s training to be a teacher, and he’s desperately proud of him. I tell him about my small-town parents who are so excited I’m doing well, even though they’re not really sure what YouTube is or how I can make money from it. He tells me he would have liked to be a chef if he could have been anything else. I tell him I would have liked to have been an astronaut.

“It would be fun!” I’d told him defensively when he’d snorted.

“You’ve got an adventurous side, you know that?” he’d replied, a wry smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “Good thing I’ve got such a great bodyguard to keep me safe.”

He still doesn’t laugh much, but I’m working on that.

We fall into a pattern that, on anyone else, could definitely be considered a relationship. He kisses me when he sees me, we talk and share details about our personal lives as often as we can. Blake stays over at my dorm. He kisses me to sleep every night and gives me the best orgasms of my life.

To be honest, I hadn’t expected us to be this great so quickly. It doesn’t make sense, really, but it seems the lust I felt for him is starting to blossom into something else and that terrifies and thrills me in equal parts.

In hindsight, I think it might have been inevitable, and that caring for Blake and feeling him inside of me on a regular basis would make me like him more. The fact he is a genuinely good person—the kind who would run into a burning building to save puppies, the kind who prefers to defend instead of attack, I mean, how could I have resisted that?—only makes things worse.

We talk sometimes. I’m slowly breaking through the wall he’s built up since Sadie left, but a lot of the time we just sit in silence. We’re together so often, going to interviews and appearances, I feel almost like I’ve had him with me for years like he’s always been there and always will be. When I look at him now, I’m less distracted by his biceps and his chest and more interested in the way his eyes will light up when I make a good joke or a daring pun. I want to see him laugh—that’s my goal.

At the end of two weeks, I’m able to admit to myself I want more from Blake than excellent sex. The only problem is finding a way to bring it up with him.

While all of this is happening, I’m frantically trying to plan my tour. My idea is to act out my YouTube career, using Shane and a couple of my other friends as characters. A musical I write and direct myself—it’s something I’ve done over and over for school, but this time it’s deeply important I don’t fuck it up. There’s more than just a grade on the line. Magnus has made it clear this could be the thing to make or break me.

No pressure or anything.

I spend hours huddled up in my dorm while Blake is sleeping on my bed or reading quietly. I type away, put together a mood board, try to map out every inch of what I want the stage to look like. Because it’s so personal for me, because I’m in charge, every detail has to be perfect. I can’t allow for anything else. The stress of the looming tour, plus the two videos a week—videos I have to plan out, rehearse, shoot, and edit myself—leaves me with little time to be worrying about a potential relationship with my bodyguard, but somehow I manage.

Blake seems to instinctively know when I’ve had too much. When I need a break, he takes me for a run or guides me to the bed for a few hours of blissful, mind-blowing sex. Sometimes, he can make me forget my name—making me forget I’ve got a tour to plan is child’s play. Blake can play my body with the same finesse I reserve for my music, and I love it.

Shane pretends to tut when he sees the bruises Blake leaves on my neck before he’s climbing all over me and demanding details. His own sex life is looking better and better. He and Magnus have been on a couple of dates, though Magnus did give Shane the courtesy of finding a different manager to cover Shane’s career—“To avoid conflict of interest, he’s such a sweetheart,” Shane had told me. So Shane only ever sees Magnus in the personal setting.

Maybe that’s the problem with Blake and me. We’re professional colleagues first, lovers second, and friends third.

After two weeks, though, it all falls apart.

Shane scored a role in a TV pilot. It’s the type of thing that could launch a career if the pilot gets picked up. We spent a good two hours squealing about it. I wanted to run and tell my Instagram followers who love Shane as much as I do, but he quickly swats the phone out of my hand.

“NDAs, woman,” he says. “We can’t tell a soul until the pilot season is over!”

I am so damn happy for him. When he invites me to the set to help him run lines before the first shoot, I’m ecstatic, and I agree immediately. My tour and videos can wait. I need to support my friend.

Blake drives me. The limo for the red carpet was a one-time thing, and I’m not pulling in enough to hire a full-time driver. Ordinarily, I would have split an Uber with Shane, but he’d had to be on the set at 4:00 a.m., and I’m not about that life. Instead, Blake picks me up from the dorm.

