Chapter 31
thirty-one
Finn
Rosie has to tape her guest appearance on The Night Show the next day. We’re due at the studio at five p.m., which means we spend part of that morning in Rosie’s suite going over the details with Pia and a freelance stylist.
“So you’ll wear this,” the stylist confirms, pointing at a peach-toned mini dress with beaded detail hanging on a rack next to a dozen other outfits they’ve already discarded.
“And these pumps,” Pia adds, moving a pair of coral shoes to one side before gesturing at a set of simple gold hoops, a matching bangle, and three plain gold rings arranged on Rosie’s dressing table.
“And those accessories. Hair and makeup will be here early this afternoon, so you’ll arrive at the studio ready to go. ”
“That sounds great,” Rosie replies. “I can’t stand being holed up in those green rooms longer than I have to be. Let’s get in and out as quickly as we can.”
Her freshly washed hair hangs in damp curls down her back, her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’s swathed in a fluffy white terry robe.
I wish we were alone so I could wrap my arms around her waist and bury my face in her neck.
I love her like this, natural and relaxed, but there’s more to it today.
The undercurrent of apprehension that had become so ingrained in both of us this last month is gone, and the brightness in her eyes is less guarded.
She’s even more at ease than she was at the cabin.
Now that we know her stalker is in jail where he belongs, a dark cloud has lifted, and Rosie looks and feels lighter.
I feel it too, but to a lesser degree. It’ll take more than a day for me to shake the weight of remembered worry from my shoulders.
Yes, it’s a relief to know that Stanley Lowe got himself arrested before he could get close enough to Rosie to hurt her, but I’m having trouble forgetting how afraid I was of losing her.
Maybe I’ll never be free of it, and this sinking pit in my stomach is a side effect of loving Rosie that I just need to get used to. The price I pay for calling her mine.
“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” Pia says, “but now that the risk to your security is reduced, you have the option of arriving at the studio’s street entrance.
The upside to that is taking advantage of any fans and paps staking out the place for celebrity sightings.
Alternatively, we can use the private underground access point to avoid a public sighting altogether. What would you prefer?”
I shift on the sofa, but when I can’t get comfortable, I get to my feet with a scowl.
Are we already back to this? Throwing Rosie to the wolves in exchange for a cheap blip on social media?
It doesn’t even matter that the major threat to Rosie’s safety has been neutralized. The world itself is rabid.
I know what I want Rosie to do, but I’m not going to say it. She warned me this period would be tricky. We need to get through the next two weeks, and then these kinds of decisions won’t be ones she’s forced to make every day. In the meantime, I’m determined to keep her happy and safe.
“We’ll take the underground access,” Rosie says. “Stalker or no stalker, I’m in too good a mood after my meeting with the label, and I’m not ready to bring it down with a repeat of what happened with the paparazzi the other day.”
I exhale with relief, and Rosie tosses me a knowing smile. Our gazes linger as Pia prattles on and the stylist fusses with Rosie’s accessories.
“I thought you might say that,” Pia says.
“And it’s fine by me. We’ve gained more traction than I expected over the last few days, and your spot on The Night Show will go a long way in erasing any memory that you briefly disappeared from public view.
I’ve revised a few of our goals for the next twelve days as we lead into the charity benefit.
I’ll set aside some time tomorrow to go over your updated schedule, which includes a little more time to yourself. How does that sound?”
“Pia. You’ve made a great day even better.” Rosie pulls her publicist in for a hug. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Pia casts a knowing look my way, then straightens her clothes as she steps out of Rosie’s embrace. “I think we’ve done all we need to do here. I’ve got people to call and things to arrange, so I’ll be in the study downstairs if you need me.”
“The woman knows how to take a hint,” Rosie says with a laugh as the suite door closes behind Pia and the stylist.
I cross the room and scoop Rosie into my arms, spinning her around and making her laugh again.
“You’re cute when you’re grumpy,” she says as I set her on her feet.
“I’m not grumpy.”
Rosie lifts an eyebrow. “When Pia suggested taking the street entrance tonight, I thought you’d burn a hole in her head with those eyes.”
