Chris got back in the car and slammed the door again. Cady took a couple of steps closer to Conn and found herself looking way, way up into his face. Good thing she knew how to project.
“I drive around this city all the time when I’m on a break. It’s one of the things I look forward to when I’m not on tour. I drive myself places, I buy my own groceries, I shop without an entourage. I understand we’ve hired you to do a job. But the thing is, no one is going to try and run me off the road in Lancaster. They’re not going to tail me or whatever.”
He stared down at her, but this time the mask was firmly in place. She refused to budge, looking right back at him despite knowing she was losing this battle without him saying a word. “This matters to me. Please.”
The car door opened behind her. “Cady, you can’t stand around in this dry air, and if I miss this flight I swear to God I’ll spend the night at your house. Give him the goddamn keys and get in the goddamn car.”
Ignoring Chris, she said, “It’s a stick. Can you drive a stick?”
Conn’s brows lowered, the portrait of a Neanderthal thug’s amused disbelief. He held out his hand.
“Fine,” she said ungraciously, and slapped the keys into Conn’s palm. She walked around the trunk trying to ignore the heated surge inside her when her fingertips brushed his. They were warm, his body like a big, hardworking engine, pumping out heat.
“Which airline?” Conn said when he strapped himself in and adjusted the mirrors.
“United,” Chris said from the backseat. He fastened his seat belt, then reached into his carry-on bag on the seat beside him. “Hold on a second, Officer McCormick.”
“Conn,” Conn said, the car already in reverse, his foot on the brake. “Call me Conn. Officer McCormick is about five syllables too long for regular conversation.”
“Fine. Conn. Two things. First, as Cady’s body man, you do whatever she needs. Driving, protection, errands, whatever.”
Cady saw a muscle pop in Conn’s jaw and resolved to deal with that the moment Chris was in the terminal. “Yes, sir,” Conn said tightly.
“Second, sign this,” Chris said.
He extended a sheaf of papers between the seats. Conn shifted back into PARK and slung around to look at the stapled papers, taking up even more of the room on Cady’s side of the car. She could smell him, his skin, a faint overlay of grease and oil, industrial soap, and a gravy she’d bet her gold album came from The Coop, a dive diner on the East Side. Her mouth watered. “What is it?” Conn asked, not taking it.
“It’s a confidentiality agreement. The short version is that you agree to never speak to anyone from now until the end of recorded time about anything you see, hear, or do while in our employment or we will sue you and your entire family for every collective last penny you’ve all made or ever will make.”
“Chris, for the love of God,” Cady said.
Conn seemed almost amused by this. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you can go back into the police station and explain to your lieutenant why you’re here and not on the road to the airport. We’ll come with you and start this whole process again with a different cop, which will mean I’ll miss my flight and spend the night at your house.”
Conn took the paperwork. “Pen?”
Chris handed one through the gap. Conn flattened the pages against the Audi’s steering wheel and scrawled his signature on the last page, then handed it and the pen back to Chris.
“Thank you,” Chris said, satisfied. “Now that you’ve given in to my entirely unreasonable demands to ensure your safety … I’ve set up a meeting with Eric next week. Right now he’s dead set on dropping the new album right before Valentine’s Day, like we’ve planned.”
Cady took a sip of her honey water, marveling at the insulated cup. The water was still hot enough to send steam drifting into the air. Everything was perfect. She had a couple of months to rest her voice after months of touring, and a big uptick in hype and brand awareness from the tour. The calendar of new releases was light early in the year, so she’d have less competition from other artists’ new albums. She had a solid album ready to go.
The only problem was that it was an entire album of love songs, relationship songs, sexy hookup songs, all written by a team of songwriters. Not her. The longer she’d been on tour the more convinced she’d become that this wasn’t the album she wanted to release.
“It’s a good time,” Chris said, cajoling. “All the stars are in alignment. You can work on different material for the next album while you’re touring. You’ll be at a different stage in your life, and so will your fans. Right now they want to hear you sing about heartbreak and romance and making up and hooking up.”