I let the smile I’ve been holding back cross my face as I watch Gabby storm away. I can almost feel her hatred and because I’m a goddamn masochist, it fucking turns me on.

Something about pushing Miss Gabby’s buttons gets my blood pumping. Seeing her pulse race against her delicate neck, the crimson color rush to her cheeks, and her chest puff out in annoyance sends a surge of blood directly to my dick. Glancing around the room, I subtly adjust my hard-on before returning to Daphni’s dressing room.

I am disappointed when I don’t find Gabby waiting there. The opening acts for Daphni’s show have started and she is set to go on in about thirty minutes. I follow the entourage as they trail Daphni, adding their last-minute touches before her performance.

When Daphni’s out on stage, I don’t have much work to do except keep an eye out and make sure none of her psychotic teen fans try to rush the stage and grab her. Luckily, the arena employs its own security team, so I can mostly hang back.

I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text to my sister in San Diego. She usually takes at least a day to respond to my messages, since she’s always running after my four-year-old niece and making sure my twelve year old nephew stays out of trouble. I try to check in as much as I can, but she’s a single mum and has her own load of issues to worry about.

I continue to wander about backstage until I hear the beginning of Daphni’s set. Though I’ve only been with her a week, I’ve already managed to memorize her set list. Her part of the show starts off with this monologue about love and darkness or some bullshit, before transitioning into her first song. Her music isn’t for me, but I’m not here for the music.

As I park along the edge of the stage, I find myself anxiously looking around for Gabby again. I’m a bit annoyed with myself at this new obsession. I met her six hours ago and now it seems as if I can’t go one fucking hour without thinking of her or plotting a way to insert myself into a conversation with her.

I was a dick to her earlier, too. I knew I was pissing her off, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve got to stop being such an ass. We’ve got three long months together, and I cannot have her hating me.

I scan the backstage area again and just like that, my eyes find her. It’s like the mere thought of her caused her to just fucking appear. She’s leaning against a tall beam, just over twenty feet away, her eyes locked on her sister performing onstage. She doesn’t see me, and I take full advantage of the opportunity to drink her in.

Bathed in the dim light, I can appreciate her features more fully. Her profile highlights her long lashes and those full, sassy lips. She sways almost imperceptibly to the music, the only giveaway that she is moving being the subtle swish of her long, dark hair. She plays with her hands, twirling her wrists at her sides. She almost looks nervous.

I quickly turn away, nervous that anyone here can see how blatantly obvious it is that I’m checking her out. But a quick look around confirms that all eyes are on Daphni, so I have no witnesses to my pathetic leering. Gabby shifts her weight, sending the blouse hanging off her shoulder an inch lower, revealing more of her smooth skin contrasted with a lone, black bra strap. I almost groan imagining what kind of lacy bra she must be wearing underneath. God, her tits must be amazing. Everything about her looks absolutely amazing: the curve of her hips, the swell of her tight ass in those fucking tiny shorts. Just watching her sends a rush of blood directly to my semi-hard cock. Something about her just seems to inspire that little fucker.

Thunderous applause interrupts my thoughts and I reluctantly bring my eyes back to the main stage. This show is a huge fucking performance: over a dozen backup dancers, ten costume changes, and fifty crew members running around to pull this off each night. A pre-taped video starts playing, a distraction so Daphni can slip into another outfit for her next song. Choreographed to the second, Daphni hits every mark and starts the next song, emerging from a giant seashell dressed as what I can only assume is a mermaid. The crowd goes wild, and I’m convinced I’ll be needing bloody hearing aids by the time I hit forty.

As entertaining as Daphni is, I am finding conjuring ways I can continue to get Gabby’s cheeks to flush bright red as she bites back the swell of insults I know she has perched at the tip of her tongue far more exhilarating. I turn my head again so I can spend the next hour fucking torturing myself even more while I secretly survey Gabby. But when I look, she has disappeared. I push myself off the wall and glance around at the dozens of faces surrounding me.

Though a wave of disappointment washes over me, the rational side of my brain tells me what I already know: there is no way a guy like me could ever be with a girl like Gabby fucking Monroe. Ignoring the very basic fact that her sister is essentially my boss, we come from two different worlds. She is American royalty who very likely grew up eating caviar on fucking yachts, while I am Scottish shit that scraped by on food stamps in tenement housing. We were worlds apart, and it would be better if I just accepted that now. And though I want to fight it, to just say “fuck it all” and taste those fucking tempting lips for myself, I know that there is too much for me to lose to risk it all. So I force myself to keep my feet planted on the ground, to not chase after her like I’ve done all afternoon, and to keep Gabby Monroe as nothing more than a fantasy.