huge drama. Our posters created hundreds of fake identities, or “sock puppets,” so they could flood the other site with accusations of theft. It brought home how unregulated and deceptive the Internet could be. Nobody was who you thought they were, and people would go to weird extremes when their passions were inflamed.
Remembering that incident, I opened the admin center on the blog and started checking the origins of those new comments. Every single one originated from the same IP address. The same as Sandman.
He was a one-man show.
I returned to my private messages and composed a reply.
Gee, Mr. Troll. That’s a subtle way to try to make sure I see all your sock puppet posts. Please grow the fuck up.
It made me feel kind of nauseated once I’d actually typed it out. It felt good to write it, but sending it was a whole different matter.
My cursor hovered over the Send button, but my phone rang out the chorus to “Close Enough” I’d chosen for Shane’s notifications, and I Xed out of the message without sending. Instead, I picked up my phone, smiling at Shane’s text.
Guess where I am?
I responded: Middle Earth?
Before my phone could explode in sound again, I lowered the volume. Shane’s next text came in muted, vibrating.
Oh, good. For a second I worried your phone was off and all this was in vain.
All what?
I’m here.
You’re joking.
It’s 5. I know you’re free. We’re invited to Jo’s for her birthday dinner. Let’s go find her a present.
I shut down my laptop and threw it in a bag. I was on my way to the elevator in minutes. Just before the doors shut, a hand shot in and stopped them. Gabe stepped in.
“Got any plans, tonight?” He inched closer. The space was so confined, I’d back into a wall if I moved. I didn’t relish the idea of being trapped by Gabe.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I straightened my spine, hoping my demeanor might make him back off.
Thankfully, the doors opened, and I quickly strode over the polished marble floors through the turnstile to get some distance. Shane crossed the lobby toward me. I heard Gabe say, “Mmm-hmm. I see,” as he continued out into the late afternoon traffic.
Pretending nothing had happened, I flashed Shane my brightest smile, which only grew bigger when he leaned forward and scorched me with the kind of kiss I’d only dreamt about.
“Come on, Star Shine. There’s a cool Broadway store around here somewhere, and I know Jo loves T-shirts from musicals.”
He slipped his hand in mine, and we headed out. I’d been in New York City less than a week, and everything felt like a fairy tale.
Chapter Eighteen
We arrived at Jo’s around seven. Shane added our contribution to the pile of presents stacked on the coffee table. An actual chef worked at the kitchen island while Micah, Zion, Eden, and Adam observed. Baby Joshua slumbered in his car seat.
My eyes goggled at the sight. “You have your own chef?”
Jo waggled her eyebrows. “Yeah. Micah’s been learning to cook, but it’s easier to learn from a professional than attempting to grab recipes online. Pratosh comes by on special occasions.”
Everyone rearranged themselves so Shane and I could sit next to each other. I ended up right next to Adam, so close our arms might have brushed if I’d been so bold.
Even though I’d seen Adam a few days before, my shock and awe had reset back to wide-eyed bewilderment. It was Adam fucking Copeland after all. I’d seen him on TV. He’d been on the cover of the Rock Paper. It would take me more than a week to adjust to casually rubbing elbows with him, literally.
Shane’s arm snaked around me. I leaned into him, and everything seemed normal again. When he pressed a kiss to the top of my head, I reached up to clasp hands with his, draped over my shoulder. He pulled me tighter, and I melted a bit. How could someone’s body feel like a second skin in so short a time? How could he turn me on while simultaneously putting me at ease?
Micah caught my attention when he started cutting up veggies like a sous-chef, asking questions about the spices and other culinary techniques.
Jo explained to me how they’d found Pratosh. “Micah figured we could get some authentic Kerala cuisine. Kerala is the part of India where my dad lives. Do you like curry?”
I nodded. “I think so.”
While they worked, Zion said, “So, Layla, why don’t