3. Gia
Gia
Iflat-out lied.
It took me about two seconds to realize Hayden Choi was sin on a stick, and all I wanted was to lick him right up. But it turns out, he’s a man of honor and integrity.
And my god, why is that the hottest thing ever?
I’m all yours.
For three weeks, it’s those words that swirl in my head every time I lay eyes on my hot bodyguard.
The man’s willpower is every bit as strong as the muscles on his body, because no matter how many times I saunter past him in a skimpy little outfit or flash a bit of skin in the middle of all my quick changes offstage, he does not blink.
He doesn’t cross any boundaries when he takes me back to the hotel, and he deftly arranges every outing I’ve got so I’m pretty much never disturbed if I don’t want to be. He takes my safety so seriously that I barely even have to have my guard up.
Hell, I’m starting to think I imagined the chemistry between us from when we first met, but I can sometimes feel the ghost-touch of his fingers stroking the side of my face and the rush of his breath when he spontaneously whispered that he thought I was beautiful.
It was a moment that I’ve never felt with anyone else before.
Maybe it was a fleeting, charged moment only on my end. Or maybe that’s just something people say to celebrities when they’re in front of them… or sitting in their lap.
But then sometimes, I catch him staring. Sometimes, his eyes linger a little long on my curves, and a thin line of sweat starts forming on his upper lip.
They’re always the quiet moments. Not when we’re out and about, shopping or interviewing or filming some clip to send the internet into a frenzy.
It’s when I’m singing to myself in an empty room, meeting with my team to issue guest appearance invitations, and deciding on last-minute changes to every show’s set list.
So, I spend more and more time in his vicinity, doing the most mundane things possible, including reading the mail and gifts that get left for me after every show.
And that’s when I finally capture his attention.
“What’s all this?” he asks, sidling up beside me on a sweltering Saturday afternoon, an hour before I’ve got to do the VIP meet-and-greet.
With those Ray-Bans on, I can’t tell what he’s actually looking at, but by the jut of his chin and the downward turn of his mouth, I already know he doesn’t much like it.
“Fan mail and gifts. Fans like to leave them for me after shows, and my staff usually set them here for me to paw through whenever I have a moment. Usually, there’s a fair few from loyal Glitter Squad members.”
“Is that the Gia Golding fan club?” He pushes the shades off his face and into the thick, dark hair atop his head. The frown lines on his forehead get a little deeper as I nod. “You mean to tell me you just let anyone leave you stuff?”
“I don’t let them. They just do it. Usually my assistant or Allie goes through it long before I ever do.
Anything edible usually gets tossed. Anything handwritten or handmade gets passed on to me.
And flowers get placed all around the backstage area to brighten up the place.
Most of the stuffies go to a local children’s hospital, though.
” I gesture at the scattered array of blooms lining the hall and nod to the enormous bag overflowing with teddies.
“Has anyone gone through this first?”
In answer, I pick up a page and wave it in his face. “Someone opens them all, scans them for any substances that shouldn’t be on there.”
“But do they read them first?”
“Why? Worried I’m not woman enough to handle any criticism that might come my way?
” I smile and lean in to pat his cheek. “Hayden, darling, I’ve been famous from the moment Laurel and J.R.
Golding adopted me when I was three. My picture was splashed on the cover of People the day I came home, and I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in today if I hadn’t grown some thick skin. ”
“No, I’m not worried about your ability to handle it.
I’m worried about doing my job properly and ensuring your safety.
” He slides his hand over mine and takes the letter from me.
The warmth of his skin on mine is both a shock and a comfort, and my breath catches the second we touch.
“Growing up, I spent a lot of time with a political family. They received all kinds of things in the mail, so please. Let me check these out.”
“Read them with me,” I say, kicking off my flip-flops and planting myself onto a nearby sofa. I pat the space next to me and send him a broad smile. “It’ll be fun.”
We make it through about twenty of them, many of them just gushing fan letters, and one or two really sweet ones from fans who found something that spoke to them in my lyrics.
Hayden relaxes a little, laughing with me over scribbled poetic love confessions and prom proposals, with a growing pile of handmade items—mostly beaded bracelets and other small crafts—sitting beside him.
“God, now I understand why Chloe insisted on making you a bracelet to say thanks for the tickets. But even if you lived to be a hundred, you would never be able to wear all these.”
I gasp, my hand lashing out to curl over his wrist. “She made me something? Where is it? Why didn’t you let her give it to me? I told you, you should’ve brought her backstage that night she came. I would’ve loved to have met her.”
“Bad enough that I accepted the tickets. Sloane could’ve had my ass for that alone, but what can I say? Anything to make Chloe happy.”
My heart thuds in my chest a little as he pulls out of my grasp to reach into his pocket.
