Page 58 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

“Thanks.” Dale smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Funny how I already knew his smiles. “Do you have… uh…”

He made a motion like he was signing his hand but Holly was already pulling up her shirt, exposing her navel and arching her back. Her belly was smooth and flat and tanned, like she’d spent hours in the sun, although how that was possible in the middle of New Jersey was beyond me. Tanning bed maybe?

“Here’s good.” She cocked her hip, smirking at him.

Dale blinked, glancing at me. “You got any paper?”

“I think I have a maxi-pad in my purse.” I glared at Holly feeling like I could have picked her up and thrown her. I felt Dale laughing silently next to me, clearly amused.

“Tell you what…” He tilted the popcorn tub, scrawling his name on the side. “Take this.”

She frowned. “There’s still popcorn in it.”

“It’s all yours.” He shook it at her and she took it that time.

“Well thanks.” She hugged the popcorn tub to her chesty-chest. She was practically falling out of her shirt. “Hey, my cousin is having a party later… do you want to come?”

Dale smiled, but I could tell he was getting tired of her. “Sorry, I got plans.”

“Well okay,” she relented, starting to go, but then she turned back, plucking the pen out of Dale’s hand—he was still holding it—and grabbing that same arm. “If you change your mind, call me…”

She proceeded to write something on his inner forearm before Dale could protest, looking at me for the first time, and I knew she’d seen us get in trouble for writing on the tables in chemistry that first day. She’d seen me write my number on Dale’s hand.

Then she was gone, back giggling and squawking with her friends.

“What the hell?” he muttered, rubbing at the black ink on his arm as he turned back to me.

I was burning with anger, telling myself I had no reason to be mad as I sank down in my seat, hugging my Coke.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he apologized, leaning over so only I could hear him.

“Don’t worry about it.” I just shook my head and shrugged, sucking up sweetness through my straw before putting my Coke in the drink holder on the other side. “Previews are starting.”

But I was still mad. And he knew it. I heard him swear under his breath as the lights went down. We sat through a trailer for Batman with Michael Keaton, inches away from each other, but no longer touching. I knew I had no real right to be mad, and Dale hadn’t done anything except sign an autograph for a fan. I didn’t even know why I was so angry. I should have been ecstatic, sitting there waiting to see the new Tyler Vincent movie, and instead I was fuming, my hands clenched into fists.

“Hey.” Dale touched my hand, his calloused fingers gently prying mine open, head bent close. “Hey now. Let me in.”

I shot him a sideways look. “Who are you, the big bad wolf?”

“Don’t make me huff and puff.” His breath was soft and buttery against my cheek as he gained ground on my hand, teasing my fingers open.

“The three little pigs are over there.” I jerked my head toward the “Tyler trio” in the middle of our aisle, the three of them squealing as Tyler appeared on the screen twenty-feet tall, shirtless—of course—sweat dripping off his gloriously tanned body, multi-colored lights flashing over his black guitar as he strode across the stage. The romantic comedy about the rock star, starring an actual rock star, starting off with concert footage. How original.

Dale chuckled, twining his fingers with mine, leaving our hands resting comfortably on my thigh. He seemed satisfied he’d repaired our little rift, and he was right, but that just made me madder. All he had to do was flash that smile and take my hand, and I relented, turning to jelly. I was disgusted with myself, but couldn’t seem to stop it. Some part of me just wanted to give into him.

Yeah, the part in love with Tyler Vincent.

Was that it? I’d been trying to convince myself all week that resistance was futile simply because I was conditioned to salivate every time I saw a man who looked even a little like Tyler Vincent. Besides, he couldn’t have hit any more of my hot buttons if he’d tried. Guitar player? Check. Singer? Check. Sexy as hell? Check. And it seemed like no one could resist Dale, if this afternoon’s show and his new fans’ enthusiasm were any indication. But when he set his mind on something and turned his full attention to it?

No wonder I was lost.

On screen, Tyler played to a crowd a million times bigger than Dale had earlier that afternoon, a sight that usually made me swoon, but not today. What was wrong with me? Tyler Vincent was my whole world. But it wasn’t Tyler who was making my belly churn and my breath catch in my chest and my toes to curl in Aimee’s brand new shoes. It was the warmth of Dale’s hand in mine, the shift of him in his seat, the way he glanced over at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, studying my profile with soft eyes.

Dale let go of my hand and I looked at him, surprised. He smiled, putting his arm around the back of my seat, resting his forearm lightly over my neck, his hand cupping the rounded curve of my shoulder under his denim jacket. I gave a little sigh, leaning against him, doing my best to get lost in Tyler Vincent’s world—a place more familiar to me than home—but it seemed the more I tried, the more I was distracted by Dale, the way he had of rubbing his thumb over my shoulder and leaning just a little closer, breathing in deep, like he was trying to take me in.

“You okay?” Dale murmured.

I swallowed and nodded, but I didn’t know anymore. Tyler Vincent was there, right in front of me, the man of my dreams. I should have been screaming and crazy and swooning like the rest of the girls in the theater, but I could barely keep my eyes on the screen, let alone my mind or anything else.

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