Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
They're madly in love. I'm getting the interview of a lifetime. Life is good. Actually, it's great. If my journalism professor could see me right now, he'd lose his mind.
I giggle at the thought, pressing the button for the elevator. I peek over the balcony, watching water spray up from the fountain in the lobby. The hotel is seriously nice. Way better than my tiny little dorm room at Northwestern or the room I've been renting for the last couple of months.
The doors of the elevator slide open, and I bounce inside, a bundle of raw nerves and anxiety. I'm going up to Crue Blake's room. As soon as the doors slide closed, I bust a move, dancing in the elevator like a crazy person. I don't even care if security is watching me right now.
My first interview is my dream interview. No one is dulling my shine today.
"Jesus."
I squeak, spinning around so fast my laptop bag smacks me in the knee. It buckles and I stumble, nearly falling on my face. I catch myself on the handrail, meeting Crue's gaze. Humor dances in his hazel eyes, softening him. For just a moment, I see traces of the boy he used to be…the one who drove the whole world crazy with his crooked grin and insane talent.
The man he grew into is something else altogether. Young Crue was a mere hint of what this man would become. There's a hardness to him that was never there before. He's all sex and sin and control, with tattoos climbing up his neck and down his arms. I don't know what story they tell, but they're etched into his skin like armor.
I think he hides behind them, holding the whole world at bay. Just like he's hidden from the world for the last ten years, disappearing to Nashville and pretending the seven years before that never happened. He's an enigma, a beautiful puzzle. And he's haunted my mind for far too long.
Now, he's haunting my elevator too.
"Hey, sweet girl." He smirks, looking me up and down.
"You're supposed to be in your room."
"Missing this show?" His smirk grows. "Not a chance, Éire."
"The doors are supposed to be closed."
"You didn't feel the elevator stop?"
"I was busy." I narrow my eyes when his lips twitch. "You better not be laughing at me, Crue Blake. Not all of us are basically choreographers, you know."
He thrusts his arm out, halting the elevator doors as they start to slide shut. "Basically a choreographer?" One brow rises. "Baby, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not basically anything."
"You worked on My'khail's first tour."
My'khail hit the music scene three years ago and blew it up. Not many know that Crue choreographed most of the tour that put him on the map. I don't think many know that Crue's one of the best dancers around, period. It's just one more piece of the puzzle that is this man.
He eyes me silently for a moment. "You going to dance on the elevator all day, or are you coming with me?"
"I'm coming."
"Not yet," he mutters and then shakes his head as if to dispel a thought. "After you, Éire."
I duck under his arm, grazing his body on my way out of the elevator. My entire system sings. Lord have mercy. He smells like bad decisions. You know, the kind you want to make over and over again.
"You changed," I murmur, a little disappointed the gray sweats are gone. I liked those sweats. It's not even gray sweats season and he's winning all the awards.
"Believe me, it was necessary," he growls, something hungry in his gaze.
I shiver, not sure what to say to that. Sorry? Yay me? Do dirty, dirty things to me, please? I settle on, "Oh." It seems safest.
He takes my laptop bag from me, hanging the strap over his shoulder.
We stroll down the hall side by side, not speaking for several moments. He keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eye, which makes my stomach turn somersaults.
"You're staring," I finally whisper.
His lips twitch again. "So are you."
"Only because you are."
"You're far more interesting to stare at than this fucking carpet, Ireland."
"Well, it's rude."
"Is it? Then you should definitely stop doing it."
"Can't. I'm very interesting," I say, purposefully missing his point, which makes him laugh.
A second later, he places his hand on the small of my back, steering me down the hallway to the left. The doors are further apart here. Probably because the rooms are bigger.
"You didn't deny being rude."
"I'm not rude," I manage to choke out.
"Neither am I. I'm direct. There's a difference."
"You're also bossy. Funny how that's always left out of the write ups on you."
"I've got friends in high places, Éire." His smirk does things to me it shouldn't. Especially paired with the tattoos crawling up his neck.