Page 25 of How to Be a Rockstar's Girlfriend

“Anti…” He licks his lips. Oh dear. His tongue is swollen. No wonder he’s slurring.

“Antihistamine?” He nods. “Will it help?” He nods again.

I rush to the bathroom. Thank god I have some antihistamines to deal with my hay fever. My hands tremble as I pick up the bottle. I drop it in the sink and it rolls around a few times before I manage to snatch it. I run back to the dining room and kneel in front of Gibson.

“Here.” I shove the bottle at him. He opens it and guzzles half of the bottle in one go.

“You should probably lay down. Let me help you to the couch.” I start to wrap my arm around him but he bats me away.

“Feet work.”

He stumbles to the couch and falls onto it. I need to enlist some help. He shouldn’t be driving. Good thing Indigo insisted on putting her number in my phone.

“Hey, bestie!” She answers on the first ring.

“Can you send someone over to Old Man Mercury’s house to pick up Gibson?”

She growls. “Is he drunk?”

“He hasn’t been drinking. He had an allergic reaction.” Aka. I poisoned him.

“Oh.” She blows out a breath. “I’ll send someone over.” She hangs up before I can thank her.

I throw my phone on the table and run to the couch to check on Gibson. He’s passed out. I lean close to make sure he’s breathing. It would be just my luck to kill a famous rockstar I’m pretending to date. I can imagine the headlines now.

Out of work mechanic poisons rockstar she was pretending to date. Was it an accident? Or is she a black widow in the making?

Nope. I force those thoughts away. He’s fine. He’s breathing. I push to my feet and prowl to the window. No one’s here yet. I return to the couch. Gibson’s still breathing. Phew. I prowl back to the window to check if anyone’s on their way.

“Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous,” Mercury barks at me.

I wring my hands together. “I poisoned a famous rockstar.”

“You didn’t poison him. He has an allergy. I told you peas don’t belong in pasta.”

“Well, excuse me, for trying to get you to eat a few vegetables.”

There’s knock on the door and I rush to it.

“Mercury here?” Fender asks.

I motion to the sofa. He grunts before marching there and lifting Gibson before throwing him over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say as I rush in front of him to open the door. “I didn’t know he was allergic to peas.”

“Get the door,” he grumbles and I hurry to open the car door for him.

He throws Gibson in the seat and buckles him up. I frown. This appears to be a practiced routine.

“Thanks again,” I say as Fender walks toward the driver’s seat. He waves and gets in the car to drive away. I watch until I can’t see the car’s rear lights anymore.

“Welp! That’s what I call a successful evening,” Mercury says when I enter the house. “I’m going to bed.”

Successful evening? Is he joking? What was successful about it? The part where my supposed boyfriend gave me weeds? Or maybe how he tried giving a household of teetotalers a bottle of wine? Or – and this is my favorite part – how I poisoned him?

Tonight is no one’s definition of successful. I don’t know how I’m going to pull off being Gibson’s fake girlfriend if this is what I’m in store for.

Too bad I’m not in the market for an actual boyfriend because even with his tongue swollen and a rash on his cheek, Gibson’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

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