But she said she wanted to see you after the signing. If you mope and don’t come up with a plan, you’re screwed. But if you get your shit together, maybe you’ll get to change her mind, the determined part of me whispered. Grab the opportunity. Take it!
I inhaled. That was true. I still had a chance. No matter how slim it was, I shouldn’t waste it.
I rushed to the concierge in the lobby.
“How can I help you, sir?” a middle-aged man in a dark suit said with a courteous smile. Then his eyes widened. “Mr.…Axelrod?”
I started to tell him he was mistaken, then changed my mind. Dev had said that fame was part of who I was now, and that it was a nuke that could be used for good or bad. “You know who I am?”
“Know who…? Of course! I love your songs. ‘The Danger Zone’ is my wife’s and my favorite.”
I smiled. “Awesome. Would you like an autograph to take to your wife?”
He lit up. “That would be spectacular. Thank you, sir. Shirley’s not going to believe this!”
“Not a problem. And your name is Piers, right?” I said, reading his tag.
“That’s correct, sir.”
I signed a stiff piece of paper he brought out. As I gave it back to him, I said, “Listen, Piers, I’m in a little bit of a bind. Think you could help me out?”
“Of course, sir.” He drew himself up, the Axelrod fan being replaced by the professional concierge. “Of course.”
“Great. I need to rent out your best restaurant. The one with the best view. The whole thing. If that isn’t possible, then an entire, I don’t know, terrace facing a garden or something like that. I need it today, for at least three hours, after the book signing over there ends.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the event. Given the number of people in line, I suspected it’d go on for at least another couple of hours. I wouldn’t want to be the organizer having to face the wrath of a female horde, furious it didn’t get to see its favorite author.
“I’m sure I can arrange something appropriate.”
“Excellent. And the place is going to need flowers. Lots of them.” Cole told me he’d arranged for a hundred bouquets to set the mood when he proposed to Teri. I wasn’t going to fail because I’d forgotten flowers.
“Anything particular in mind?”
I thought for a moment. Emily had never mentioned her favorite. And I couldn’t ask now. “Something that says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m a dick, I love you, marry me, I’ll make you happy.’”
“I begin to understand the dimensions of the issue. I assume that, ah, budgetary considerations won’t be a factor?”
“Not at all. Spend what you need to.”
“Very good. What about music? Food? Will there be any specific requirements?”
“My…” What could I call Emily? Not really a girlfriend, not a fiancée… “My lady will order when she’s ready, so the kitchen should be prepared to make whatever she wants. As for music…” I paused and considered. She’d said she didn’t do music. The only time she’d asked for it… Well, she’d wanted me to sing for her. But I didn’t think rock would set the right tone. “Nothing. No music.”
“No…?” He frowned. “Begging your pardon, sir, as I’m sure your experience in this area vastly outstrips my own, but one can’t help thinking that the, ah, proceedings are more likely to succeed with music. I could perhaps make some suggestions on romantic pieces…?”
“Yeah, normally you’d be right. But she just doesn’t like it.”
“I see.” He stood straighter. “Very well. You’ll have what you need.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Emily
My mind had been whirring since Killian asked me to sign My Fair Molly. I smiled and said all the right things to the fans, operating mainly on autopilot, but I couldn’t remember much of anything.
When the signing was finally finished, Lucy and Skye came over, Skye’s eyes as wide as the real sky. And they weren’t the only ones. Other writers converged to my table, sharks sensing the most delicious food there was: gossip.
“Okay, so that was Killian Axelrod, right? Somebody said he just looks like him, but he’s identical!” someone said, her voice somewhere between a scream and a squeal.
“I know!” Skye agreed. “It’s gotta be him!”
“Or his secret clone,” another author said from behind me.
I smiled, but I was sure I looked nervous. Lucy and Skye would be more circumspect, especially since Lucy understood I wanted to keep things discreet, but the other authors? I’d hate to have them track him down and post pictures of him all over the internet.
“Why would a rock star read romance?” Almost immediately after I said it, I realized how silly I was being. Killian had asked me to marry him. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could hide forever. “It’s a long story.”
“We love long stories,” Skye said.
“Yes, we do.” There was a chorus of voices, everyone’s eyes eager.
“Okay, fine. We met. And we spent some time together. You know. Romance takes its course,” I said with a shrug.
“There’s gotta be more to it than that!” Skye said.
“Just use your imagination,” I said, then quirked an eyebrow to let her know I’d talk to her later.
I didn’t think she understood my sub-rosa message, because she looked at me like I’d gotten all the bars in town shut down. I then remembered I’d told Killian I’d see him after the signing was over. “I gotta go.”
Skye gave Lucy a significant look. “She’s gotta go hook up.”
“No! I have an appointment I can’t miss.” I grabbed my purse and started running before they followed me out. I waved. “I’ll call you,” I added, praying they’d get the hint.
When I was out in the hall, I scanned the area for Killian but couldn’t spot him anywhere. Was he late? Had he left?
No, a man who’d taken out ads like that wouldn’t just leave. Maybe he’d gone to the bathroom or something. I wished I’d gotten his number when he asked me to sign the book…except that would’ve been super weird.
“Ms. Breckenridge?” a man in a suit said. A golden pin with his name—Piers Mathieson—and division—Concierge—shone on the lapel of his suit.
“Yes?” I said, wondering what he wanted me for. Had Lucy and Skye sent a gift to congratulate me for topping the chart? But wouldn’t it have been more efficient for this man to leave it in my room instead of tracking me down?
“Mr. Axelrod requested that I relay a message: that he is waiting for you on the rooftop garden terrace.”
“Oh.” For a second I was disappointed he hadn’t come in person, then shook myself mentally. Did I want people staring and asking me if they were seeing the Killian Axelrod? No, I did not.
“This way, if you please.” The man led me to the elevator, stuck his card key into the security slot and hit the RGT button. “Enjoy your time, Ms. Breckenridge.”
“Thank you,” I said as the doors closed.