Blue Shoes #1: New Adult Rock Star Erotic Romance (Morris Music Book 6) (6 page)

“Do you mean the lawyers who do the contracts?” I ask. “They don’t do personal injury, do they?”

“We’ve got everything covered.”

I wave the idea away with one hand. “I’m not going to lawyer up. I just hope my grandmother doesn’t see the pictures of me falling down, or of my bloody elbow.”

“She worries?”

“Sort of. She’s always threatening to come here and kick them with her hiking boots.”

Chet laughs, and I try to mask my worry by joining him. Every network seems to have paid for footage of my fall. The late-night talk show hosts are making fun of me, the clumsy farm girl fiancée of rising rock star Dylan Wolf. They showed my fall over and over, but of course they didn’t show any footage of the person who stole my wedding dress.

“So, nothing’s broken?” Chet asks.

“Nothing broken. Just bruised and scraped.”

“Good.” He leans forward. “Because I need you for something.”

I lift the stack of album cover designs I’ve been marking up. “I know.”

“Not that stuff. You’re going to Rome.”

“Rome? The one in Italy?” My mind is reeling. I’ve never even left America. I do have a passport, and we’ve been planning to travel more, but Dylan’s schedule is so hectic.

Chet’s emerald green eyes are dancing. “Yes, the Rome that’s in Italy, you goofball. I’ve been trying to work better with our European distributor. It’s impossible to get them on the phone, because of the time zone difference. Well, you know how it’s been the last few months. They have a great infrastructure, but their marketing sucks.” He leans in for the closing. “Jess, I need you. I need you to teach them the magic of your ways.”

I frown at the stack of work in front of me. I don’t have “magic ways.” I have a lot of “working through lunch” and “staying late,” but that’s hardly magic.

Chet has been talking about this trip for weeks, and I keep telling him I’m too busy with work in L.A. He doesn’t know about the wedding, because nobody does.

“Take the new guy,” I say. “He’s really smart. And I think he speaks Italian.”

“He’s Dutch.”

I look around my office for other ideas, other excuses. Dylan wants to take me to Rome some day. I can’t go right now, without him. Plus I have a secret wedding in a few weeks, and I still don’t have a dress.

I groan and lean forward on my desk, cradling my face in my hands.

Chet takes this as a sign of agreement from me.

“Thanks for agreeing,” he says. “This will be great. We’ve got a hotel suite for our home base, and you’ll work from their offices. You can do this. You’ll guide their new marketing campaign and show them how to do a great launch.”

“A launch? How long is this trip?”

“About five weeks. They should have it down by then. Rome is amazing. Just wait until you see the Trevi fountain.”

I get up from my desk and close the door to my office. We need privacy. My office isn’t soundproof, but as long as I keep my voice low, the others won’t hear me.

“Chet, I can’t go. Dylan and I are getting married in less than six weeks. We’re trying to keep it a secret so the press doesn’t ruin it like they ruin everything else.”

Chet nods slowly.

“Of course, you’re invited,” I quickly add.

He gives me a sideways look. “Am I?”

“We were going to tell people on the morning of the day.”

He sighs. “I guess I can take the new guy to Rome. He’s not as much fun as you, or half as competent.”

Chet starts to leave, but I hold up a hand to signal for him to wait.

I look around again to make sure nobody’s listening.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nick Clark was here on Saturday. In the building. I was stupid and told security to send him up. He told me he wanted to make a truce. Between his mother and me, or maybe all of us.” I shake my head, because the whole thing sounds crazy coming from my mouth.

“Good ol’ Maggie Clark,” Chet says. “She never could let anything go. She was a great Vice President, at least. I’ll give her that much. Some of the departments are still lost without her.”

“Nick told me something else. He said that your father is… getting divorced again?”

Chet walks to the door.

“Good meeting,” he says formally.

Ouch. Chet does not want to talk about his father’s divorce.
I should not have mentioned that.

“Have a good day,” he says.

“Uh. You, too.”

He gives me a curt nod, and walks toward the door.

I struggle to find the right words to apologize for being so blunt about his father.

“Chet?”

