Rebooting Conor Flynn (Five2Go Boyband #4)

Chapter 1

NOELLE

There are some names that can ruin your day in a minute. Conor Flynn's managed to ruin mine in a second.

I watched my boss's perfectly lip-sticked mouth move, but the roaring in my ears after she said Conor’s name drowned out everything that came next.

I hugged the clipboard to my chest as if it were the only thing standing between me and a professional meltdown. It just might be.

“W-who?”

“Ashley Bennett.” Dina put her hand over her heart and closed her eyes as if pledging allegiance to a popstar goddess.

She probably was. A moment later she recovered herself, and her eyelids flew open, despite the false eyelashes stuck on there like a pair of butterfly wings.

“She’s rebranding herself. This is a kinder, gentler Ashley.

No more growling on stage about her exes, especially that hottie she dumped. Everyone was team Nico on that one.”

I peeled one hand from my clipboard and held it up, nibbled fingernails and all, to stop Dina before she launched into the up-and-down history of Ashley and her actor husband Nico Ferrari.

I had to make sure I wasn’t experiencing auditory hallucinations.

“I know Ashley Bennett. You mentioned her co-headliner on the tour.”

Dina snorted, the nostrils of her recently reconstructed nose flaring delicately. “Nobody is co-headliner with Ashley. Second billing goes to Conor Flynn from Five2Go or maybe that honor goes to Ji-yoon from that K-pop group.”

So, my fevered brain hadn’t imagined the name Conor Flynn flying out of Dina’s mouth. I swallowed or at least tried to—ended up gaping like a fish out of water.

“Are you alright?” Dina tilted her head, flapping her lashes at me.

Then she narrowed her eyes. “You’re okay with this assignment, aren’t you Noelle?

This is make or break for you, babe. You handle this job like the pro you are, and you’re going straight to the top—or at least straight from assistant publicist to full-on publicist. No more running for lattes, holding back someone’s hair as they vomit into a toilet, no more gofer-ing. ”

“On it, boss.” I did a fake salute and almost took myself out with my clipboard. I straightened my glasses. “I’m all in. I will publicize the shit out of this tour...and everyone on it.”

“Perfect. And, babe—” she waved her hand over me from head to toe “—clean this up a bit before the first rehearsal next week.”

I glanced down at my Rolling Stones concert T with the little coffee stain at the edge of the giant, lolling tongue, the baggy no-name jeans with the hole in one knee, and my scuffed Vans, laces untied on one shoe—no wonder I tripped coming into Dina’s office.

She had a point.

“Ashley likes pretty people around her, and you’re quite pretty...when you put in some effort.”

I ground my back teeth. “I thought she was going for softer.”

“Well, she’s Ashley Bennett. We’ll see how that goes.” Dina patted my shoulder. “She and Conor hooked up at one point, so this should be interesting. We might be able to use that.”

“That was just PR, a showmance. You should’ve been able to see right through that disaster, Dina.” My face got so heated, I had to wipe the steam off my glasses.

Squinting at me, Dina asked, “You have contacts, right?”

“I do, yeah.” I slid my glasses up the bridge of my nose with one unmanicured finger and ran my tongue across my dry lips. “You mentioned a rehearsal.”

“Next week at The Greek. That’s the opening show, and the backstage team, including publicity, are meeting up to discuss strategy.”

“I-is Con...the talent going to be there?”

“Yes. Ashley, Conor, Ji-yoon, the back-up band, the dancers.” Dina stretched her arms to the ceiling, the traffic crawling on Sunset Boulevard out the window over her left shoulder.

“Oh, wait. You must know Conor. You got your start with the London PR firm that managed Five2Go. I almost forgot about that. Perfect. You should be able to handle him.”

“Right. Perfect.”

If I’d been able to handle Conor Flynn eleven years ago, I wouldn’t have the sudden urge to hurl right now—and I’d have nobody to hold back my hair.

***

I resisted the urge to rub my expertly made-up eye.

In my role of PR assistant, I’d learned how to apply makeup—it came with the territory.

I just didn’t typically practice those skills on myself, but if Ashley Bennett wanted pretty...

I flicked back my straightened hair...I’d give her pretty—or pretty good.

My tires crunched the gravel as I pulled in front of The Greek Theatre. We had instructions to go through the side gate. I stepped out of my car and slammed the door causing the whole car to shudder. I hoped Ashley Bennett didn’t like pretty cars too because mine was a piece of shit.

I patted the smooth leather of my satchel as I hitched it over my shoulder.

