MARRYING THE ROCKSTAR (#3 ROCKSTAR SERIES)

♪ fourteen ♪🔥

In the middle of a brainstorming session in my studio, looking for inspiration with some of the celebrities Sapphire recommended to me, my phone rang. I drifted out of my flow and grabbed my phone, eyes widening at the name on the screen.

It was Zita, from SHOW SoHo.

I gasped, shaking myself out of my stupor before I picked up.

"This is Emma?"

"Emma, it's Zita. Hope I'm not disturbing you?"

I almost gasped again; I hadn't heard from SHOW in weeks, if not months; not since the Paris trip and the engagement. They'd sent a few emails to forward reviews of Sapphire's interview, and to encourage me to submit more stuff to them, but I, sadly, had nothing of worth yet.

Were they calling to scold me? Fire me? Antagonize me?

"Of course not, Zita, it's good to hear from you." I pulled the receiver away, gulping, bracing for the bad news. "What's going on?"

"We had an idea for you, since you seem to be struggling creatively." Zita sighed. "Sorry, I know that's a little blunt, but I build my work relationships on trust and truth."

"Oh, it's the truth," I said, chuckling, relieved that this wasn't a call to tell me to fuck off. "No offense taken. What's the idea?"

"Leo Lee. I know, we kind of tabled it, and you said he agreed, but...now would be a great time to push that, yeah? A segment with some rocking photos of him? Since you're engaged, we'd love the inside scoop on him. His link to fashion in the rockstar world, how he might have used his outfits to woo you?"

I smirked; he'd used his lack of outfits to seduce me, but Zita didn't need to know that. "I'll bring it up to him. We actually did start working on that in Paris, but then we got engaged, and..."

"Of course." Zita sounded like she was smiling. "Wedding planning, and such. I completely understand. We're not pushing you, and we're not going to cut you off for having a personal life. Take as much time as you need, but...Leo Lee. I think he's your next star-rated interview."

I agreed with her before we hung up; that wasn't the problem.

The problem was Leo.

He and I had been distant since the lunch with his parents last week. Not that we were ignoring each other, but there was tension between us, a silent irritation neither of us wanted to address. We slept in the same bed, but we didn't cuddle, barely kissed goodnight. He kept pretexting meetings with Petra and venues and interviews with TV stations and such; and I kept burying myself in my research.

But we did have a planned public date tonight. One of our PR stunts to ensure the world that, while we weren't out and about as much as usual, we were still very much together, and our wedding was still very much happening.

Though sometimes, briefly, a tiny figment of me wondered about that, too.

We met up for dinner at a swanky new place in northern Manhattan, where a Michelin-star chef had catered an entire tasting menu for us, desperate for the publicity. Luckily that chef was a friend of Leo's, and since the food was Italian—my favorite—he didn't even need to ask me for consent before setting the whole thing up.

"Hi," I said, exiting my car and racing up to him as he waited for me at the door. The paparazzi squirmed, some shouting profanities about us arriving separately. We went inside without addressing them.

"Long day?" He swept a few hairs from my face and kissed my forehead. "You look exhausted. Beautiful," he hurried to correct himself, "but wiped."

I always had a change of clothes at the studio, and the shower there was minimal, but functional. And thanks to the toiletry bag I hefted around in my large purse, I had all the makeup and equipment to make myself look dazzling for a public outing. For him.