“So what’s your friend doing on the show?” Blake asks as we merge seamlessly into traffic. He’s wearing a blue Henley that hugs his biceps deliciously. I’d told him once, after a particularly delicious round of sex, that I think the tight shirts are sexy. Since then, he’s worn nothing but tight shirts. He is clearly trying to drive me insane. It’s working.

“A small role,” I tell him, leaning my head against the window. I can’t get my grin off of my face, I’m just so proud. “But it’ll be something big, I can tell. There’s too much talent there.”

“As long as the pilot gets picked up.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t, a reputation will build up, won’t it? It certainly can’t hurt a career?”

Blake shrugs, but I take that as a positive reaction. I realize we’ve never really talked about Shane so much. In fact, I don’t think Blake has even met Shane. Shane always makes himself scarce when Blake comes over, like a true friend. I think I’ve been holding off on introducing them properly. Shane has always been my litmus test for men. If he likes them, then the relationship is worth pursuing.

I’m worried, on some level, that Shane will like Blake because I already know how Blake feels about relationships.

Blake drives us to the studio. I’ve seen a few studios in the last month or so, but this one is big. The building is an imposing, sand-colored monolith with people scurrying around it like ants. Many of them are wearing headphones or Bluetooth earplugs, talking loudly and checking things off on their clipboards. There’s a group of men unloading a catering truck as Blake, and I pull into the service parking lot. Blake drops me off there, and I walk inside while he looks for a place to park his car.

“See you,” I say, leaning over to give him a brief kiss on the lips.

He returns it without hesitation. It’s so damn domestic. Like we’ve been together for years.

I walk past the caterers who are unloading, frankly, an irresponsible amount of food. The studio is smaller on the inside than it had looked from the outside, and I find a harried PA who can guide me to the trailers parked on the other side of the building.

Walking through the organized chaos, gazing around at the many plywood outsides of sets, the green screens, and the camera equipment which puts my tiny Nikon to shame, I think I would definitely prefer the stage. Not that there’s anything wrong with this environment, I just know from experience that plays are more… intimate, for the want of a better word. Backstage, there’s only so much space. You’re squeezing between people to get your makeup on in a tiny mirror, you’re sorting through other people’s costumes to find your own in the wardrobe chaos, and there’s a feeling of comradery that comes from knowing it’s you against the audience.

Here, even though the room is small, there seems to be a place for everything and everything in its place. There’s no sense of muddled confusion that makes the stage feel so alive. When I find the trailers at the back of the studio, the feeling that I don’t quite like this environment is reinforced. There are over two dozen trailers all in a row. Each looks sadly solitary. Even though there are probably hundreds of people on set today, the actors are isolated, not just from the crew, but from each other. I think if I worked in film and TV, it might get a bit lonely.

I find Shane’s trailer and knock.

The door flies open, and I find my best friend beaming down at me. “Thank the good Lord you’re here,” he says in his thickest Southern drawl. “Honey, I need to practice kissing a girl, and you’re the closest thing I’ve got.”

“I thought your character was supposed to be from Alaska?” I say, following him into the trailer.

“They made the change last minute, darlin’.”

Inside, the trailer is almost spartan. There’s very little personality beyond the Red Bull cans in the trash and the smell of Shane’s sandalwood cologne. There’s makeup on the dresser and script pages strewn all over the table from where he must have been feverishly trying to learn his lines.

He guides me over to the table and sits me down, straight to business.

“So, I didn’t think I’d have to do this scene today,” he says, his accent reverting back to his usual one as he shuffles through the script pages. I’m so glad there are page numbers—seeing them in a pile like this is giving me anxiety. “But I’ve got to kiss a girl, and I realize now I’ve never actually done that?”

“Never?” I ask.

“Nope. All the roles I’ve ever had at school were either second lead or the gay guy.”

I’d never realized that, but now that I think of it, I really can’t remember a time when he had to kiss a girl for a part in one of our student-run productions.

“Not even when you were a teenager?”

“Honey, I’ve been queer as a rainbow since I came out of the womb.”

