Page 8 of You Rock My World
With every yard I cover, my car seems to shrink, the air pressing in denser.
As Dorian’s gates come into view, the professional in me shouts to treat this like any other client meeting. The rest of me wonders if I’m about to be leveled by a smile. Or will he act differently with Billie Rae present? What if he behaves the same because he’s that charming with everyone and I was no one special?
The possibility that the connection I’ve obsessed over for the past year is nothing more than a standard interaction for him stings. It’s a reality check I desperately need, but one I’m not ready to face.
After a routine pass through security, I steer my car along the circular driveway, feeling dwarfed by the sheer size of his estate. The house has a bold geometry and sleek surfaces, easily the size of my entire condo building.
Following the guard’s instructions, I pick a random spot in the front yard and kill the engine. Bag in hand, I head to the front door, craning my neck at the stunning architecture and manicured grounds.
A uniformed housekeeper greets me at the entrance, her polite efficiency a stark contrast to the nerves jangling under my skin. She leads me into the foyer—stylish but more lived-in than I imagined—and points me to the living room without specifying if that’s where the meeting will take place or if Dorian has a dedicated home office. As I cross the hall, I hear the faint strumming of a guitar. I follow the melody, stepping into a spacious, open-plan room the size of a mini apartment—I hesitate to call it a mere living room—and there he is. Dorian is perched on a low couch, his guitar balanced on his knee as he scribbles on a music sheet laid out on the coffee table and goes back to playing. Seeing him lost in his creative process steals the air from my lungs.
I stand frozen in the doorway, caught between awe and panic.
This is worse than if I’d walked in on him kissing his wife. Because as of now, I’m not getting cured—the opposite. Seeing him like this, absorbed in his music, with the late-morning sunlight casting a golden glow over his tousled hair, feels far too intimate. My mind goes blank, grasping for the right way to announce my presence without shattering the magic of the moment.
Do I clear my throat? Knock? Or wait for him to notice me? Or do I melt into the walls and disappear? He’s alone. Clearly, I’m the first one here and should wait somewhere else while the rest of his team arrives. Fleeing seems like the best solution. I back away, but my bag bumps the doorframe with a soft thud. Dorian’s head snaps up, his icy-blue eyes lock with mine, and his face splits into a smile so bright I might actually need sunglasses.
“Morning,” he says, his fingers still idly plucking at the strings, like my arrival hasn’t thrown his rhythm at all.
I scramble to summon a professional tone, but stammer a weak, “M-morning.”
Dorian sets his guitar aside with a fluid motion, like the instrument is another limb for him, and rises from the couch.
I stare as he approaches me, his smile never wavering. As he closes the distance, the walls seem to advance on me, too. Why is every space getting smaller today?
“I’m glad you found the place. The GPS can be tricky around here.”
And why does his voice sound so good?
I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t appear as brittle as I feel. “Oh, my GPS was in a good mood—it nailedallthe turns.”Damn it!
I glance over the room, desperate for a distraction, and my eyes land on the music sheets scattered across the coffee table.
Dorian follows my gaze and gestures for me to sit. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”
I perch on the edge of a sleek armchair, clutching my bag in my lap like a shield. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”
As he settles back onto the couch opposite me, I notice the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, from writing lyrics or chords. It’s an insignificant detail, but it rearranges something inside me, a subtle displacement I can’t explain. This is real. Dorian Phoenix, in the flesh, sitting mere feet away from me, composing the next Favorite Rock Song of the year. And I’m supposed to… what?
Work.
I’m here to work, even if I shouldn’t be. Really, I’m not the best person to manage his public image. I open my mouth, ready to suggest that he might be better off working with someone more experienced, more suited to?—
“Don’t,” he says, cutting me off before I can even begin.
I blink, astonished. “Don’t what?”
His eyes spear me. “Tell me I should work with someone in the celebrity division. I don’t do well with new people.”
My stomach flip-flops. So much for finding an escape hatch. How did he know what I was thinking? Am I that transparent?
“I wasn’t going to say that,” I lie, and the skeptical quirk of his eyebrow tells me he’s not buying it. “But you know, I’m not a celebrity PR expert.”
“Good. I don’t need one. I just want someone who doesn’t bullshit me. Besides, Missy speaks highly of you. She says you’re quick on your feet and you’re not afraid to tell it like it is.”
While it’s nice to hear a colleague’s positive opinion of me, it’s counterproductive in my situation. “She said that?”
Dorian nods, leaning back and draping his arm along the frame of the couch. “Yep. I trust her judgment, and I trustyou. So, here we are.”