My lips twitch. “These eyes aren’t hot for Pia.” I growl as I lift her up and throw her over my shoulder. Rosie giggles and squirms as I smack her ass. “These eyes are hot for my woman.”
I stride toward the bedroom, gently tossing Rosie onto the mattress, and she laughs as she props herself up on her elbows. “You’re different today,” she says.
“So are you.”
Rosie sits up, tucking her legs underneath her, and I balance on the edge of the mattress. We were up all night celebrating the arrest of Stanley Lowe with food and wine and orgasms in bed, and the sheets are still a tangled mess.
“It’s this shared sense of relief,” Rosie chirps. “It makes me more certain that we can make this life fit the both of us. Don’t you feel the same way?”
I brush a stray lock of hair from her face, and she turns her cheek into my palm. “It’s definitely easier to tolerate when there isn’t a psychopathic stalker out there somewhere.”
Rosie’s smile falters and I regret being so blunt, but she gathers herself with a quick shake of her shoulders. “My thoughts exactly. So, listen. As much as I’d love to go back to bed, I’ve got a session with Zane in half an hour.”
I blink with surprise. “The producer from yesterday?”
“Mm-hmm. He has some ideas for the next album, and he wants to work on them while his thoughts are fresh and alive.” She falters, pink tongue sliding over her lips before she lifts her chin. “You could join us if you—”
“I’ll be there,” I interrupt. “As your bodyguard. We talked about this, Songbird. I’m not ready. Let’s move on, all right?”
“Okay.” Rosie lifts her shoulders, then lets them drop with a bashful smile. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
I kiss her softly. “Blame implies my girl did something wrong, and you could never.”
The house is cleared again for the three hours Zane is here to jam with Rosie.
They set up at the piano, Rosie on the keys while Zane paces and talks through his ideas.
After about an hour, the producer takes Rosie’s spot on the piano bench, and she moves to the guitar.
The songs Rosie wrote at Silver Leaf, already perfect to my ear, unfold over and over again, a little different each time, a new note or a new lyric elevating the music from raw and inspired to refined and electrifying.
It’s an education, one that makes my synapses fire with questions and suggestions that I stubbornly keep to myself.
Every minute I spend watching Rosie work with someone who matches her and pushes her and takes her art to the next level is another minute of evidence that I could never do what she does.
If I’m meant to be in a room with Rosie, here in the corner is exactly where I belong. Cheering her on and out of her way.
John drives past network security and pulls into the underground lot of The Night Show studio. Pia’s in the front seat, Rosie and me in the back, and he turns around to check that we’re still comfortable with the plan to go inside without him.
“I don’t want to draw more attention to myself than necessary,” Rosie insists. “Nobody knows I’m here, and the more people I have with me, the more eyes I draw. I want to slip in and out under the radar if I can.”
“The building has its own security,” I add, “and we’re going straight from backstage to filming and out again, right?”
Pia nods. “I’ve timed it so we’re not here any longer than we have to be.”
John and I exchange a final look, silent agreement passing between us. “I’ll be here if you need me,” he says. “Just radio in.”
We exit the car, I check in my weapon at the studio security office, and a producer greets us at the entry door.
Her headset and clipboard giving the impression of speed and efficiency, which is proved by the pace she sets as she walks us through the gray-painted corridors toward the green rooms. She talks fast, sharing the rundown of events and instructions on how to reach her if needed, sweeping past walls of autographed celebrity head shots and preoccupied crew members with staff IDs and bright pink wristbands.
She stops when we reach the open door to a small but well-appointed dressing room.
“You can wait in here,” she says. “I’ll be back to collect you when it’s time to go on.”
“You know what I love about television producers?” Rosie asks as she and Pia step into the dressing room, our escort already halfway down the corridor in the other direction.
“No,” I say, closing the door behind us. “What?”
“They’re immune to stardom. Famous people walk in and out of this place every day, and after a while, these crews have seen so much they stop looking. It’s nice to feel ordinary for a change.”
Rosie opens the bar fridge to retrieve a bottle of water, and I check that the door is locked before moving farther inside.
Pia drops onto the two-seat sofa and Rosie perches in the swivel chair in front of the brightly lit mirror, scanning her reflection to make sure her hair and makeup are still in place.