I laugh at him. “Well, I’ve kissed girls, and I don’t think it’s that different.”

“Still, give me some practice?”

“Of course,” I say easily.

Grinning, he hands me a page from the script. His lines are highlighted in pink, which I think is adorable.

“Okay, you read for Tiffany.”

“Tiffany?”

“Yeah, the name makes me sad, too.”

Shane clears his throat, and his voice immediately drops a few octaves switching to smooth southern with an ease that would have been astonishing if I hadn’t worked with him for hours to perfect it. We learn accents the way math majors learn equations. I could switch from French to Greek to Czech in my sleep.

“Tiffany, I don’t think I can keep this up,” Shane says, with all the sincerity of a man who is talking to the love of his life. It’s convincing. I tell myself I’ll let him know that when we’re done with the scene. “Your daddy is never going to stop hunting my brother, and I can’t keep pretending your family doesn’t have it out for mine.”

“It was the fire that started everything,” I reply, reading off of the script with an accent to match his.

“She’s New Orleans, babe.”

“Oh, sorry. It was the fire that started everything,” I repeat. “And I know you hate my father, but I don’t want that damn blaze to be the thing that defines us. Can’t we make our own destiny?”

“This ain’t about destiny,” Shane says sternly. “This is about your daddy wanting revenge, and my brother wanting to stay alive. I’m gonna have to make a choice.”

“Choose me,” I say, as desperately as I can without seeming cheesy. “We can run away together.”

“And leave my brother?” he asks. “No, Tiff. I can’t leave him. I won’t.”

“So you’re choosing to throw us away?”

Shane reaches up and cups my chin with his thumb and forefinger. His hands are smaller than Blake’s, and I could easily pull away if I wanted to.

“You have no idea how badly I want to keep you,” he says.

His tone is earnest, and I’m so proud of him at this moment that I nearly break character. He’s going to be great in this role. I only hope the pilot is picked up.

“But I don’t think I can. You’ve got your scholarship. You’ll learn to live without me. And when your father gives up his vendetta, then maybe…”

“I’m going to find out who started that fire,” I tell him, my eyes flicking from the man in front of me to the script in my hand. “And when I do, I’ll put this feud to rest. Will you wait for me?”

Shane’s lips quirk up like he’s trying to fight a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

And then he’s kissing me. It’s a bit… hard. Like he’s trying to go for passionate and has gone a bit too far. I think of the way Blake kisses me and pull away from Shane.

“Okay, just a thought? Start gentle and go rough.”

“It says passionate,” Shane says, frowning at the script.

“You can be passionate and still be gentle. I think it’s more in the body language.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s stand up.”

So we stand. Shane cups my chin again and presses his lips to mine. I can feel his concentration in every movement, which isn’t exactly sexy, but he clearly knows what he’s doing because his technique is damn near flawless. He tilts his head so his nose is pressed into my cheek, and his fingers move up to my hair. It’s close to how Blake usually holds me, but Shane’s hands are the wrong size, and his chest isn’t as broad when he pulls me to him.

Still, the body language helps. In this position, he can move his hands and press himself as close to me as possible, as though he’s trying to occupy the same space as me without hurting me. His lips and tongue are urgent like he’s worried we’ll run out of time, but his teeth and tight jaw are no longer an issue. I grip his shoulders, not wanting to draw him out of the kiss or distract him as he decides how he’s going to move.

When it’s over, we pull apart, and Shane winks. “You’re welcome, darlin’,” he says.

“Much better. You should probably practice with the woman you’re doing the scene with, though.”

“Yeah, maybe later. You’re more fun.”

He dips his hands down to my hips and swats me on the butt. I laugh at him as he pulls me into a hug.

Then I look over his shoulder, and my eyes are drawn to the window of the trailer. There’s a face there. I yelp, startled until my mind puts the features together into Blake’s face. Shane spins around, and together we watch as Blake, looks furious. I’ve never seen that expression on his face—he turns and walks away from the window.

Shane and I share a look. “You don’t think he—”

“Was that…”

I quickly rush over to the door and pull it open. “Blake!” I shout.

I can see his back as he marches away from the trailers, fury in every line of his muscles, his hands in tight balls at his sides.