Dad had gifted it to me with the explanation that if I wasn’t going to be a doctor, he wanted me to have the best bag for my little marketing career, as he called it.

If he couldn’t choose my career for me, he had to at least control the bag I carried.

The guy never gave up. For the meeting, I’d replaced my usual ratty backpack with this sleek number because, well... pretty.

A man and two women skirted around me to reach the open gate, their lithe forms and body-con outfits marking them as dancers. I couldn’t picture Conor using dancers on stage for any of his music, but I hadn’t listened to his stuff recently. For all I knew, he could’ve gone full disco.

Did he even have stuff? I knew about his judging stint on the music talent show, had even watched it a few times, but I couldn’t recall the last time he put out an album. I liked the direction of his solo music after Five2Go split up, but it had become painful for me to listen to it.

I don’t think I ever could’ve made it as a doctor—too emotional. Sorry, Dad.

The security guard at the gate tapped his clipboard, and I eyed it with appreciation—the clipboard, not the security guard, although he warranted a second look. Did Ashley’s pretty edict extend to security? This guy’s rippling muscles rivalled The Rock’s—and his head was shinier.

I waved. “Noelle Martine, 92 West Promotions.”

“I gotcha, Noelle.” He made a show of checking my name off his list with his green pen.

“Anyone ever tell you, you look like The Rock?”

“All. The. Time.” He rubbed his bald head. “That’s why they call me The Boulder.”

I tripped as I walked through the gate. “Are you fucking with me?”

His laugh boomed, and I could’ve sworn I saw his pecs bounce under his white tank top.

Waving his hand, he said, “Maybe.”

I straightened my spine and marched toward the clutch of people hovering around a table loaded with food and coffee machines—the fancy kind that steamed your milk and added a happy face.

I gravitated toward Dina, decked out in a sleek pant suit and sky-high heels, waving her hands like she was directing traffic.

She nodded at my approach and then widened her eyes as she finished her conversation.

Had I passed inspection or had she just flashed me a look of horror?

I had jeans on instead of a suit and I didn’t have the confidence to prance around backstage in heels, but my Levi’s and Chucks passed the style standard, and I’d topped them off with an off-the-shoulder blouse that would make Mrs. Bieber proud.

When Dina finished talking, she nudged my arm with her elbow, jostling my coffee cup. “You look adorable. I’m glad you lost...” she flicked her fingers around her head.

“My hair? My face?” I puckered my lips and blew on the steam coming off my coffee. I preferred iced, but I wasn’t the one allowed to make demands here.

“Your glasses, silly. You have the prettiest brown eyes with those little flecks of gold.” She squinted at my eyes like she was the one who needed glasses. She probably did.

“Good mornin’ everybody!”

At the sound of his voice, I nearly spilled my coffee all over Dina’s Manolos. My head swiveled toward the cute Irish accent so fast, it almost detached from my body.

Conor waved to everyone, and a few people who must’ve known him from before ran up to him for a hug.

I knew him from before, but there was no way I was going in for a hug—a punch maybe, but definitely not a hug. I turned my back on him and slurped my coffee.

But Dina didn’t believe in anonymity. Her voice grated against my ears as she called out, “Conor!”

The crunch of his feet on the ground as he drew closer kept me pinned to my spot, my hand wrapped around my coffee cup in a death grip. I smelled him as he approached—that mixture of clean and fresh with a hint of woodsy spice. I could do a whole-ass commercial on Conor Flynn’s scent.

Dina continued, oblivious to the churning whirlwind in my head. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Dina Coletti, and this is my assistant, Noelle Martine, but you already know her.”

I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. I pivoted slowly, holding my cup like a tiny, useless shield.

As Conor shook Dina’s hand, his gaze darted to my face, and his eyebrows jumped to the lock of blond hair curling over his forehead. I’d never seen his hair so long before. Was he keeping it long for the concert tour? I could also do a commercial on Conor Flynn’s hair...his eyes...his lips...his...

“Noelle.” His smile lit up his face as he dropped Dina’s hand and attempted to give me an awkward one-armed hug around my coffee cup raised to my chest. “Good to see you. You’re working with 92 West now.”

It wasn’t a question because obviously I was working for 92 West, or I wouldn’t be here. But it was a non-question that required an answer. I couldn’t keep standing here swallowing all the words I wanted to blurt out while Dina tapped her toe beside me.

“Yes, I am.” Brilliant. “I’m so excited to be working this tour.” Liar.

Conor cocked his head, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. “The whole tour?”

Was that hope in his voice or panic? I swallowed, the coffee bitter on my tongue.