I take a few minutes to compose myself and wash my face in the bathroom, and slip stoically behind the front desk, my heart aching.

“So?” Danica asks brightly.

“So, nothing,” I mumble. I clack on the keyboard and bring up a template for P&R reports, intending to get started on my work.

Danica stares at me, obviously waiting for me to say more.

But I don’t.

“What happened with Lucas Ford?” she blurts.

“Nothing. I brought him some food. We talked for two minutes about how amazing he is, and then I left. He’s actually a huge prick, to be honest.”

“He didn’t hit on you?”

“Nope.”

Danica sighs with relief. “I can’t say I’m surprised. From what I’ve seen on celebrity gossip sites, you’re definitely not his type. He tends to go for Playboy Bunny types like that blonde with the jugs in the video. No offense, but I’m guessing you’d need to add at least three cup sizes to catch that man’s attention.”

“No offense taken. I’m glad I’m not his type. Like I said, he’s a prick.”

“Jeez, Abby, what the hell did he say to you? I thought you said you talked to him for two minutes.”

“I did. And in that short time he made it abundantly clear he thinks he’s God’s gift to the world.”

“Well, to be fair, he is.”

“He’s a prick, Dani, plain and simple. I don’t care how famous he is. He still needs to behave like a decent human being.”

“Did he say why he asked you to personally bring his food? If he didn’t hit on you, then I don’t get the point.”

“I’m sure he was just throwing a tantrum. You know, trying to inconvenience me. I’m the girl who told the gilded rock star not to smoke in the lobby, after all. Gasp. He obviously thought demanding the bitchy front desk clerk be the one to personally bring him food would feel demeaning to me.”

“I bring food to guests all the time when the kitchen is short-staffed or whatever.”

“Yeah, so do I. But he doesn’t know that.” I wave dismissively in the air. “Just forget it. I don’t have any idea what he was thinking, and I don’t want to know.”

Danica shrugs. “I wouldn’t take his tantrum personally. I think he’s in the midst of some sort of personal crisis. His handler said he’s going to be writing up there this entire week without leaving the building. I got the feeling Lucas has no choice in the matter. Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“I have no idea what’s normal in the music industry.”

“Oh, by the way, the nerdy guy said Lucas is a real night owl. Up all night, sleeps all day. The guy said we should check in with Lucas around the start of our shift every night just to make sure he’s eating something. Apparently, lots of artists forget to eat or drink when they’re doing a marathon writing session.”

“Then let’s not check up on him. If we’re lucky, maybe he’ll forget to eat and drink and drop dead.”

“Jesus, Abby, what on earth did he say to you up there?”

“He was just rude, that’s all.”

“Note to self. Never be rude to Abby Medford or she’ll leave you to starve to death.” She giggles. “Hey, let me be the one who brings him food tomorrow night, okay? You’ve had your chance to seduce him.”

“Be my guest. I’m not working tomorrow night, anyway. But if I were, I’d say, ‘He’s all yours.’”

“God, he really must have been a jerk to you. I thought you absolutely loved Lucas Ford?”

“I did. But not anymore. I’ll never hear his songs the same way again. In fact, I never want to hear another one of his stupid songs, period.”

Danica rolls her eyes. “Come on, Abby. You’re the one who told him he couldn’t smoke at three in the morning in an empty lobby…right after he’d had some sort of meltdown at his concert. I bet he’ll be a lot less rude to me when I go up there with some food and make it abundantly clear I’m up for anything, unlike Little Miss Girl Scout Cigarette Police.” She snorts.

I pull the keyboard toward me. “Like I said, he’s all yours.” I focus on the computer, my brow furrowed, and begin working on the P&R reports, telling myself I’m never going to speak to that asshole again, or listen to one of his songs, or fantasize about him, or watch that sexy-as-hell sex tape, or drool over any of his music videos, or…

“Hey, Abby,” Danica says, drawing me out of my rambling, murderous, boycotting thoughts.

I look up from the computer.

“Where’s your blazer?” she asks. “I could have sworn you were wearing it when you got here.”

I look down at myself and instantly remember the whereabouts of my stupid traitor of a blazer. I close my eyes and exhale. “Shit.”