Page 129 of Heartbreaker

I’m not upset—poor Frankie has been miserable—but I miss Royal.

We haven’t been apart since we got engaged, and it was really strange sleeping alone last night.

“You ready, Jade?” Dash looks incredibly handsome in his tuxedo, and I go over to straighten his collar. Tuxes are a requirement for security at this event, and he’d grumbled about it, but I think it’s a great look for him. Those broad shoulders will turn quite a few heads this evening…but he’s all business.

So much so, sometimes I worry about him.

He needs a good woman to ease the perpetual frown line between his brows. Aside from his time at The Sapphire Room, he’s always worried. On alert.Working. Frankly, it’s exhausting just to watch.

Part of me feels guilty because he’s my friend more than my bodyguard now, and I reap the rewards of his expertise, but I also want him to be happy. And deep down, I think he’s just as alone as Royal was. Him and Atlas both. Atlas is a much tougher nut to crack, though.

And I’m certainly not playing matchmaker tonight.

I’m up for Country Music Superstar of the Year, and it’s a little strange since this is a newer award. This is only the second year this event has been happening, and this year it’s on all the major prime-time television stations.

I smooth down my raspberry red gown and get ready to leave. Dash is both my date and my bodyguard for the evening, so he’ll be with me the whole time. Lots of celebrities do it this way if they don’t have an actual date, but I’m sure the gossip mongers will be confused.

That just makes me laugh.

Royal and I have begun to enjoy screwing with the press.

“You look lovely,” Dash says as we head for the limo.

“Thank you.” I take his arm as we walk. “You look pretty handsome yourself. You know, I bet you’d like my friend Lily. We’re going to see her later.”

He chuckles. “Stop with the matchmaking. I’m not looking.”

“How come?”

“Because I don’t have the time. Or the energy. Women are a lot of work.”

“What are you trying to say?” I demand, laughing. “Are you calling me high-maintenance?”

He wobbles his hand from side to side. “A little?”

“Well, I never!” I laugh, and he does too.

Conversation is light on the short drive to the event and thankfully, there’s no red carpet tonight. But the convention center is literally surrounded by fans and paparazzi.

“Jesus, it’s packed,” I murmur as we make our way inside.

“Don’t worry. I’m right here.” He allows me to walk ahead of him, and I wave to a handful of photographers I know, breezing past them to our seats.

“I think you’re going to win,” he says quietly, looking around.

I cock my head. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling I have.”

“You seem like you’re on edge,” I say. “Everything okay?”

“Sometimes I just get a vibe—like something is going to happen. I don’t always know if it’s good or bad, but it’s like a sixth sense.”

“Well, then let’s assume you’re right that I'm going to win!” I say. “Because we don’t want anything bad to happen.”

“Definitely not.”

There’s that scowl again.

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