He held the bottle out for me, but I shook my head. If I had any more alcohol, I’d be in a coma for three days.
The ride back to my condo was not exactly what you would call romantic. Brazilian model was taking shots of champagne (what kind of man does that?) and I was checking my email to see if there were any updates about my meeting scheduled for the following morning.
A ping from my phone alerted me to two new messages. One was from my agent and the other was from my assistant, Summer.
Summer Neilson (
[email protected]) 7:00 P.M.
Whattup Boss? Just an update about the meeting tomorrow with Global Records. It’s still at 8:00 A.M. at their downtown offices, but now Jason Monroe will be there as well. They haven’t briefed me about what they’ll be discussing with you guys, but I thought I’d give you a heads up in case you wanted to forget to wear a bra or something. I’ve attached a photo of him, just as a reminder of how seriously hot he is. (You’re welcome.)
Your badass assistant,
Summer
I laughed and rolled my eyes. Some people might argue that my relationship with my thirty-year-old assistant crossed boundaries. Summer had bright purple hair and usually sported black on black for all occasions. I don’t think I could have reined her in even if I tried. Not to mention, she got shit done and made me laugh while she did it, so I didn’t see any problems.
“Oh, no way. You have a meeting with Jason Monroe tomorrow? That guy can seriously rock,” the Brazilian model said over my shoulder. I hadn’t even realized he’d slid over to my bench while I’d been reading my email. Creepy.
I turned my phone away quickly, hoping he hadn’t had enough time to read the rest of the email, where Summer had attached a shirtless photo of Jason. If so, I was going to have to find the guys from Men in Black so that I could use that pen thing to erase his memory.
“Oh, um, yeah, we’re under the same music label,” I answered nonchalantly, trying to read his features for any tell of whether he read the bra-less comment.
“That guy has soul. Have you seen his acoustic performances?” he asked, seemingly more interested in the idea of Jason Monroe than the idea of having sex with me. Something was wrong with this picture. “He headlined ACL and Coachella last year.”
I rolled my eyes and dropped my phone back into my purse. It’s not like I had anything against Jason Monroe; we just had very different styles. The songs I wrote usually skewed toward a younger, mainstream crowd, whereas Jason Monroe was more of a gritty, folk singer. He’d come out of the woodwork after Mumford and Sons blew up, but his songs had a little more rock and a little less banjo, and the crowd loved him for it.
Before he’d come along, I was the number one performer at Global Records, the largest music label in the world. In the last two years, our label had constantly reminded me that he and I were neck and neck for the top-selling status. We’d never met before, as our schedules kept us busy, but I loved his music and was a fan myself, so I was happy for his success. I doubted that respect went both ways. Most people brushed my songs off as pop ballads, but I wrote every word and there was a reason that teenage girls everywhere could relate to them.
They were good songs.
The rest of the ride to my condo, and even as we rode the elevator up to my floor, I wondered what the record label had up their sleeves concerning me and the seriously sexy Jason Monroe. (Yes, of course, I went back to look at the photo Summer had sent me in the email. Here’s a hint: he was on stage at a music festival with his guitar. His eyes were closed, sweat was dripping down his neck, his brown hair was disheveled, and he was singing a song with every bit of soul he had in him. I couldn’t look away until the Brazilian model literally pried the phone out of my hand.)
Chapter Two
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Turn it off,” I groaned, rolling over to shove my pillow over my head so that the incessant beeping would disappear.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Seriously. I will end you if you don’t turn that off,” I said again, this time coming out of my sleepy haze enough to realize that I’d just threatened to kill someone.
“Um, that’s not my alarm and it’s been going off for the past hour.”
That voice. That was a male’s voice in my bed.
I shot up out of my covers and turned to see Mr. Brazilian Model laying in a suggestive pose on top of my duvet. As in, his hand was on his hip with his legs spread apart suggestively. Seriously? Did he just lounge around in his underwear waiting for someone to snap a picture of him? So odd.
“Oh, jeez. You should get out of my condo,” I said slowly, trying to comprehend the scene before me. It sounded like I was relearning the English language, but his package was a little bit distracting. I mean, I hadn’t seen one in the light of day in over a year.