Book 1 - Page 30 (1/2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lucas and I argue for what seems like an eternity before he clasps his hands together almost demurely and tells me to go pick up his dinner. By time I return from the part of town we’ve just came from, he’s already dressed to go out to Jessica’s parents’ bar.

I’ve got to give him credit—he’s managed to perfect his disguise. And I have a feeling that’s all thanks to the fact that in Los Angeles, he doesn’t get to enjoy the peace he’s found in Nashville. During the video shoot for “All Over You” there were daily incidents of fangirls (and fanboys) finding ways to sneak themselves on set to try and hook up with members of the band, not to mention the diehard Your Toxic Sequel fans who’d camped outside the studio every day to get a glimpse of Lucas and the rest of the guys.

Tonight, Lucas is wearing his usual jeans, but instead of boots, he’s got on old school Converse shoes. A black and white Henley covers every last one of his tattoos. His messy hair is covered by an oversized black beanie and he’s wearing . . . gla.s.ses. Nerdy ones at that.

I stand at the door to his office for a moment, taking in the sight of him. No man should look that s.e.xy in nerdy gla.s.ses.

“Borrowed from wardrobe?” I ask, making his head jerk up toward me. He bites his bottom lip and instinctively, I nibble mine too. “The gla.s.ses, I mean.”

He beckons me to come into the office and I comply, sitting the Styrofoam platter of food on the desk. Up close to him, I realize that those gla.s.ses have to be—hands down—the s.e.xiest thing I’ve ever seen him wear.

He laughs, “Not borrowed. A nearsighted b.i.t.c.h.”

“You look . . . rocker geek.”

Tilting his head to one side, he considers what I said for a moment then bites the tip of his tongue to suppress a grin. “You’re not going to take pics and send them to the paparazzi, are you?” he teases.

“Only if you’re doing this to humiliate my friend’s boyfriend,” I say. “You’re not, are you?”

He’s on his feet and towering over me an instant later, his eyes unreadable. “I’d never hurt my fans. There the reason I’m here and not in Atlanta strung out on something. But to answer your question . . . I’ve got a soft spot for cover bands.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Google’s your friend,” he says, winking at me. “Now go get dressed—your clothes are on your bed.”

I move to go and do what he’s asked me to, but then ice travels down my body, freezing me. What am I doing? This is the first time he’s issued me a command where my mind automatically compelled me to follow it, and that’s a realization that frightens me.

“You want to get me dressed, too, Mr. Wolfe?” I demand, forcing a sugary smile when I say his name.