He saw me kiss another man.

He doesn’t know that Shane is gay.

He’s angry and walking away without waiting for an explanation.

I climb down from the trailer and chase after him, watching as he disappears around the corner. My shoes crunch against the gravel, and my hair flies behind me, but by the time I get to the end of the line of trailers, Blake has disappeared.

Blake won’t answer my calls. My goddamn bodyguard won’t answer my fucking calls.

I called Magnus after Blake left me stranded at the studio, only to find out that in the half hour between Blake catching me kissing Shane and me realizing he’d left the place without me, Blake had already tendered his resignation.

“You’re kidding?” I asked. My voice wasn’t shaking, which I put down mainly to Shane’s hand rubbing soothing circles over my shoulders. I was deliberately calm through this whole thing. “He just quit? Is he allowed to do that? Didn’t he sign a contract?”

“He offered to give up this month’s paycheck to get out of it,” Magnus replied. He sounded worried. “He sounded pretty adamant about it. What happened?”

“A misunderstanding,” I said. “I’ll fix it.”

But I hadn’t fixed it. The man wouldn’t answer his fucking phone, and Shane had apologized over and over, but it wasn’t his fault, of course. There’s no fault in my best friend kissing me, and every fault in a man who left the studio after ‘catching’ me cheating without even asking me whether there was an explanation.

Blake has gone beyond the cold robot—he’s gone full ice king. Freezing me out like we’re on a high school playground, and I’ve committed some cardinal social sin.

Within a few days, I realize this might be it. And when I realize that, I want to push the thought away, because I don’t want it to be over. Not just because of the incredible sex—though I can’t go to sleep at night without thinking about the way he would run his fingers over my skin and hold me down while he fucked me into oblivion—it’s the fact we were so close to something good. I’d almost broken through. I had gotten him to smile, and in a few weeks I would have had him laughing—I’m sure of it—but all that work has been thrown down the garbage disposal by that one stupid afternoon.

So I get back to my routine. Magnus assures me he’ll find a replacement for Blake as soon as possible. I don’t want to wait to get back to my life, and try to bury the memory of Blake holding me against that tree on our run—our run I can’t go on anymore, so I end up running around the campus in the other direction so I don’t have to feel the moment and see the place where Blake finally took me. I go to classes, and Shane helps to keep the fans away from me, like a sweetheart. He’s not as bulky and burly as Blake, but he has one hell of a bitch face, and he keeps the worst of the masses away.

I find myself listening over and over again to songs that I shouldn’t, songs I know will hurt. It’s something I’ve always done—looking for music that will cut to the core of what I’m feeling. My playlist looks like something out of a RomCom.

It’s not like I’ve fallen into a depression or anything. I just can’t seem to sleep properly and find myself looking over my shoulder expecting to see my bodyguard, only to realize he’s not there. I reach for my phone to call him and end up grimacing because I know he won’t pick up, but that doesn’t stop me from reaching over in the first place.

I make my YouTube videos. I work on my tour. It’s good to force myself into that creative flow. I plan out a great little skit involving some music I wrote and some awesome dances I know Shane would love to perform.

On one Wednesday, I interview Shane on my YouTube channel. Even though the audience knows him well, this is a chance to talk up the tour, which Magnus loves.

“So, Shane, tell the audience about yourself,” I say, speaking into the handle of my hairbrush and trying out a satirical version of all of the interviewers I’ve met over the past few months.

We’re sitting on my bed together, my camera set up in front of us on a cute little tripod resting on the desk. It’s not difficult for me to summon up a cheerful smile for the camera with Shane at my side.

“Well, I’m glad you asked, Miss Summers,” he replies. Then he turns to the camera and gives an exaggerated sort of wave. “Hi, everyone! My name is Shane Heartman, and I’m easily the best thing that ever happened to your girl, Natalie.”

“Easily,” I agree.

“I remember when you were just a tiny nugget lost in the wilds of the college campus. I rescued you.”

“You screamed in my ear that you knew where a lit party was.”

“Was the party not lit? It was completely lit! I rest my case.”

I shake my head at him. “Tell the people about yourself… give them the stats.”

