Famously First: A Second Chance Romance Page 5

  Here’s the thing: Charlie’s always felt stronger than me. She was the one who was better at school, whose parents were proud of her. When I broke up with her, I never doubted for a second that she’d be fine without me. She’s tough and brave and whip-smart—the kind of woman who can take on the world.

  But just because you can take on the world doesn’t mean you should have to. And for the first time, I realize I can hurt her. Not because she cares about me or anything. Just because anyone, even the toughest people you know, can be hurt when someone with way more power than them is a careless dickhead.

  “Charlie?” I say gently.

  She opens one eye, then groans and turns away, “Go away.”

  “I just want to apologize—”

  “I know that, you’ve got your apology face on,” she sighs and sits up, facing me squarely. “Look, I’m too tired to lie to you, so here’s the truth. Ten years ago I melted every time you looked at me like that. But it’s not my job to make you feel better when you’re a dick. I’ll be on time in the future, and I’ll give you great photography. But that’s all you get from me. Now go away.”

  “That’s not why I’m apologizing,” I lower myself down into the seat next to her so we can talk without attracting attention. “I don’t care if you forgive me. You get to be mad at me for as long as you want, for as many things as you want. But I need you to know I wasn’t trying to sleep with you last night.”

  “Do you kiss all your employees with that lying mouth?”

  “No, I—”

  “Cut the crap, Finn,” Charlie says. “You made me follow you around the city all night because you wanted something from me.”

  She’s right but not how she thinks. The jet emerges from a cloud, and suddenly Charlie is silhouetted by blinding sunlight. If I was the photographer, this is how I’d capture Charlie. Beautiful, iron-willed, a little too brilliant to look at.

  I can’t tell her the whole truth. But I can tell her some of it. I owe her that.

  I shift in my seat and look down at my hands, “You’re right. I did want something from you. I wanted you to forgive me for … well, for ten years ago.”

  I can’t see her expression, but she stills in her seat next to me.

  “But last night was a crappy way to go about it. And this morning I was angry because I have a meeting in Chicago I don’t want to be late for. I’m sorry I was a dick to you. I’m sorry I crossed a professional line. You don’t have to forgive me. But it’s important to me that you know I wasn’t trying to … to manipulate you into having sex with me. And I’m sure as hell not trying to penalize you for saying no.”

  Charlie doesn’t say anything.

  I look at her to make sure she believes me, “I would never, ever do that to you. I’d never do that to any woman, especially not someone who fucking worked for me. I don’t need you to forgive me, but I need you to believe me.”

  It’s hard to read Charlie’s face with the sun at her back, but she nods, slowly.

  “Right. Ok, then,” I say, something inside me easing. I get up to go.

  “Who’s this big meeting with?” Charlie asks.

  And just like that I’m a mass of dread again. “No one you know,” I reply and head back to my seat. I hope she never knows him. The last thing Charlie needs is another selfish asshole in her life.

  8

  Charlie

  I turn on my phone when the jet lands, and I’m hit with a string of texts from Shaun.

  Do you have a lead yet? You should have a lead by now.

  And then My main source for this exposé is suddenly dodging my calls. I’m counting on you De Luca.

  And then finally, Call me ASAP.

  I shove my phone back into my pocket. I have a sneaking suspicion that the reason Shaun’s source is dodging his calls is because there isn’t actually a story. After days with this tour group, and all night with Finn, I can confirm that (except in regards to me) Finn is a professional who runs a tight ship. And to be fair to him, I do provoke him.

  Some of the time.

  Some of the time he’s just being an asshole.

  But being an asshole is hardly exposé worthy. Being secretive with the songs for his next album is unusual, but again, not exposé worthy.

  If I was guessing, I’d say whatever rumors Shaun heard were planted by one of the bullies Finn has a reputation for firing, or by a P.R. flack trying to throw False Prophet off the scent of some other popstar’s scandal.

  I know I should be more disappointed about that. I’m basically watching my big break go up in smoke. But as we all wait for the fancy shuttle that will take us to the hotel, I watch Finn and Owen swipe through pictures of Owen’s kittens, while Mariana chats with Karmine about the new person she’s seeing, and Bridget surveys everything like a mother hen watching over unruly chicks. And there’s a tiny part of me that’s relieved. If there’s no story, I don’t have to make a choice. Between Finn and me. Between this weird little temporary family and my own happiness.

  I’m lost in my own thoughts as we drive to the hotel. I’m staring out the window, but I don’t really see anything. Just a vague impression of wide, open streets and tall gleaming buildings.

  We pull up to the hotel, and I follow Bridget and Finn off the shuttle. I’m admiring Bridget’s ability to navigate shuttle steps in sky high heels as she tells Finn they need to go over some details. Finn demurs, saying he’s got a headache coming on and needs to take a nap.

  “Don’t forget your meeting,” I say and Finn freezes.

  Bridget looks from Finn to me, confused. “What meeting?” she asks.

  “No meeting,” Finn says quickly. “I mentioned to Charlie I might meet up with a friend in Chicago. But she’s out of town this weekend, and now I’ve got this headache, so …”

  I glance at Bridget to see if she also finds this sketchy, but her face is as impassive as always.

