Page 10 of Second-Rate Superstar

When I got close enough, I noticed she was writing furiously on a notepad, and my temper flared.

Closing the gap between us in three long strides, I snatched the notepad away so quickly that it took a moment for her to realize it was gone as she continued to write on the bar top before turning and glaring at me.

“Hey! Give that back!” she shouted over the music, her deep blue eyes flaring.

Jaw clenched, I gritted out, “What do we have here?”

“None of your business!” Her hands reached out to snatch it from my grasp, but I raised it above my head.

She was a petite thing, so unless she wanted to climb atop the barstool she occupied, there was little chance of taking it from me.

“We’ll just see about that.” Turning my back on her, I glanced down at the scribbling on the page open to me.

No checking of identification at the door.

Frat party energy but with more money to burn.

Orgies behind closed doors.

Spinning around, I glared at her. “What the fuck is this? You a reporter?”

“What?” She stared at me wide-eyed. “No! Why would you think that?”

Waving the notepad in her face, I challenged, “I don’t know . . . Maybe because you’re taking notes. Marking down incriminating details that could be used against the people who live here.”

Folding her arms against her chest, chin tilted up, she shot back, “And what’s it to you? Another one of those guys on the fringe, cashing in on the success of other men? Worried you’ll lose access to the free booze and accessible pussy if these barely legal parties get busted?”

Who the hell is this girl?

“Fine. If you’re not a reporter, then whatareyou doing? Because the evidence isn’t working in your favor.” I wasn’t backing down. Something wasn’t right here, and I would get to the bottom of it. For good measure, I added, “And you certainly don’t look like you belong here.”

She snorted. “You can say that again.”

Tearing the sheet with fresh scribblings from its bindings, I pocketed it before tossing the remaining pages onto the bar behind her. Those blue eyes dipped to the front of my jeans, and I watched the silent debate playing out on her face, trying to decide if she wanted to go in there after it.

Go ahead, sweetheart. Make my day.

When she hesitated, I pressed closer, caging her against the fake bamboo countertop. Gasping, she craned her neck to peer up at me.

“Wha-what are you doing?” Her voice was breathy, and I had to bite back a smile.

Leaning in, my chest grazed hers, and I brought my mouth beside her ear. “Why don’t you be a good girl and tell me why you were taking notes at a party instead of enjoying yourself?”

A strangled noise escaped her lips, and I fought the urge to place my lips against her neck. She might be digging for dirt, but that didn’t dull myattraction to her. She didn’t try as hard as the other girls, and I liked that. Plus, she didn’t wilt under my undivided attention.

She had a spark. And I wondered what that would look like if I stoked it into a full-blown inferno.

With how close we were, I could hear her throat muscles working as she swallowed. “I-I was doing research. I’m a writer.”

Pulling back, I searched her eyes for any hint that she might be lying. “What kind of writer?”

“Fiction. I swear.” Those sapphire depths never wavered. She was telling the truth.

Slightly stunned, I took a step back, confused. “What kind of fiction would require you to take notes at a house party?”

She opened those plump pink lips to respond when, suddenly, she was knocked off-kilter by a redheaded ball of energy in a blue dress.

“You came!” The redhead screeched, swaying on her feet. “I can’t believe it!”

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