The One (Tempo Rain Rockstar Romance)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

M allory reached for the doorknob of the rock star’s dressing room.

Dylan Lee, Tempo Rain’s main guitarist, the reason women threw panties on the stage, was on the other side of the door.

Could she fill in for his interpreter? With her limited French? The idea was wild, but on the upside, Dylan might be overwhelmed with gratitude and give her one of his sold-out concert tickets.

Ha.

After a quick knock, Mallory let herself into the dressing room.

Dylan sat in front of a well-lit mirrored vanity. His piercing dark eyes and rock-star charisma stopped her in the doorway. He was as handsome as he was talented, as gifted a songwriter as he was a dancer. Simply put, he was hotter than anyone on the planet.

Her breath caught in her throat and her mind emptied. At that moment, she couldn’t have introduced herself in English, much less French.

He narrowed his eyes, reached for a makeup sponge, and swiped at his eye makeup. “Fix this.” He said the words slowly, as if she were French and not a fellow American.

He evidently thought she was a makeup artist. Nope. The truth bubbled up in her, but for some reason, the demand tickled her. She’d help him as a fill-in interpreter and as a makeup artist.

She did her own eyeliner every day. She had two eyes. He had two eyes. How hard could this be? “Oui,” Mallory agreed in French.

Mallory lifted the taupe eyeliner from the dressing table.

Look at his face. Handsome. The face that launched a billion album sales. What could go wrong?

One minute later…

Hmm .

Mallory chewed on her bottom lip and made another adjustment. Winging was so cute on her. The angle on him looked unnaturally pretty instead of wicked handsome, which was his brand. Sounds of doubt wanted to leave her throat in both English and French. She held them in.

After another flick and stroke of the eyeliner, she had to accept the truth. What worked on her did not work on him. At all. She had no clue what made effective masculine eyeliner.

Retreat .

He smelled nice. Like a hint of music blended with sophisticated cologne. She decided she should try one more time while breathing him in. Lightly touching his jaw, she tipped his face up.

Dylan caught her gaze. Did he feel their connection? They were trapped in the heated moment together. Like two dragons circling a volcano. Getting closer and closer to the burning center where they’d burst into flames.

Her lips parted.

The door to the dressing room opened.

A woman stood in the entry. She wore a black jumpsuit with an oversized apron on top. Each pocket on the apron held a makeup tool. The brushes lined her waist in a wearable arsenal, from fine and stiff to full and fluffy.

The makeup artist looked from Dylan to Mallory to the eyeliner Mallory held. Her righteous gaze raised, and her French-tipped finger pointed at Mallory. An explosion of French followed, too fast for Mallory to understand, but her condemnation was clear.

The makeup artist was not grateful to Mallory for lending a helping hand, even though Dylan had asked for her assistance, nay, demanded she do his makeup.

Heat flushed Mallory’s face. The makeup mirrors revealed that her complexion had reached a blotchy hot pink that no amount of color corrector could fix.

Mallory put down the eyeliner slowly as if it were a magic wand gone glitchy and raised her palms. She wanted to say, Chill, no permanent damage was done, and I’m no longer touching the rock star —but the translation evaded her.

Dylan’s gaze met hers. Realization sharpened his deep-brown eyes. He blanched as if she were an eyeliner-fixated stalker who’d crawled out of the catacombs to ruin his image.

He rubbed a cotton cloth over his eye, destroying all evidence of her efforts.

Dramatic much?

The eyeliner wasn’t that bad. A little concealer would help. Some eyeliner was better than no eyeliner. More justifications burbled inside her throat, but she held them in.

The makeup artist came forward, making a shooing motion at her. “Adieu.”

The word easily translated in her head. Goodbye . Get out. May we never meet again. Interpreting that for him would show her contextual understanding of French and superior interpreter skills.

Mallory wrinkled her nose. Nah. No need. He’d hear more from her at the studio interview, where she’d properly introduce herself. “Au revoir, Dylan.”

Thirty minutes later, on a studio set within the European headquarters of his agency, Dylan sang a rock ballad not six feet from Mallory. His dance moves and his deep melodic tone sent pleasure shooting through her body.

The tingles started at her toes and made their way up, firing up every female instinct she possessed. She sat straighter, pushed her chest out, and wet her lips. She did all the things, though he couldn’t see her from his position facing the audience, behind a semi-circle of tall guest stools. Seated in a low chair with a group of professional interpreters. She didn’t know why the members needed individual interpreters, but bands this famous were rumored to have inexplicable demands.

She loved bands who threw moves into their performances. Up on stage, Dylan’s rhythmic moves and silky words melted the half of her brain cells that knew French.

The song whispered to an end, but like all magical treats, the feelings lingered. Her skin was warm, her soul glowing. If she weren’t here in a professional capacity, she’d unhook her bra as an offering to the stage.

The Paris audience was as caught up in the moment as she was. Their screams eased, but they stayed mostly frozen, as if by not moving they’d extend their time with the rock band.

Dylan waved to the audience like he was as reluctant to leave them as they were for him to leave.

The concert fans moved their hands from covering their hearts and mouths to clap.

Dylan and his bandmates took seats on the stools. The neon sign on the back wall lit up with their band name, Tempo Rain.

Their athletic postures were loosely male and relaxed, with their hands clasped between their knees. Their blue-black hair lay perfectly, half in their dark eyes, half pushed back off their foreheads. Their black jeans were strategically ripped, their t-shirts name-brand, and their jackets custom fit. Their stylist had nailed their global rock star style.

And most of all—their eyeliner was perfect.

They were under the spotlight, with all eyes on them, while she lurked in the shadows. Mallory clutched the plastic edges of her seat. As an author, she could make an extended metaphor out of that. But she had no time for fanciful fiction. This was time for direct, exact interpretation. She adjusted her microphone headset with sweaty hands.