He stops walking, but doesn’t turn to face me. “The Morris family will be fine,” he says. “Don’t worry about what my old man is up to. Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Jess. Things are great for me here, and soon things will be great in Rome. It’s an incredible city.” With another nod, he walks out the door.

“You’ll have fun in Rome,” I call after him.

After a hectic day at work, I’m happy to come home.

I open the door and hear music. Dylan’s already here, strumming away on his favorite old guitar.

I drop my purse and find him in the living room. He’s in a vintage designer chair, leaning back. The song sounds new. He’s lost in another world, his eyes closed while he plays. He hears my feet on the floor and gives me a smile and a nod, his eyes still closed.

He keeps strumming the acoustic guitar. “Working on a progression,” he explains.

I give him a quick kiss and take a seat on the sofa across from him. I curl my feet up underneath myself and relax, enjoying the private concert.

He keeps playing, frowning to himself as he plays chord combinations that aren’t right.

His old guitar looks even more scratched than when we first met. He must have a strong sentimental attachment to the thing, because people keep giving him guitars, and he insists on playing this one.

People go crazy over that guitar, too. We even got a huge offer from one of the big restaurant chains, but Dylan wouldn’t sell.

While he plays, I pull out my phone and arrange for dinner. We try to cook together when we can, but I can tell he won’t be torn away from the music tonight.

Forty minutes later, Riley and Amanda show up with our pizza.

Dylan opens his eyes and stops strumming. He sniffs the air.

“That’s right,” I tell him. “From your favorite place by the old firehall.”

Pizza wins over the guitar this round.

We have a nice dinner together, and the girls tease me that I never sleep over next door if Dylan’s home.

“Blame me,” Dylan says, grinning. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

“Come over tonight,” Amanda begs. “Caleb got us a bunch of new games, and there’s a cool racing one.”

“Another time,” I promise them.

After we’re done dinner, they return to their place next door, and Dylan and I settle down in the living room.

The evening is about as perfect as any we’ve had in the house.

Everything’s so calm and peaceful, until Dylan clicks on the television.

The first thing we see is footage of me from Saturday, running with the bridal gown box. The late-night show host laughs as they play the shot of me swinging at the photographers.

“Seriously?!” I yell at the TV. “It’s been two days. Haven’t they found someone else’s life to ruin since then?”

Dylan hits the button to rewind the footage. He presses pause and steps in close to the screen.

“Is that him?” His voice is shaking with anger. “That guy in the hat. He took the dress.” He punches his fist into his palm.

I cover my face with my hands. I can’t look at these images anymore. They make me want to crawl under the house and die.

Dylan growls, “That guy is dead when I get my hands on him.”

“No, don’t. An assault charge isn’t going to help.” I sit up higher on the couch, as though that’ll help him hear me better. “Retaliation will just make it worse. And we can’t give them any more reasons to hound us.”

“They can’t stop themselves, so I’ll have to.” Dylan’s fists are squeezed tight and his veins bulge up his arms.

“What if they already know about the wedding?” My voice is rising higher and higher with my panic. “Nan will be here. They always push and shove. They can’t do that to my grandmother.” My voice is a squeak now. “If they do anything that hurts her, I—”

Dylan sits next to me. He’s tense, but trying to be calm for me. He takes my hands in his. “She’ll be safe. I’ll make sure.”

He brings my fingers to his lips and lightly kisses them. “I know you’re worried. I wish I could make you not worry. You know what we should do? Go away for a bit. A holiday.”

“A holiday? But I’ve got too much to do.” I sigh and lean into him. He holds me while I run my fingers down his chest and abs.

“We’re both overworked,” he says. “I’ve got recording sessions next week.”

I nuzzle in closer. “No holiday for us.” I reach for the remote control and click off the television. “But if you could blink your eyes and take us anywhere in the world, where would we go?”

He chuckles, his voice a comforting rumble in his chest.

“That’s easy. Rome.”

I pull away and give him a suspicious look. “Did my boss tell you to say that? Chet’s been trying to get me there for Morris work.”

“I swear, Rome just popped into my head. I went there after college. A bunch of friends and I travelled all around Europe. Backpacks and hostels, and too much to drink.” He chuckles at the memories. “Rome was definitely my favorite.”

