Page 68 of On the Power Play

Delia tamped down her instinct to ask how much it was costing the label to book the place. Mary had kept her stream and rank numbers top of mind for the past few days, so she understood their strategy was working. She still hated not having access to the raw numbers and what money was coming in. "Well, thank you, Jack."

"Are you going to be staying there, too?" Tony asked.

Jack exhaled through his nose. "Uh, no, I'll be at my place. It's only about ten minutes up the road."

Delia kept smiling even though something dropped through her middle like she'd just slid over the lip of a waterslide. It was fine—good even—that he wasn't going to be staying there. Based on how her skin had heated in her bedroom after their conversation, she worried she wouldn't be able to focus with him sleeping next door.

She knew next to nothing about him still, so was it just the fact that he was a good-looking guy with a pulse? Was she really that desperate? He didn't even like her music, for crying out loud.

Putting her lyrics out into the world was the equivalent of flipping herself inside out and allowing everyone and their dog to inspect the inner workings of her heart. If someone didn't like that, they didn't like her. Though to be fair, none of her hit songs were written by her.

But Jack had heard her poetry. At the concert. “Oubliet.” In relief and regret. Hadn't he talked about his disinterest in lyrics after he'd heard that?

No. Her heart revolted just like it had in Toronto. The way he'd looked at her. The way he'd mentioned the song the second she told him about her dad. He'd listened.

"Of course, that makes sense that you wouldn't want to disrupt your life completely, it's just . . ." Tony cleared his throat.

Delia forced herself to focus. She knew that look on his face. The one that said I'm about to say something you're not going to like, so I'm going to pretend it isn't a big deal by shrugging my shoulders and hedging a little until you make me spit it out. He used it all the time when he was about to tell her IndieLake had made a decision about one of her songs. "Tony?—"

"What do you two think about your public persona as a couple?"

Delia frowned. "Public persona?"

Tony scrubbed a hand over his pixelated face. "Right, your Jelia personality, or Deliack if you prefer that."

"Gross, one sounds like a gelatinous dessert and the other like he's allergic to me." Delia grimaced. "Don't tell me that's what people are calling us."

Tony laughed. "No, those were just examples I made up."

"Delia, he's your publicist. You should trust his instincts."

She shot Jack a look. "Hard pass."

"Okay, those names weren't the point. I was asking about your mutual branding."

Jack exhaled. "No idea what you're talking about."

Delia shifted in her seat. "Tony, don't you think it's a little early to think about that? We've barely been fake together for two weeks."

"Never too early! I'll tell you, my concern is that you two aren't coming off as smitten."

Delia's frown deepened. "Smitten?" She didn’t like where this was headed. Smitten meant close proximity. Smitten meant hands. Smitten meant eye contact.

"Right. Head over heels. He shits rainbows and smells like the air that puffs out of a freshly opened bag of maple cookies, and she makes your blood race south so fast you have to wear compression shorts."

Delia blinked. So. Not business only.

Jack stared hard at the screen. "You're not getting those vibes from us?"

"Ha. Ha." Tony adjusted his camera and reclined on whatever chair or couch he was sitting on.

Delia ran a hand through her hair. "That's not real love, Tony, that's infatuation. If I saw people acting like that, I'd be ninety percent sure they were going to break up within the month."

"That's because you're a cynic."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "You are?"

"No, I'm a realist. I've been there, done that, and relationships that start with heart eyes and panting only lead to disappointment and awkward text conversations."

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