dick, no matter how charming the smile attached to it or how tingle-inducing his laugh.
“Shirley Temples have too many calories, though,” he says, oblivious to the effect he’s having on me. Good thing I’m not drinking alcohol. I might not be able to pretend to be so unaffected if I had a good buzz going.
I stir my straw around my pink, sugary drink again. He has a point. But I’ve saved my calories just for this, and I’m not going to let some pretty boy ruin my enjoyment of the one pleasure I have available right now. Shrugging one shoulder, I take another sip. “I’ve only had chicken and celery today. I have room for the extra calories.”
He gives me an appraising look, his eyes tracking over my body, lingering on my waist and thighs. “Smart,” he says, returning his attention to the crowd.
I want to be disgruntled at the way he was checking me out, but his gaze was clinical. Calculating. The way my agent sizes me up before meetings with the label execs where we discuss my marketability. “Don’t get too fat,” she says. “In fact, lose five pounds. Skinnier is better.”
We stand companionably against the bar, me sipping my drink slowly, drawing out the sweetness for as long as possible before I have to return to my dull, carefully controlled diet, intended to shave off those last stubborn five pounds.
“So who’s your date tonight?” he asks, apropos of nothing. “Wait, don’t answer, let me guess.”
I hide my smile in my drink, because he’s never going to get it right if we’re playing this game.
He looks me over again, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Even though your band is out, you guys were pretty hot over the last six months. I’ve heard the chatter. And you said you’re trying to get signed as a solo artist. You need someone to boost your image.” He turns his attention back to the crowd, picking out and discarding possibilities with his eyes. After a moment, he jerks his chin off to our left. “There. Derek Bayers. He’s close enough to your age to be a viable boyfriend candidate, which is important for the press. He was nominated for best new artist last year, and has strong sales and tour numbers. He’d be good for your reputation.” Raising his eyebrows, he looks at me for my answer.
Pressing my lips together to hide my smile, I shake my head.
He jerks his head back, surprised. “Really?” At my nod, he resumes scanning the crowd, humming thoughtfully to himself, his brows now furrowed together. He rattles off a few names, but without the lists of qualifications, each more ridiculous than the last.
Finally, my laughter gets the best of me. “No. You’re never going to guess at this rate.”
He gives me a lopsided smile that sucks the air out of my lungs. “Fine. I give up. Tell me.”
“No one.” I lift my free hand and let it fall. “Unless I can find someone who’ll show up everywhere with me for an extended period of time, coming with a date will only hurt me. Being seen with a new man at every event makes me look like a whore. The goal is to rehab my party-girl reputation. So no men. No alcohol. No drugs. No fun at all.”
His face turns pitying at the bitterness that seeps into my voice. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Nodding my acknowledgment, I finish off my drink. My last one of the night. After this it’s tonic with lime for the rest of the night. Because douchey pretty boy over here is right. It’s the best calorie-free drink substitute.
But I’m not ready to carry that around for the rest of the night, so I keep my glass of melting ice in my hand.
“Why didn’t your PR team find you someone to be your escort for a while, though? That’s not a crazy thing to do. Pretending you have a stable relationship for the press would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”
“Well …” I hedge, not sure how much information I want to give this stranger. He’s clearly involved in the industry. He knows who everyone is and how the game is played. But he’s not an artist. I’d recognize him if he were, especially with his knowledge of everyone here. Does he work for a label? Which one? Or … oh no … could he be in PR? Am I feeding him information that he’ll use against me?