  “Let’s do breakfast tomorrow morning,” Finn says to Bridget, as he picks up his guitar and heads into the hotel. “We can go over everything then.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this ‘friend,’” Bridget says under her breath as she watches him go.

  My heart starts to pound. If Shaun’s source is legit … If there really is a story here …

  Then this is it. This is my scoop.

  I rush into the hotel to drop off my luggage in my room and change into a more nondescript outfit before Finn gets back down to the lobby.

  I’ve never tailed anyone before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  I’m in sneakers, dark jeans, and my short black trench with the good pockets. My hair is stuffed up under a knitted cap, and my big sunglasses dangle from my right hand. I’m ready to shove them on the instant I go outside.

  If I ever go outside. I’ve been in the lobby for a half hour, my camera with the best zoom hidden in my big purse. I’m starting to worry I missed him.

  The elevator dings, and Finn steps out. He looks broad and strong and angry in his beat up leather jacket and his day old scruff, and my stomach flips.

  How well do I really know this man?

  I never thought of this assignment as being dangerous, but if Finn’s really got a secret to hide …

  Finn would never hurt me, at least not physically. Whoever he’s going to meet though …

  Why the hell am I doing this?

  $20,000. That’s why I’m doing this.

  I rise and follow Finn out of the lobby at a discrete distance.

  I have a moment of thinking he’ll call a cab, and I’ll get to say Follow that car! like in an old fashioned movie, but Finn sticks to the sidewalk, ducking his head against the wind.

  There aren’t very many people on the sidewalk, or maybe it’s that the sidewalks are wider than they are in New York. Either way, I’m feeling too exposed as I follow him, and when he stops, I duck into a doorway. The homeless man already sitting there gives me an odd look.

  “Sorry,” I apologize, feel
ing like I need to explain. “I’m tailing my ex-boyfriend. Not because I’m a stalker or hung up on him. He’s a rockstar, and I’m trying to get dirt on him for this story.”

  The homeless man cranes his neck to look up and down the sidewalk, “The white guy in the leather jacket walking like he’s mad?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Hmm. Nice ass.” He settles back into his doorway, “He went left at the streetlight.”

  I thank him and speed-walk to catch up with Finn.

  But when I turn left, I don’t see Finn. I look right, in case the man got the directions wrong, but I don’t see Finn there either.

  “Shit.” My first real lead, and I lose Finn.

  I’m reluctantly thinking maybe I should head back to the hotel, when I hear two teenagers giggling up ahead, as they peer into an upscale restaurant.

  “It’s him, it’s really him.”

  “But what would Finn Ryan be doing in Chicago?”

  “Wait, isn’t his concert here this week? I wanted to go so bad but my mom said not on a school night.”

  Thank God for eagle-eyed teenage girls.

  My pulse is pounding as I stroll up to the restaurant, pretending to read the expensive menu posted on the door.

  I can just make out Finn, in the far back corner of the restaurant. His back is to me. The man sitting across from him is probably in his late thirties. He’s square jawed, in a suit, with a nondescript haircut. He should be attractive, but his eyes are cold, like a shark.

  Shit, he’s looking at me.

  I scoot to the side, thinking through my options. I can go to the coffee shop across the street and hope my zoom lens is good enough. That will get me the photos I need, but it won’t tell me what’s going on.

  The other option is to go into the restaurant. I’d be relying on the camera on my phone—my real camera would be too obvious—and Finn might see me.

  But I also might hear what’s going on.

  I step inside. As soon as I’m inside, I’m hit with that luxuriously textured quiet of clinking glasses and soft murmurs that rich people restaurants have.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?” the hostess asks from behind her mahogany pulpit.

  A quick glance at the restaurant tells me my best hope is the bar. It’s slightly lower than the restaurant area, and bordered with large tropical plants. It will definitely let me get the closest without Finn seeing me.

  “I’m meeting someone in your bar,” I say with a smile, and stride past her confidently, trying to channel Bridget.

  I find the bar table closest to Finn and Shark-Eyes and settle myself squarely behind a giant tropical bush. I pull out my phone and slide it across the table, trying to find an angle that will work between the bush’s big leaves.

  I’m not having any luck. I wonder if I can get away with moving to another table, or if that will arouse the hostess’s suspicions, when I hear Finn’s voice clear as day.

  “I know this is last minute, so I’m willing to be generous with compensation.”

  “You’re not hearing me, Ryan. I have money. What I don’t have, what you took from me, is my reputation. People don’t want to work with me anymore.”

  “Well Zane, believe it or not, that might have more to do with you than it does with me.”

  Shark eyes—Zane—laughs softly. His laugh is like his eyes. Cold and small.

  “No see, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been myself for the last twenty years, and people worked with me. Begged for me even. And then you kicked me to the curb and had the nerve to say it was because of my behavior, not the overly soft and sensitive people you choose to surround yourself with.

  “And hey, I’ll give it to you. Throwing me under the bus like that was a great P.R. move. Made you look like the bad boy hero. I might even admire you for it. Except that suddenly, if I’m too much of an ass to work with Finn Ryan, no one else wants to work with me. Because they all want to look as good as you.”

