MARRYING THE ROCKSTAR (#3 ROCKSTAR SERIES)

♪ eighteen ♪

I wasn't sure I'd ever know if the sex was the pillar of Leo and I's relationship. Every time I doubted, my brain cross-fired and all sorts of bad outcomes welled up inside, so I had to stay away from him to not blurt them out.

Because one thing I didn't doubt was that Leo was in this, and in his mind all was well.

The arguments were normal; his moods were normal. This was business as usual for him; jealousy, an argument that leads to sex, snuggling and forgetting about it all. Rinse and repeat.

And that sex was good, it really was. Especially the other day at the studio, when he was distracting me with his cock and taking my breath away with his moves.

It was when we weren't having sex that all my thoughts turned dire.

But I had other things to focus on in the coming days, aside from typing up the article: interviewing potential bridesmaids.

Slipping off to do so would draw suspicion. The paparazzi were on me as of lately, screaming about wedding preparations and asking what my dress looked like and who was on the guest-list. They hounded me, so it was safe to say that if I ventured out to meet with potential bridesmaids in broad daylight, they'd compound some sordid story to piss off Leo, and then all the interviews would be for nothing.

He'd call off the wedding if he thought I wasn't taking things seriously.

And I was, that was the issue. The energy it took to interview these women over the phone, the questions I had to ask, the tasks I had to check off my list were exhausting. I barely managed to do my actual job over the course of the week following my interview with Leo. Barely got to type up a draft of the interview itself, send it to SHOW, and a copy to Leo, because he asked to proofread it.

I'd gotten off the phone with a potential—who had substantial potential, as it turned out we knew each other from LuXe—when the door to my studio burst open.

I startled at the interruption but froze when I noticed who'd been the cause of it.

Leo barged in.

He had a key, since the place technically belonged to him. But that didn't give him the right to come on in whenever he pleased.

"Excuse me?" I said, standing up from my desk, closing all the tabs I had open about bridesmaid questions and articles about putting together the most efficient bridal party. No way could I let him see what I was doing; no way would I let him catch me now, so deep into the process. "Have you heard of knocking? Doorbells?"

"You don't have a doorbell," he said, thrusting a paper at me, eyebrows bunching.

"What's this?" I accepted the paper, which had been so scrunched up, I wondered if he'd tossed it in the trash first, then changed his mind and brought it to me.

"Your article?" He huffed as he marched over to the sitting area and fell onto the couch. "The proof you sent me. The one you asked me to approve of."

I rubbed my forehead and winced; I forgot I'd requested for him to double check the facts I'd typed up. There were a few questions he hadn't been able to answer as we'd been too...busy. I'd had to improvise.

"Okay, so?" I waved the paper at him. "Seeing the state of this, I assume you're not happy?"

"Not too pleased," he said gruffly, crossing his arms, face contorting into a spoiled boy frown. "I mean, your writing is excellent, but it's...harsh, in places."

"Well, you told me to type up whatever I thought was true, so I may have added a bit for...effect."

He snorted. "A bit? You didn't add anything. I'd say you subtracted, even. My responses come off as," he sneered, "distracted."