Page 16 of Living on the Edge

I take a bite of the steak and sigh happily before continuing. “Sasha didn’t tell you? I run a channel called Rockin’ with Ryleigh. I go to concerts and livestream… not the show itself, but I talk to fans before and after, sometimes I get invited backstage and do interviews. I review albums and promote merch. It’s always different. I did that for spending-money while I was in college. Then, when my dad got sick, he was suddenly obsessed with me becoming a legitimate journalist. That’s how this all started.” I shrug, popping another piece of steak in my mouth and chewing slowly.

“That’s a lot of pressure,” he says in a quiet voice.

As if he understands pressure.

Maybe he does.

I imagine being in a band like Crimson Edge—who has a new record deal, a new album, and is on tour with a group of legends like Nobody’s Fool—is demanding.

“How old are you?” he asks when I don’t respond right away.

“Twenty-four.”

“So you’re still young,” he murmurs. “That explains why your dad wanted to help you in some way before he died.”

“I miss and respect my dad,” I say after a moment. “And I want to honor his memory. I don’t know if I’m doing it the way he would have liked, but I’m trying. I’m not sure it’s enough, though.”

“You have to live your life for you,” he says. “Your dad lived his life the way he wanted to, right? So why would he want anything less for you?”

“I guess because he was never there for me when I was growing up. He was always gone. On tour, photo shoots, whatever it took to get ahead. I mean, he sent money and stuff. He wasn’t a deadbeat. And I got to go on tour with him in the summer, so that was fun. But he wasn’t a traditional dad, and our relationship was difficult once I got old enough to see him for who he really was.”

“Believe me, I know about that.” His face changes as he says it, his eyes darkening as if whatever he’s thinking about is painful.

“It boils down to a few key points for me,” I continue thoughtfully. “The whole purpose of journalism is digging up secrets. They frame it as keeping people informed about the news going on in the world, empowering the masses with information and communication. And while I think there are times when that’s important—like in politics and healthcare and such—I don’t know that celebrities fall into that category. Like, why is it any of our business who such-and-such movie star sleeps with? Or if he cheats on his wife? The only people who matter are the people involved, right? Now, if he was embezzling money from his production company, that would be different. But generally speaking, I’m never sure what’s anyone’s business.”

Why is he so easy to talk to?

Maybe he just buttered me up with this incredible steak that probably cost sixty bucks. But I genuinely like talking to him.

His face is thoughtful. “Is that why you’re here? To find out all of our secrets?”

I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“And what if there aren’t any secrets? Then what?”

I meet his gaze. “Then I guess I’m going to have to fake it. At the end of the day, you can fake anything and everything if you try hard enough.”

“Not everything, sweetheart.” His eyes gleam, and I nearly choke on the bite of food I just put in my mouth.

Well, that escalated quickly.

Why is it suddenly hard to breathe?

He’s too good-looking for his own good.

And it feels dangerous having him here in my room with me.

Not because I think he’ll hurt me—it’s the opposite, in fact.

There’s a much bigger chance that I’ll just throw myself at him and beg him to make me scream his name.

Obviously, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex.

This kind of close proximity could get me into trouble, so it’s past time to change direction.

“I was talking about social media,” I say dryly, hoping my face doesn’t look as hot as it feels.

I don’t blush easily, but there’s something about Angus Jeffries that sets me on fire. Especially when he’s sitting so close to me.

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