“Lucky guy.” I sigh. “Must have been nice being a rich kid.”

He snorts. We always tease each other about having different backgrounds.

He replies, “Must have been nice being a country kid. With a prize steer named Howard.”

I poke him in the side. “His name was Henry, not Howard. C’mon. Know your Jess Rivera trivia.” I try to tickle him, but he won’t crack.

He grabs my hands and turns me around so my back’s resting against his chest. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes me.

“Python attack,” he murmurs.

I go limp in his arms and pretend to be dead. He chuckles and relaxes his arms.

We stay cuddled up together on the couch. I could let him hold me like this forever, or at least five more minutes.

Dylan asks, “Why did Chet ask you to go Rome?”

I tell him about the new Morris Music European distribution partner and how Chet wants me to help them. Dylan listens patiently, even as I get deeper into technical details. He’s quiet, like when he’s thinking of a new song. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s ignoring me and thinking about song lyrics.

I’m resting the back of my head on his shoulder and can’t see his face. His chest is rising and falling steadily.

“Dylan? Did I put you to sleep?”

“Not at all. But… you should go to Rome.”

“But I have to get everything ready for the wedding.”

“What’s left? I put the deposit on the mansion. It’s all ours.”

“You’re such a guy,” I say, teasing him. “We haven’t decided on the caterer yet. I have to order the flowers. And my dress… My dress…”

I sit up and pull away from him. Now that I’m thinking about my beautiful stolen dress, I don’t feel cuddly. I start muttering about the photographers and the things I’d like to have happen to them.

Dylan sits up straight. “Jess, this is exactly why you should go to Rome. You know what doesn’t matter? The catering. I’ll order pizza for everyone if I have to. Or fried chicken.”

I shake my head. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’ll just die if my closest friends and family have to eat chicken from a paper bucket at my wedding. That sounds way too much like a wedding back in my hometown.”

“Fine. I’ll get a caterer. Nothing but the best for my pretty girl.”

I cross my arms. “While you’re at it, grab me a dress.”

He crosses his arms, making fun of me. “I’m sure a girl as clever as you can find a wedding dress in Rome.”

I pause and really think about what he’s saying. They do have wedding dresses in Rome. And no annoying photographers.

“Is this happening?” I ask. “Am I going to leave this city for a whole month? I can’t. I can’t be without you that long. I’m sure Rome is beautiful, but I want to experience it with you.”

He leans in close, studies my face, then kisses me hard. His hands go to my waist, then he pulls me toward him. He leans back onto the couch cushions while pulling me on top of him.

Our bodies press together, our legs moving automatically so we’re intertwined. Heat flares up within me. I don’t know if I can wait until we get to the bedroom tonight.

We kiss some more, and then I pull back so I can stare down into his beautiful, dark eyes.

“Go to Rome,” he says, his voice quiet and raspy.

“Not without you.”

He reaches up and sweeps my hair behind my ear. “I’ll be there,” he says.

“You’ll be here in L.A., in a recording studio. You’ll be working on a new song, as always, and you’ll miss your flight. Like how you missed Riley’s birthday party, and—”

“Hush.” He lifts his head up and kisses me. His hands move up my back, luring me deeper into his captivating embrace.

I pull back. “It’s true. I know you, Dylan. If I go to Rome, you’ll be so caught up, I’ll be lucky to even get a phone call.”

“
Bellissima
,” he says.

“Belliss-a-yourself.”

“That means
very beautiful
in Italian. And I’m serious. Bellissima, I will meet you in Rome.” He blinks, looking very solemn. “I swear.”

Tuesday morning, I walk in to Chet’s office and tell him I’m going to Rome.

He looks around to make sure nobody’s within listening range.

“Won’t this interfere with your wedding preparations?” He grins, his square-jawed face and emerald eyes as charming as ever. “I don’t want to be the mean slave-driver boss who ruins your special day. Maybe I should take someone else.”

I give him a sideways look. “Someone else? What are you up to?” I step closer to his desk and whisper, “Is it the new girl you just hired? I hear Rome is very romantic.”

“Jess.” His eyes widen, and he looks like he might just start blushing. “You know I don’t have time for anything but running the Morris empire.”