So Shane gives them the stats—male-identifying, homosexual, twenty-three. Loves long walks on the beach and Skittles. Prefers men with dogs. He even gives them his favorite movies and TV shows, even though I’m half convinced he’s already given them those before. But the only reason we’re filming is really to introduce him to the new community that has sprouted up around my videos since I went viral. Half of them probably never even watched the work I put up before.

The video ends up doing pretty well. Since it’s just an interview, I edit and release it in the same day, and the responses are generally positive. People love Shane. They love his energy and his enthusiasm. They love that he can talk forever about the guy he likes—thinly-veiled references to Magnus that only he and I, and possibly Magnus himself will understand—and they just love him. And I love him, too. I think that much is obvious while I’m editing. He’s been great these past few days.

I don’t regret giving him that kiss no matter how many times he’s apologized for screwing up my budding relationship with my bodyguard, because he’s my friend, it wasn’t romantic, and he killed it in his scene later.

After I post the video on my channel, I look at the clock and realize it’s well past midnight. Sighing, I run my hand over my hair and am suddenly aware of just how tired I am. My eyes are itchy with missed sleep, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth. My roommate is once again MIA, so when I crawl into bed, I’m completely alone. Shane is on a date with Magnus. I wrap my arms around my waist in the desperate hope I can mimic the feeling of Blake’s arms around me and fall into a restless doze.

I’m woken up to the sound of pounding on my door. I look at the clock, still half-groggy and a little bit fuzzy around the edges, it’s 3:35.

“Honestly, Shane,” I mutter, fully expecting to have to smack my best friend over the head because he’s shown up at my door to regale me with his sexual conquests.

I shove the blankets down to my feet. I’m wearing an old pair of pajamas that are too tight across the chest and too baggy in the bottom, but Shane’s seen me in much worse.

Flinging open the door, I get ready to release a tirade. And then I freeze because it’s not my best friend at the door. It’s Blake.

He’s not looking as good as he usually does. He’s wearing his signature dark Henley and some slacks, but there’s also a faint tang of alcohol in the air around him, and his eyes are a little bit dim as he takes me in. I want to cross my arms over my chest the moment he begins to stare, but I resist the urge.

For a moment, we stare at each other. I’ve never really understood the idea of being ‘frozen’ by someone. I’d always thought it was an exaggeration authors used to get an idea across, but I’ve never seen someone standing in front of me and was completely unsure of what to do. Not ever. At this moment, however, it’s like I’m buffering. It’s like my brain is trying to catch up with the situation, and I can’t even move my body without waiting for it. While my head gets its shit together, Blake’s head seems to be having the same problem.

Finally, I can speak. “You quit.”

He grimaces. “Yes, I did.”

“I called you,” I say. “Not just on the phone. On that day I called for you to come back. You ignored me.”

“You were kissing another man.”

“I called you,” I repeat. “You couldn’t at least hear me out?”

Blake sighs and rubs his eyes. He’s not looking good. His face is adorned with a soft brown stubble, and he looks more tired than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been having trouble sleeping these last few days.

That thought made the tiny fire of anger—it’s too early to get furious—inside of my chest dim a little bit. I step aside and wave for him to come in.

“You’re lucky you caught me at three in the morning,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse, and I wonder if I should try recording a couple of songs at this time of the night. It’s a good sound to my ears, but it would probably sound like raw sandpaper to anyone else. “If it were the afternoon, I would be throwing shit at you. Right now, I’m too tired to scream.”

“Wouldn’t have had the courage to come during the day,” he mutters.

I get the impression I wasn’t supposed to hear that. “Get a little drunk tonight, did you?”

“I saw your video,” he says. He turns to look at me, and I realize I’ve missed seeing him in my room. “He’s gay.”

It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. When I do, even though it is three in the morning, I step up and smack him around the temple.

“If I had a newspaper, I’d swat you on the nose.”

Blake doesn’t appear to be fazed by that, but he’s got an ex-army officer’s philosophy to tiny women hitting him. He does look pretty uneasy, though.

