Page 9 of You Rock My World
Here we are, indeed.
I order the butterflies in my stomach to quiet down. “Okay, well, I appreciate the vote of confidence. I’ll do my best to live up to it.”
“I’m sure you will.” His gaze lingers on me, and heat rises to my cheeks.
The sound of loud voices coming from the foyer startles me.
Dorian rises to his feet. “That’ll be the team. Come on.”
I stand as well, smoothing the skirt of my dress with clammy hands. I’ve met with clients and their associates countless times before. This is no different. Except it is, because this is Dorian.
A moment later, a parade of people spills into the living room. A man in an expensive suit with a flashy watch and dyed dark hair leads the charge. He greets Dorian with a quick nod, suggesting a long-standing familiarity. Must be his agent, Victor Langston. I identify the others from the brief I was given this morning that I only had time to skim-read.
The next arrival is a tall man with graying hair and an air of perpetual stress. His phone is glued to his ear as he mutters something about tour dates clashing—Grant, the tour manager, then.
Following him is a young woman in a hoodie, ripped jeans, and sneakers, who can only be Bailey, the social media manager. A brunette in a stylish power suit who gives off lawyer vibes. And finally, another woman breezes in, wearing a blue dress and ankle boots. She seems to hold the reins of the others and must be Dorian’s personal assistant, Tessa.
Dorian glances toward the group, then back at me, still smiling. “Perfect timing, everyone. We can move to the office.”
I blink. At least he doesn’t host his meetings on the couch. That’s good. A more professional setting will help me stay focused.
“This way,” Dorian says, his words directed at me; the others seem familiar with the house’s layout. He leads us out of the living area and into a wide hallway adorned with abstract art.
The group of professionals fall into step behind him, chattering in a low hum. I follow, tightening my fingers around the strap of my bag, resigned to adventure further into Dorian’s world. Each layer I peel off causes more trouble for me. At least Billie Rae is nowhere to be seen yet.
As we enter the office, I wish I could stay cool, but I mostly gape at the framed platinum disks gleaming on the walls and the rows of awards lining the sleek bookshelves.
The room is awash in natural light, sunrays pouring through the large French doors that open on to a meticulously landscaped garden with an Olympic-size pool glittering in the distance.
In the center of the room, a massive square white table dominates the space. I wait for the others to sit, not wanting to steal anyone’s usual spot, and am relieved when the last free seats end up being not too close to Dorian.
I sneak a glance at him lounging back in his chair, completely at ease, wishing I could feel the same.
The others pull out tablets and laptops. I grab a simple notepad and start scribbling,Rian Phoenix client meetingat the top of the page with my mechanical pencil. My hand trembles, ruining my already crooked lettering and sparking a surge of irritation. His proximity is short-circuiting my neurons and giving me actual fucking tremors.
Tessa, seated next to Dorian at what would be the head of the table if it weren’t a square, clears her throat and calls for attention. “We all know the priority today.” I’m still scribbling when Tessa continues, “How to break the news of Dorian’s divorce.”
The sound of my pencil lead snapping is embarrassingly loud in the sudden silence. I freeze, staring at the jagged point that’s pierced through the next sheet of paper. My heart pounds as I glance up, sensing Dorian’s stare on me.
I meet his eyes and his mouth curves into a slow, infuriatingly confident grin. Then he winks. Dorian I’m-Getting-a-Fucking-Divorce Phoenix just winked at me.
6
DORIAN
One Year Ago
“Well, for starters, you’re too married,” Josie responds to my question of why she’d never date me, popping an almond in her mouth.
“That’s fair,” I reply. I don’t tell her that Billie Rae and I haven’t slept in the same room—or house—for a year. I’m not a creep who uses a failing marriage as an excuse to step out of bounds. Whatever’s happening with my wife is our mess to clean up—or burn to the ground. But until it’s over—legally, emotionally, officially—the line stays where it is. “What about you, are you married?”
The second I ask I know I want the answer to be no. I check her hands as she keeps popping almonds—no rings. Thank f?—
“Yes.” Her admission hitches my sides like a cramp after exercising too hard. My chest feels tight, burning from the inside out, my lungs clawing for space they can’t find. At least until she adds, “To my job, sadly.”
I instantly relax but am still shocked by the intensity of my reaction for a total stranger.
“So, is anyone waiting for you outside this elevator? Boyfriend, girlfriend, an army of worried relatives?”
