CHAPTER 1 #2
Inside, Rory sniffed around in search of his colleagues but the office was as empty as Rogers Arena during the playoffs.
Tyler needed a coffee fix so she dropped off her shit in her office. It would take a cup the size of her head to get her brain working properly.
“Come on, buddy,” she called over her shoulder as Rory’s collar jingled behind her.
She jogged ahead—then heard the familiar blast of paws on linoleum.
Fast fucker.
Rory waited in the kitchen—the “cookie room.” He demanded one for finishing first in the race to the kitchen.
She gave Rory his cookie, then scooped five heaping tablespoons of generic coffee into a paper filter and poured tap water into the dispenser.
Sebastien cheaped out on everything—and proudly referred to himself as a miser. The company letterhead just said SDM because it used less ink than spelling out Sebastien Dumas Management.
She poured a cup of coffee while singing Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” poorly, opened the fridge, and searched for a container of soy milk with her name on it. She’d bought it herself since SDM didn’t provide employees with “extras.”
But there it sat in the blue bin: crumpled and disregarded.
Fucking interns.
At least they’d recycled it.
Back at her desk with a cup of bitter black coffee, Tyler powered on her computer with confidence.
As a rule she returned her messages within the hour—any longer meant trouble. There were only two reasons for her being unresponsive: the location didn’t have Wi-Fi or she was dead in a ditch. Probably the latter.
“Where to start?” she muttered, smiling at Rory. He looked up at her, hopeful but useless. Even if he wanted to help, he couldn’t. And honestly, she could barely help herself.
Math had never been her strong suit.
Last year, when their receptionist quit without notice, the administrative duties fell into Tyler’s portfolio.
Sebastien claimed it would be a “learning experience,” but really, it was just another excuse for free labor.
She’d given fourteen years to the company and was more than ready to move on. But her boss had made it clear: if she left, he’d make sure her career was over.
And Sebastien always kept his word when it came to destroying people.
Her dad had warned her before she even started her internship at SDM.
Paul “Bert” Robertson had known Sebastien since the early Winnipeg club days.
Back then, they were rivals of sorts—though the best bands always hired her dad to play lead guitar.
Sebastien had to settle for rhythm gigs with second-rate acts.
Now, with Bert’s daughter under his thumb, Sebastien was savoring the power shift.
Hiring her after the internship hadn’t been generosity—it was leverage. Favors were his currency. And now Bert owed him one.
Sebastien wasn’t “good prairie folk” like the Robertsons. He was a Francophone from Quebec City, and trouble followed him like a shadow.
An hour later, Rory perked up from his dog bed, ears twitching.
Tyler froze.
He’d heard something.
A burglar would have been preferable to Sebastien since the thief was sure to be quiet, unlike her boss, her nemesis.
A groan rumbled in her throat as she rolled her chair out of the way and followed her furry friend down the hallway. She laughed at how Rory’s bum wiggled when his little legs hit the carpet.
“Can I help you?” she asked, approaching the reception area.
“Hi,” a cute guy said with a smile.
He stood at her eye level, wearing an oversized black beanie and dark-rimmed glasses.
“It’s me. Cary.”
I’m an idiot.
She hadn’t recognized Cary Kingston—the most famous rock star on the planet.
Of course, he wasn’t always famous; Sebastien had discovered him at a dive bar in Winnipeg more than twenty years ago. Her boss had mortgaged his house, rolling the dice on the eighteen-year-old guitar virtuoso, beating the house with consecutive gold records.
“I’m sorry—the glasses threw me,” Tyler said, stepping in for a hug.
As soon as they touched, her olfactory memory fired like a flare gun.
Back when she was just an intern, she’d met Cary backstage at one of his shows. He’d been her high school crush—every poster on her bedroom wall, every secret diary entry.
And he’d been wearing Calvin Klein Obsession.
She remembered because the scent had clung to her sweater for days, a lingering reminder of the closest she’d ever been to a fantasy.
“No worries,” he said, laughing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. His deep, raspy voice was one in a million, maybe a billion. “I wear them on purpose.”
“What are you doing here?” Tyler tilted her head, lips pressing into a doubtful line. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago?”
He shrugged. “I had a day off, so I came here to sort out some business.”
Cary lived in Los Angeles—more specifically, Malibu—but kept a place in Vancouver because he was Canadian by birth. His hometown, Brandon, Manitoba, was two and a half hours west of Winnipeg. They called it the Wheat City and everyone eats gluten there.
