Managed: A VIP Novel Part 21

"Ugh. And have the threat of hearing myself every time I turn on the TV?" Her nose wrinkles.

I cross my arms over my chest, bracing my feet wide. I'll be here for a while. "We'll work in a clause to cover how long the commercial can run to avoid overexposure."

"Missing the point, Scottie."

"I believe you're the one missing the point, Mrs. James."

"For the last time, call me Libby or Liberty, Scottie."

"But you are Mrs. James now. I'm showing you the proper respect."

She gives me a light punch on the arm. "Your formality is killing me, Mr. Scott."

"Stick to the matter at hand, please. We need exposure at this point in your career. Car commercials have launched many an artist simply because people hear the song and want to buy it. Need I remind you of Sia?"

"Like I can stop you," she mutters.

"The program Six Feet Under played 'Breathe Me' for one b.l.o.o.d.y show, and it launched her in the US."

Liberty's chin lifts on a stubborn sniff, but I see the capitulation in her eyes.

"I understand you want to keep things low key," I say. "This is a good way to do it. No talk show appearances, media junkets, and the like. You simply let another ma.s.sive media source do the work for you."

I don't add that I'll work toward setting up a mini-tour when the public starts clamoring for her. Baby steps are needed with Liberty. But despite her protests, she does love the stage. Killian knows as much, which is why they'll be performing a few songs together on this tour.

"Fine. Tell them yes."

"Enthusiasm, Mrs. James. It's what makes my day."

She laughs. "Yeah, I just bet it does." Liberty stands and gives me a long look. "And your nights? How are they doing now that you've got yourself a roommate?"

Sly little s.h.i.t. I want to tell her to mind her business. But now I'm thinking of Sophie. How are things? I wake with my hands full of luscious, warm woman. I smell her on my clothes throughout the day. I barely have a moment's privacy once I'm on my coach or in a hotel room, and I look forward to that. I'm beginning to hate silence, because it means she's not there.

And I'm surrounded by all things Sophie. Her battered little trainers. Camera equipment. Makeup, hairbrushes, lotions, and hair products.

My collar suddenly feels too tight.

"Tell me, Mrs. James," I find myself saying. "Is there a reason you women feel the need to wash your underthings in the sink and hang them over the shower like some sort of profane Christmas decorations?"

I was treated to this particular form of visual torture earlier, when I went to have my morning shower, only to find lacy bras and delicate little knickers strewn about the place. What was I supposed to do? Take them down? I'd have to touch them.

If I'm going to put my hands on Sophie's knickers, she's b.l.o.o.d.y well going to be in them when I do. My collar squeezes my throat yet again.

Liberty laughs. "It's not as though you can toss good bras and undies in the laundry. They're hand wash only."

"But must you leave them hanging out in the open?" h.e.l.l, now I know exactly what size Sophie's bras are. I'm only human. I looked. How could I not? Particularly when she left that pretty white lace one trimmed in scarlet ribbon, so well constructed, it seemed to hold her shape even though she wasn't in it.

"You've pulled your tie all out of whack," Liberty says, bringing me back to the present.

I blink down at her for a minute, trying to clear my mind of the fact that Sophie favors satin panties with lace panels that hug her peachy b.u.m to perfection.

Liberty gives me a soft smile. "Here, I'll fix it. I know how you hate being rumpled."

She moves to straighten my tie, but I wave her off. "Leave it."

I hate being fussed over more. But I don't bother fixing my tie either. I want to pull the d.a.m.n thing off and toss it in the nearest bin before it strangles me. Liberty looks at me as if I'm off my nut.

"Well," she says, clearly struggling not to tease. "You could always ask Sophie to send her things out to be dry cleaned."

And miss the post-wash show? "That would be rude," I mutter.

Liberty's expression is too neutral to be serious. "It's probably a good idea not to tick off your new roommate."

I shrug, tug at my tie again, then leave off-because f.u.c.k all, I will not fidget. "It's fine. I simply hadn't thought there would be quite so many...accessories. I've never roomed with a woman before."

It's too silent. I glance at Liberty to find her grinning. Her grin grows when I glare.

"It's cute to see you with a girlfriend," she says.

"What are we, sixteen?" I sneer. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Fine, your lover."

"Christ. We're friends. That is all."

"Right." She rolls her eyes.

"I told the lot of you to mind your business."

Liberty laughs. "Oh, come on, Scottie. You brought a woman into your Fortress of Solitude. Did you really think we wouldn't talk?"

"And what is your role here?" I ask. "Did you draw the short straw to come fact check?"

A grin spreads across her face. "I volunteered. Everyone else is too chicken to ask."

"Lovely. You can go back and tell the rest of the clucking hens that Sophie and I are just friends."

"Hey," Jax says, sauntering up. "That rhymes."

