“I could talk to your editor. He sounds like a real fuckhead. I could put some sense into him.”
Put some sense into him or knock some sense into him? His jaw is clenched, looking volatile. Against my better judgement, I reach out and touch his arm, just briefly, my fingertips resting on his wrist. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I’m the ad girl. That’s my job. And it will stay my job.”
He takes a step closer, his face suddenly in mine, and he squints at me for a moment. “But I can tell,” he says, “that you’re not okay with that. Are you?”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…fought for in my whole life.
I blink at him and he pulls back. “It is what it is,” he says, finally looking away. “And what it is, is what you make it.”
My mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “You sound like my mom.”
“Then your mother is very wise,” he says, seeming calmer now. His eyes brighten. “Want a taco?”
I beam at him. “Yes, please.”
We walk up and join the gang who are still in line for the street food. Lachlan and Linden greet each other with a quick hug and a pat on the back, while Steph takes me aside for a second.
“What were you talking about?” she whispers excitedly.
“Just the article,” I tell her, watching Lachlan. “Why?”
She tugs at my arm and grins at me. “Because, he was totally in your face. I thought he was going to kiss you.”
I give her a look. “Again, how old are we?”
“Right,” she says, leaning back and crossing her arms with her “don’t even” face. “How come Carrie and Samantha could giggle over men on Sex and the City, and we can’t? We’re the same age. Same problems.”
“And I’m still Samantha,” I say with a sigh, remembering years ago when Steph, Nicola, and I would binge watch the show for days on end. Fictional or not, the girls were who we aspired to be. Pretty, fun, carefree, and living the life in a big city. The single life always seemed a lot more fun when someone else was living it.
After Lachlan buys me my taco and I gracefully refrain from any pink taco or fish taco jokes, we head toward the main stage where the VIP area is.
It’s like a whole other world in those white tents. Not only are there cushy seats and a range of bartenders serving up whatever drinks you could want (not free though, which is kind of a rip-off), but you’re constantly looking around in hopes of spotting a celebrity.
Of course, most of the people in here with us are splurging or people who have been gifted the passes, so any hopes of seeing someone like Sam Smith or Elton John are dashed. We grab more drinks—Lachlan opting for a bottle of water—and head down to the bleachers beneath the tents that overlook the field and the main stage. From this vantage point, we have an excellent view of the current band, some hipster shit that has everyone waving their hands and glow sticks.
I’m at the end, sitting next to Lachlan, no accident on my part. I kick him playfully with my foot, and when he turns his head to look at me, I’m momentarily stunned by how close his face is to mine. His beautiful, gorgeous face. It makes my blood run with mercury.
I smile before I can speak, trying not to focus on his lips. “So you said you’re a music fan,” I say, my mouth moving carefully. “What kind of music do you like?”