The paparazzi attack me the second I walk inside. The bastards tricked me. Usually they’re waiting in the bushes. With how small cameras have gotten they can sneak into a fine dining restaurant like this one and the management won’t notice.

I back up as men and women who were posing as customers in the bar all start calling my name to get me to look into their lens. Hannah described it once as the sounds of seagulls when you’re hung-over, and she nailed it.

Problem is I know Maggie set photos up on purpose since this contest is a publicity stunt after all, and here I am without my date.

“Hey,” I smirk, waving slightly as I back pedal and explode out the door, running into Paige and my double-crossing cousin. “Ben, go home.” I grab Ms. Miller’s arm and roughly guide her inside, saying under my breath, “Smile.”

“No!” she hisses at me. Her eyes widen at the onslaught of cameras and suddenly her teeth are showing.

She’s hating every second, same as I am.

Here I thought something had happened between us but boy was I wrong. I look over my shoulder and see Ben peering through the window with his hands in his pockets, trademark family gesture for being unhappy about a situation. Well, he can have her once this night is over. The night before my Atlanta concert I’m not letting it leak that the contest winner hates me. No fucking way. This is my city. I’m not giving it up just because this chick’s in a bad mood.

We pose for photos and I give the charming smile I inherited from Dad, “Isn’t she beautiful? I lucked out, huh?”

They nod saying various affirmatives, and the cameras keep clicking until one yells out, “Give her a kiss for Creative Loafing, Gabriel!”

Paige starts to object but I swoop in, dip her really low and whisper, “If you play along I’ll owe you one.”

Her eyes are locked with mine and her arms slide around my neck. We kiss and it happens all over again, that crazy sensation I felt the first time. Only this time she really goes for it, slipping her tongue into my mouth. We rise up, lip-locked, making out for the Press. And it is fucking hot, this kiss. So smokin’ that my cock reacts like we’re alone. And we’re not.

I pull away and slide my blazer off, leaving only my black T-shirt on so I can hide this erection before it goes viral on the web.

“Okay, we’re hungry.”

“We saw!” one of the guys jokes.

Everyone laughs.

I stare at him a second.

“Ha ha!” I call out, nodding that he’s a funny guy as I lead Paige through the throng. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“We’ll be there!”

Nodding to the hostess that we’re ready for our table, Paige and I follow the woman to an intimate, tucked away booth.

I’m subconsciously licking my lips as my reluctant date slides in. She wipes her mouth.

Under my breath I make a scoffing noise and flop down next to her. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

What a fucking nightmare this shit is.

“What?” she demands.

As if she doesn’t know.

“You wiped my kiss off. You know how many women would…fuck it. Never mind. Just look at the menu and tell me what you want to order.”

“I can order for myself.”

Rolling my eyes I mutter, “Fine. And here I thought you were just being Southern, but forgive me. I’ll be sure to lose my manners.”

Under her breath and just as annoyed as I am, she says, “Oh you can’t open the door to the restaurant or wait for me to get out of the limo but you’ll order my dinner for me. You’re a gentleman only when you have an audience.”

Glaring at her I shoot back, “You’re a complete bitch!”

She slaps my face. Hard. Not a tiny little oh-stop-it-jerk, but one that leaves a mark. I wince and rub the spot as two paparazzi fuckheads jump out, snapping photos. “Did you get that?” One asks the other.

“No, you?”

“Yeah! Ha!”

“Lucky!”

Paige and I are staring at the guys, and they don’t even acknowledge we’re human and can hear everything they’re saying, until I shout, “Get the fuck out of here!”

They jump a little, surprised.

I stand up in the booth and nearly topple our table. “You heard what I said? Get the fuck out of here!”

They start snapping photos.

The manager rushes over. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cocker. We never invite the media here. We’re very discreet with our celebrities. We already asked the others to leave. I didn’t know any had snuck by.”

“That’s worked out real well,” I growl, heading for the guy on the right who captured the slap.

Paige leaps up and grabs my wrist. “No, don’t! Let’s just eat!”

“First let me get that…” I lunge as he’s leaving and snatch his camera from him, throwing it to the ground and stepping on it multiple times with all of my strength. “Camera,” I finish with a smirk.

Ben strolls up in his nicest jeans, boots, and button-up shirt — like he’s going to a wedding or something — and he’s holding the other squirming photographer by the collar. “Lose this?”

“Oh Jeezus!” I laugh despite myself. “You’re not giving up, are you? Yeah, give me that.”

He tosses the paparazzi guy at me and I snatch his camera too. “No!” he grunts, but Ben grabs and throws him backward. I kick the first one with the bottom of my shoe, pushing him. Not too hard where I break anything. Just hurrying his exit.

They take off, one yelling, “I’m going to sue you!”

“I don’t fuckin’ care, you leech! Be damn sure your record is clean before you come after me!”

The restaurant is silent.

Everyone’s watching.

Paige has never seen anything like this.

But Ben and I do this shit all the time. Only difference is never has a girl come between us. The fact that he stuck around after I left him in the parking lot, tells me he’s serious about wanting her.

And I don’t like that at all.

The manager apologies and asks, “Can I offer you a bottle of wine on the house?”

Ben and I are staring at each other because he’s wondering if he should leave or take a seat.

Locked on Ben I tell the manager, “Couple of your best local beers and whatever the unhappy lady is having,” letting him know I’m not kicking him out but he’d better watch himself.

The three of us glance to Paige for her order. Her pretty eyes flit from my face to Ben’s and back. “I need a shot of tequila.”

“Oh shit,” chuckles Ben.

I clap him on the shoulder and tell the manager, “Make it three.”