When he holds out the braided hemp strand with a string of pretty, pale pink beads in the center, I immediately recognize it.
It’s the kind you wear for the summer, make a wish on, and wait for it to fall away while you’re out and about on the sun-drenched beaches surrounding the harbor.
“It’s pretty,” I breathe, tracing a finger over the beads and grazing his palm with my touch.
His sharp intake of breath has me holding my own. For weeks, he’s kept a professional distance, and here I am, pushing those boundaries again. Pressing in on them and daring him—daring myself—to see which one of us will break.
The moment builds, the air growing thick and sharp with the same elusive magic that appeared three weeks ago when we’d met.
It doesn’t matter that we’re backstage, out in the open with a whole host of people filtering in and out as they run through setup and logistics.
All that matters is that we’re here, in the moment, together.
“Can you help me tie it on?” I extend my leg, sliding it over his knee and letting my bare foot dangle between his legs. The move is provocative, a breach in protocol, a test.
Please don’t move away. Don’t push me aside.
He swallows hard and searches my gaze for a moment before his fingers grasp my heel. His warmth seeps into me. A tiny breath whooshes between my lips, and I swear his pulse picks up in time with mine.
“Every summer, if we weren’t traveling, my family’s home base was in Soltero Beach,” I offer.
“A quaint little beach town, not too different from this one, with shops all along the boardwalk selling bracelets like this. My sisters and I would always wear them as anklets, make a wish on them, and wait for the sea or summer adventures to take them.”
“Yeah? Bet you didn’t need to make a wish to get anything you wanted, though.”
I bite my lip as he slips the bracelet on my ankle.
“There are some things money can’t buy.”
“Okay, so what’d you wish for?”
He double-knots the hemp and I feel his touch against my skin like fire in my belly. It makes me want to crawl over the couch and sit in his lap, press my lips to his and see what calm, cool, and collected tastes like.
Instead, I grin at him and leave my leg where it rests—right in his lap, with his fingers wrapped around it as if he isn’t willing to let me go either.
“Can’t tell you that, or it won’t come true.”
Then, I reach across him, grab a small, open package from the pile, and glory in the feel of his hand circling my ankle.
The box contains perfumed tissue that makes my blood curdle.
It’s a musty scent I’ve smelled before, usually accompanied by a handwritten note.
I push the tissue aside and find a bundle of dead azaleas wrapped up in black ribbon and sitting in a bed of black silk.
They’re not pressed or preserved, but dried and crumpled. Ripped apart, as if in anger.
I unfold the small, yellowed paper laid over it, and once I see the sunflower border on the edges of the page, a wave of nausea hits. I read the words and feel the blood drain out of my body.
“Gia? What is it?” Hayden’s back on alert, snatching the page from my fingertips and frowning at the messy scrawl.
I saw you swoon for him, Gia. Why haven’t you ever swooned for me? I could’ve broken your fall, too.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I sometimes get notes from overzealous fans who track my every move across the internet. Anytime something goes viral, or a celebrity sighting website posts an unflattering image of me, or a relationship I’m rumored to be in leaks…
some people are too invested. They take it upon themselves to tell me what they think.
Most of the time, it’s just online bullying and name-calling, but sometimes, it’s something like… this.”
I slip my hands in to lift the ruined bouquet, but Hayden grabs the box out of my hands.
“Don’t touch it. Not until I can check this out.” His expression grim, Hayden sets the box to one side and begins taking photos of it. “Do you know who sent it?”
I shake my head no.
“Have you received others like it? You stiffened up before you even opened it.”
“I recognized the scent, but I don’t know who the sender is.
” I draw my legs up and wrap my arms around them defensively.
“It’s like a musty cologne I’ve smelled before.
Other notes in other gift boxes. They usually had some small, personal gift inside.
A jar of wild honey after I appeared on a show with a beekeeper experience.
Um, flowers on my birthday. Azaleas, like these, but living. ”
He presses his mouth into a thin, flat line. “Why azaleas?”
“They’re my favorite. It’s kind of my signature symbol. Even the fragrance line I put out last year has an azalea worked into the design of the bottle.”
“Right. And now he’s sent you dead ones.”
My fingers clutch at his shoulder. “Do you think that’s significant? Not just a consequence of being tossed around or left out to dry?”
He gives me a tight smile, but slides his big, warm hand over mine.
“I don’t know yet, sweetheart. But don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.” Then, he gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze and lowers his head to brush a quick kiss over my knuckles.
Before I can react, my stylist Jaime waltzes in to ready me for the meet and greet, and Hayden slides his shades back on. Professional mode back in place, parts of me ache when he slips out of the room, the dead flower box in his hand.