Page 27 of You Rock My World
I part my lips to respond that we should market him only as the best singer and songwriter of this century, but Dorian’s voice cuts through the air. “Hold your horses, Victor. I’m not interested in crafting some new persona.” His tone is resolute. “I want to be myself. My only concern is steering clear of bogus rumors and handling any potential backlash from Billie’s fanbase.”
He seems ready to shed the past and determined not to be boxed into a future that isn’t on his terms. Dorian wears his confidence like an invitation, pulling me in and making me want to be a part of that journey, even if only as his publicist.
I clear my throat, drawing the attention of the room. “I agree with Dorian. Authenticity is key here. We don’t need to reinvent his image, just protect it from any unwarranted attacks or false narratives.”
“The fallout has been minimal so far.” Tessa nods. “A few snarky tweets, but nothing alarming. Both your fanbases are mostly sad about the end of an era, not out for blood. If Billie Rae doesn’t pull any stunts, we’re good.”
Dorian gives a skeptical glance at his assistant, as if asking,What are the chances of Billie not pulling stunts?
Tessa meets Dorian’s questioning look with a wry smile. “I know, wishful thinking. Billie’s not known for staying quiet. We’ll keep monitoring social media and news outlets. If something concerning pops up, we’ll be ready to do damage control as needed.”
I nod, scribbling a few last notes. No one has anything further to add, so everyone packs their laptops and tablets.
I gather my notepad and pencil, tucking them into my bag, already thinking ahead to how I’m going home to scrub my skin raw if that’s what it takes to get rid of the mustache. And tonight, Penny and I will talk about which pranks are acceptable and which aren’t when Auntie has to go to work. I still can’t believe I had to sit through an entire meeting in front of Dorian with doodles on my face. The thought has been needling me for the past hour, small and persistent, a splinter under my skin that refuses to work its way free.
Like a sudden gust of wind, Dorian’s voice sweeps away my circling thoughts, cutting through the noise and leaving no room for anything else. “Josie, could you hang back a minute?” He gestures for me to follow him. “Leave your stuff. You can grab it later.”
Nervous, curious, and bewildered, I trail after him, my heart rate picking up speed with each step. He leads me out of the office, down the hall, and up a grand staircase. A million questions swirl through my head as we ascend. What does he want? Why the mysterious trek? Where is he taking me?
We arrive at what I can only assume is his bedroom. It must be. A king bed dominates the space, the sheets are still rumpled and Dorian lives alone, right?
A stack of worn paperbacks sits on the left nightstand, covers dark, spines creased, and the titles unreadable. I squint, desperate for this tiny glimpse into his inner world. Is he into thrillers or does he secretly enjoy mafia romances? I need to know. But the shadows and the distance keep his secrets.
I give up on the bookish quest and take in the rest of the room.
In the corner, a burgundy electric guitar catches the sunlight near a desk cluttered by crumpled music sheets.
Enormous, unwise feelings balloon in my chest as I picture him, scribbling down chords and testing them on the guitar. The scene feels intimate, personal, like I’m peering behind a curtain Dorian usually keeps drawn.
Why did he bring me here? My eyes flit to the bed, its rumpled sheets suddenly taking on a new, enticing meaning. Heat rushes to my cheeks at the thought.
But before my imagination can run wild, Dorian pivots, heading for the en suite bathroom. I follow—and nearly choke. It’s the size of a New York apartment and looks like a spa: warm stone, rainfall shower, soaking tub, and a suspiciously well-stocked skincare line-up.
He grabs one of the containers, a sleek white one with gold lettering, and squirts a dense, milky liquid onto a cotton disk. “My stylist swears this is the best makeup remover on the market.”
I quirk an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You wear makeup often?”
He flashes me a grin, the kind that makes standing upright complicated. “Gotta get rid of the guyliner somehow.”
I laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. But my laughter chokes in my throat as Dorian steps closer, too close, the heat of his body warming the air between us. He raises the cotton disk, hovering it halfway to my mouth. “May I?”
My breath catches. “I can do it myself.”
“I know.”
Dorian doesn’t step back, and his gaze, piercing yet gentle, has me nodding a silent permission.
His free hand comes up, cupping my chin with a tenderness that contrasts the calluses on his fingertips. Musician’s hands. Now I understand what the fuss is about in romantasy novels about callused hands.
He holds me still as he brings the cotton to my lip.
The disk grazes my skin, and it’s nothing—a faint pressure, a fleeting contact. And yet, somehow, it’s everything.
It’s not a sexy act, not really. But the intimacy, the reverent care in his touch, makes me feel like I’m free-falling. I stiffen at first, every survival instinct screaming at me to pull away, to deflect with a joke, to do anything but let myself fall for him any harder.
But how can I not?
His hand doesn’t waver, and neither does his gaze. Gosh, I’d forgotten what it’s like to be the sole focus of Dorian’s attention. It amplifies my existence while simultaneously locking us up in an invisible cage, cutting us off from everything else.