He gives Liberty a kiss on the cheek. "Killian's looking for you. You giving Scottie a hard time for us?"

"He's in a mood now."

"I'm not in a mood." I'm lying, and we all know it. Tension locks my jaw and rides down my neck.

"His tie is askew," Jax says, frowning. "That's practically undressed."

Liberty nods, staring at my wrenched tie. "He won't let me fix it."

I give them both the finger, which they find hilarious, and walk away. The urge to fix my tie is strong now, but I leave it on principle.

I don't know where I'm headed. I should find Jules and ask her for a progress update. I'd call her, but I forgot my phone. It unnerves me that I actually left the coach without my phone-didn't even think about it. My head was filled with...other things.

As if called by my thoughts, Sophie appears at the top of the aisle, her smile wide and fresh, camera case slung over her shoulder, a takeout cup in her hand. "Hey! I've been looking for you."

I don't stop until I'm close enough for my body to block her from the others' sight. I don't want them to see her yet. "Have you?" I ask, peering down at her.

She's wearing bright red Chucks, worn jeans cuffed wide to her shins, and a white camisole that strains over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. We couldn't be more incongruously attired if we tried. I drink her in, suddenly so thirsty my mouth dries up.

"Here," she says, lifting her cup toward me. "I brought you some tea. One sugar, light on the milk."

I blink in shock. She knows how I take my tea. She brought me tea. Even if it is in a paper cup, which will make it taste like s.h.i.t.

As if reading my mind, she snorts, and her mouth quirks. "It's ceramic, designed to look like a takeout cup."

"Why on Earth would someone design a cup to look like something it's not-"

"Just take the tea, sunshine." She shoves the cup at me, and I have no choice but to obey. While I inspect it, she sighs. "Before you start complaining again, the lid is rubber. You could drink through that little hole, but I know you won't. Take it off and drink."

Afraid to disappoint her, I do as directed. The tea is hot, and a bit weak, but it soothes the sudden lump in my throat. I take two more sips before clutching the cup in my hand and staring down at the murky tea. The steam rising from it makes my vision blur. "Thank you."

"Sure thing. Oh, hey, your tie is all pulled out."

She sets down her camera bag and reaches for my tie. I lean toward her so she doesn't have to stand on her toes, and hold still. Or I try to. I find myself listing closer until her lemon-sweet scent fills my lungs and the warmth of her body buffets my skin.

"How did you do this?" she mutters as she tugs at the tie and tucks the length farther down beneath my vest. "You're never mussed."

"I don't remember," I say, fighting the urge to rest my forehead on hers.

"Tough day?"

I think about where we are, and everything clenches cold. "I've had better."

"Well, drink your tea." She smoothes a hand over my chest and across my shoulders. "Let it work its magic on your British soul."

Stroke me more. Forever.

But she stops and gives me another happy look. "Oh, I found your phone on the dresser."

She pulls it out of her pocket and gives it to me.

I stand there, phone in one hand, tea in the other, unable to form words.

Sophie pats my shoulder. "Can't believe you left that behind."

I can't believe anything about myself anymore. I don't know whether to run or grab hold of her and never let go.

"Walk with me?" I ask, pocketing my phone.

"Where?"

Anywhere. "Outside. I need air."

Neither of us mentions that we're in an outdoor venue. She simply takes my free hand. "Lead on, sunshine."

Sophie

Outside the stadium isn't exactly conducive to a nice walk, as it's in a fairly industrial area. Of course Gabriel, being Gabriel, texts his driver to pick us up and take take us to a nearby harbor.

It's gorgeous here: the Riviera sparkling in the sun, palm trees rustling overhead. Gabriel fits right in with his tailored light grey suit, sungla.s.ses covering his eyes, his coal-dark hair swept back from his face. Images of Cary Grant dance in my head.

I'm no Grace Kelly in my jeans and Chucks. But he never makes me feel frumpy or underdressed. Even now, he walks at my side, his hand lightly touching my lower back as he guides me around an older couple strolling along hand in hand.

As soon as we pa.s.s them, Gabriel shoves his hands deep into his pockets and stares out over the sea. He's so pretty against this backdrop it almost hurts to look at him.

But he also appears distracted and unsettled.

"You okay, sunshine?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. "We didn't have very much money growing up. My father was a mechanic. Originally from Wales, but he settled in Birmingham."

I have no idea why he's talking about his dad, but I'm not about to stop him. I know without a doubt that The Book of Gabriel doesn't open very often, if ever.

"Was? Did he retire?"

He snorts. "Retire would imply that he worked steadily. He never held down a job for very long. He preferred to live on the dole." Gabriel's jaw clenches. "I don't know if he's alive, actually, since he walked out of my life when I was sixteen."

"Oh." I don't say anything else, sensing that he needs to talk more than I need to question him.