  Finn’s voice is tense when he says, “That’s not my fault.”

  “No, but you could be the solution.”

  Their waiter arrives, and Zane orders baked salmon slathered in miso peanut butter for both of them, even though Finn’s allergic to peanuts, then sends the waiter away before Finn can correct the order.

  The pettiness of it makes my skin crawl. This has to be that producer Finn hates, Zane Wright.

  But why is Finn talking to him? And why is he trying to hire him?

  “Why do you think I have the solution?” Finn asks.

  “I want you to apologize, publicly, for breaking our partnership. Blame it on your own fickle artistic nature. Whatever. The point is, you talk about how wrong you were, and how much you need me. It gives all my other clients the cover they need to come back to me.”

  “And no one cares that it’s a lie,” Finn says.

  “It’s not all a lie. You do need me.”

  Finn doesn’t say anything.

  “Go on, Finny. Tell me you need me.”

  “Zane …”

  “You’re being awfully stubborn for a man on his knees. But I guess if you don’t need me …” There are rustling sounds like he’s getting up to go, and I’m thinking good riddance, but then Finn speaks.

  “I need you,” Finn’s voice is dead and bleak, and I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being.

  “Say it again. But say my name this time.”

  “I need you, Zane,” Finn says, and Zane laughs delightedly.

  “That will make an excellent ringtone,” Zane says and plays a recording of it back at Finn.

  It’s all I can do not to jump through the bushes and stab this man’s eyes out.

  Why isn’t Finn standing up for himself? I hardly recognize the man I know in this passive martyr.

  “Does that count as my public apology?” Finn asks.

  “What? Ha. No. That was just for fun. If we’re doing this I want half a million, and an interview in the publication of my choosing where you recant every defamatory thing you said about me and talk about how irreplaceable I am. And then I want you to do it again when you give your speech at the album launch party. And, at the Grammys? I’m the one you thank first.”

  “What makes you think this album will get a Grammy?”

  “It’s you and me. When we work together, we’re brilliant. You know it too, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

  Finn is silent.

  I lean back, finally finding an angle where I can get a clear, discrete shot through the leaves. I snap away, catching the fury on Finn’s face and the smug satisfaction on Zane’s.

  “Think it over,” Zane says. “Do whatever you need to do to get over your pride. Then call me tomorrow, and we’ll set up that interview.”

  Zane stands up and leaves. “Enjoy your meal,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I lean farther back, trying to get one last shot of the two of them, and my chair falls over backward with a bang.

  I’m dimly aware of a sharp pain in the back of my head, while my chest goes light. I’m not sure I’m breathing.

  “Miss? Miss, are you alright?” the bartender asks. He has very nice gold earring. Gold is such a pretty color to photograph.

  “I’m fine,” I say. At least I think I say it. It’s possible I just think it.

  I try to rise, and the bartender helps me up and into a chair, “Can you tell me what your name is?”

  “Charlie De Luca,” I say quietly.

  “I’m sorry, can you say that more loudly?”

  Doesn’t the man know I’m under cover?

  But he’s not going to leave, so I say a little louder, “Charlie De Luca.”

  “What?”

  “Charlie De Luca!”

  He winces a little at the volume, “And your birthday?”

  “Are you carding me?”

  “I’m trying to confirm you don’t have a concussion. Birthday?”

  “December 10, 1991,” a deep voice says.

  The
bartender and I both look up to see Finn glaring at me, his hands on his hips.

  Ooops.

  “Charlie,” he says, and his voice is foreboding. “What are you doing here?”

  I’m scrambling to come up with a lie, when the bartender says, “She had a pretty bad fall.”

  Finn’s face goes from irritation to concern, and he’s at my side so fast, I get dizzy. Or maybe it’s the sudden rush of inhaling his scent. That warm Finn-scent underneath lemon soap.

  “Are you getting a headache?” Finn asks. “Ringing in your ear? Nausea?”

  “What are you? A doctor?” I ask grumpily.

  “I fell off a stage once,” Finn says. “Feeling any nausea?”

  “No, Florence Nightingale.”

  “One symptom of concussion can be irritability,” the bartender says.

  “That’s also a symptom of hanging out with Finn,” I say, and a smile of relief flickers on Finn’s face. Butterflies swoop around my stomach at that smile. It’s like he was really worried about me or something.

  “Did you get knocked out when you fell?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, rubbing where the back of my head smacked the floor. “I think I just got the wind knocked out of me.”

  “Ok. We should still watch for symptoms for the rest of the tour—they can emerge later—but I think you’re probably fine.” Finn looks over to the bartender, “Go get her some ice.”

  The bartender scurries off to do as Finn says.

  “Does it hurt a lot?” Finn asks sympathetically.

  “Huh? Not really.”

  “Then why are you still rubbing it?”

  “If you rub it right away it doesn’t bruise as bad,” I say. I’m prepared for Finn to mock me for it, but instead he stands and comes to stand behind me.

  I feel a rush of tingles up the back of my neck, because he’s hot and near and out of my sight.