A sneeze pulled their attention to the floor, where Rory lay on his back like a sun-tanner in Ibiza.
“Rory!” Cary dropped to his knees and scratched the dog’s belly. “Who’s a good boy?”
“You’re embarrassing me, Rory.” Tyler rested her hands on her hips, aware that millions of women, including herself, would have gladly traded places with her dog. “Don’t you have any shame?”
“No, Mom,” Cary answered for him, grinning. “Hold on.” He grabbed his phone. “I want to take his picture. He looks like a centerfold model.”
“My angel, the centerfold.”
“I’m surprised you know that song.”
“I know a lot of old songs—including yours.”
“Funny.” He winked, and she tried not to die.
Was he still dating Emma what’s-her-name? Not that it mattered. It’s not like he was going to marry her. Cary had been on the Most Eligible Bachelors list for twenty years and counting.
“Is there any mail for me?” he asked.
It wasn’t a serious question. His fans loved sending him things—some weird, some wildly inappropriate. After the more disturbing items failed to sell on eBay, Sebastien donated them to charity in exchange for a tax receipt.
“Knock yourself out.” She gestured to the Mount Everest of fan mail. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
“I’ve had the office coffee,” he said, grimacing. “How about going to Artigiano?”
“Excuse me? Our coffee isn’t good enough for you?”
“No.” He pulled down his beanie. “It’s fine.”
She laughed, tightening her topknot, looking for any reason to leave. “No, it tastes like shit. Let’s get out of here.”
After setting the office alarm, Tyler locked the door and double-checked it behind them.
If only she’d worn something other than her Skull Skates hoodie and black leggings, but who the hell knew she’d be running into Cary Kingston?
The clouds hung low and gray, threatening rain as the three of them—Tyler, Cary, and Rory—walked down the street toward the coffee shop.
Cary pointed to the pastel-colored building on the northwest corner of Hastings and Cambie. “I love the Dominion Building. Look at the ornamental detail and arched windows.”
He raised his phone and snapped a picture.
“I suppose.” Her voice came out unsure. “I’ve never noticed it.”
“How’s that possible?” His gaze bounced to the roof. “It used to be the tallest building in the British Empire.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, thinning her lips until they disappeared. “I guess I forget to look up.”
When they reached the coffee shop, only a sliver of sunlight stretched across the patio. The tables outside were empty—Vancouverites didn’t do cold unless they were in Whistler, wearing overpriced gear and pretending it was fun.
“Let’s grab a table out here,” Tyler suggested. Being seen in public with Cary wasn’t exactly her idea of a quiet Sunday.
“I’ll go in,” he offered, and as he turned toward the door, his lenses darkened over his bright hazel eyes.
She only agreed to let him go inside because she couldn’t leave Rory alone. He’d go anywhere with anyone at any time.
“Thanks.” She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “I’ll have a latte, please, with soy milk.”
“I’ve got it,” Cary said with a laugh, waving off her money like it was Monopoly cash.
She handed it to him again anyway, and he took it begrudgingly, like she’d just insulted his net worth.
Tyler found a table against the building for a little more privacy. Rory plopped himself on his butt under it, facing the door as if waiting for Cary. While she and Rory waited for the man they were both a bit obsessed with, she opened her phone to check her messages.
Ten minutes later, she glanced at her watch. Rory now lay with his head between his paws, staring longingly at the door.
Artigiano was always busy—it was Vancouver’s best coffee shop—but the wait felt . . . suspiciously long.
She peeked inside.
Cary was signing autographs. How could she have thought otherwise?
Busted.
He caught her staring through the window, and she smiled shyly, then gave a small nod and an awkward thumbs-up—because what else do you do when the most famous rock star on Earth catches you watching him?
A few moments later, Cary returned, carrying two large ceramic cups.
Rory popped up on all fours, tail thumping wildly, his entire body wagging.
“Sorry about that.” Cary handed her the latte, then crouched to ruffle Rory’s fur with both hands.
She tried not to be jealous as Cary showered him with affection. “Thanks,” she said, cradling the cup in both hands, lotus-style.
“No worries.”
Tyler frowned as a gaggle of women brazenly claimed the table next to them, all side-eyes and subtle phones.
“You’re good with your fans,” she said. “The Kingers.”
He shrugged, ducking almost bashfully as he lowered into the chair. “It’s my job,” he said. “No fans means no career.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” She scrunched her nose in revulsion. “Being famous, I mean.”
“Bother me?” He shook his head. “Fame just means more people know me.”