“It’s not… I thought you were—”

“You thought I was cheating on you,” I say, hands on my hips. “Despite the fact that we were never technically dating because I was always too scared to try and make it official, and Shane and I were in a fucking trailer in a fucking studio. Even if Shane weren’t completely uninterested in women, you couldn’t put two and two together and realize we were probably rehearsing?”

Blake opens his mouth, closes it, and then looks away. He sways a little on his feet, and I wonder just how much he has had to drink or whether he’s considering running.

“Scared?”

“Who?”

“You said you were scared?”

“I did?” I try to think back on what I just said because honestly, it’s too early for this shit. “Oh, yeah. I mean. I was, you know? You made it pretty clear you weren’t interested in dating, and at the beginning, I wasn’t either. But…” I trail off and shrug helplessly.

Blake sits on the bed and runs his hand through his hair smoothing it even more perfectly down on his head. Even looking this way, he’s still completely delectable, and it’s infuriating. Part of me wants to climb on his lap and ride him to oblivion, while another part wants him to comfort me while I sort through the emotions I wasn’t planning to have to deal with at this time in the morning.

“I wasn’t,” Blake says. “I wasn’t until I saw you with him.”

I click my tongue. “Not sure how I feel about you only wanting me if someone else has me.”

“That’s not it,” Blake says, looking up at me again. His eyes seem clearer now, as though my words have sobered him. “That’s not… I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you. I don’t care that you were with someone else, not really, I care that I trusted you and you… you weren’t… I just…”

“We weren’t even really together,” I remind him.

Blake frowns and scuffs his shoe against the carpet. I watch as his fingers lace together, and his thumbs fidget with his nails. I have half a mind to reach out and grab them, so I don’t have to watch him tearing out a cuticle.

Even after ignoring me for days and making me feel terrible, I still don’t want to see him in pain.

I remember the night of my first red carpet. I remember seeing him hurting and diving in to protect him without even thinking about it. I remember feeling unbearably protective, and I remember the way he’d taken his boots off that morning at the interview so I would feel comfortable.

How did we come to a place where we would defend each other before we even really liked each other?

It feels as though we have been working in reverse. I trusted him with my life before I even knew him, and now I know he’s willing to go MIA over a small issue like this, I’m not sure if I trust him with my heart.

But I want to. Boy, do I want to. And not just because I miss the sex. It’s because I wish we could do this properly. I wish we could do this right. I know… I know we can be something. He’s one of the few men I’d enjoyed quiet silence with, one of the few who can really understand what I do. Do I really want to let go of the potential behind this just to see where this would go if it weren’t for some stupid misunderstanding?

I sit down on the bed next to him, feeling the bed dip down so I slide slightly over and feel the warmth of his body against mine.

Boy, that’s distracting.

No, Natalie. Bad Natalie!

I take a deep breath. “Why don’t we try this again?” I ask. “And set some ground rules first, so there’s no more of this stupid drama.”

Blake breathes out. “I… I want to, I really do. I didn’t realize how bad until… but … I’m gonna be honest, Natalie, I don’t know if I’m any good in a relationship.”

“But you are,” I say. “We were doing fine before. It just wasn’t official. So let’s make it official.”

It doesn’t seem like it should be that easy, but it is. It’s as easy as leaning over and pressing my lips to his and feeling his tongue run over my lips silently asking for permission, and tasting the whiskey on his breath as though I’d spent most of the night drinking it myself. I missed the taste of him. It was only a couple of days—not even the tiniest grain of sand of time—but I had begun to miss him. Maybe that’s the easiest way to tell whether we’re supposed to give this another try.

He brings his hands up to cup my throat and dip into my hair, and I want to sing. In fact, I hum a little as he kisses me, pulling me over into his lap and reaching down to the dip between my breasts and the taut lines of my belly.

“Let’s try this,” he says against my lips. “You said… something… about… ground rules?” He breaks up each word with a kiss.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and grind down feeling a firm bulge press into the heat between my legs and feeling him shudder beneath me.

“Later.”

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Hazel Jacobs is a passionate fan of romance novels and a crazy fan of rock and roll. Never trained as a writer, she began creative writing as a hobby, which quickly evolved into a mission to pen a novel to bring a new generation of readers into the wild realm of loud music and total passion.