My eyes widened, and flames of hatred licked at my stomach. Or was it adrenaline? I wasn’t entirely sure. I stomped toward him, grabbing the balled shirt in my hand and waving it at him.

“If you want me to do your laundry, you’re coming with me to watch, because next time, you’ll be doing it yourself. There won’t be a second time, Alex. I’m not your maid.”

“You want me to go to the launderette?” The look he gave me was priceless. Like I’d asked him if he wanted to spontaneously join me in a trip to outer space.

I nodded, throwing his dirty shirt into a paper bag I’d gotten when I’d purchased a jacket. “Now let’s go to your room and pick up the rest of your clothes. We better get going before the clock hits five and all the mortals get off work to do their laundry. It can get pretty chaotic out there.”

I should know. We don’t have a washing machine at home.

“I can’t leave the hotel, you little nutter.” He chuckled—chuckled !—blocking my way to the door. His shoulders were wide and lithe. Still, I was small enough to slip through the gap between his narrow hip and the doorframe, heading for his door.

“You can, and you will.”

“Shit, you’re mental. Did Jenna do the whole check on you? Psychiatric, personality assessment, etcetera?”

Lord, give me strength.

“Save the jokes for someone who finds them funny, Winslow. You’re coming with me.”

“I could get sexually harassed,” he called after me, laughing.

The worst part was, he was vain enough to actually believe it. I threw the door to his room open and started collecting his scattered clothes from the billiard table, kitchen counter, and the TV stand. There were boxers hanging from a lamp. I wished I could charge him extra for picking them up.

“I have a pepper spray in my bag, and I took some Krav Maga classes last year. Between you and me, we should be good fighting off the thirteen-year-old girls with dubious musical taste who buy your music,” I quipped. It wasn’t fair, nor true. Not only was Alex Winslow one of the best songwriters to grace the earth since Dylan, Springsteen, and Jagger—but he was actually one of the few artists to try to bring something different to the table with every single he released.

“Wait.” Alex braced his arms over the doorpost, frowning. “You think my music sucks?”

I shot him a look. He was different today…lighter. At the very least, he acted like he was making an effort to not be a wanker, as his friends often referred to him. It occurred to me that maybe this was his true self, the one he’d been hiding from me in an attempt to make me leave. And his true self was cute. And funny. Whatever his motives were, I didn’t care. I craved a truce, knowing it would make my job so much more pleasant and eliminate some of the sexual tension that made the little hairs on my arms stand on end every time his brown-green eyes zoned in on me.

“I think your music is great,” I admitted quietly.

He smiled a real smile for the very first time, and Jesus, I wasn’t prepared. His mouth curled upward like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire . Tough as nails but stunningly beautiful in the most delicate way. How in the world was I going to survive the rest of this tour? I swallowed, scooped the rest of his clothes into two more bags I’d found, and rushed past him through the door. I thought I heard him snickering behind me but didn’t turn around to check.

“Oh my, your fall will be spectacular,” this time he definitely said that.

Considering he’d told me he was going to have sex with me two days ago, I knew exactly what he meant. I needed to throw him off somehow. His hitting on me was nothing short of disastrous, because he was right. If he kept it up, he might succeed, and he was obsessively in love with another girl.

Plus, he was a rock star.

Plus, he was my boss.

Plus, he was a mess.

Plus, we were going to part ways in three months.

I had every reason in the world to stay as far away as my job would allow me.

The elevator ride was silent.

The walk out of the hotel felt like torturous foreplay.

Then the fresh air hit my lungs, and I made up my mind on how to deal with his advances.

“I like Lucas,” I said, pushing the door to the laundromat open.

His mask fell for the second time that day. I knew it without even looking back at him.

The door shut behind us, and I shuddered, keeping my eyes on the washing machines.

“Shouldn’t have said that, darlin’. Challenge accepted, and now you’re in trouble. The kind your innocent arse can’t talk its way out of.”

“W ow. You’re so full of yourself.” Her short, tan feet dangled in the air. She was sitting on top of a washing machine with a “broken” sign plastered on it, staring directly at the one she’d just shoved my clothes into. Hands tucked under her thighs, her indigo eyes fixed on the black mass of fabric spinning lazily through the round glass. I pondered that tan. Her features were quiet and pleasant, like Emma Watson’s. Her tan, I decided, was the product of her L.A. lifestyle. I imagined her cycling around town in a short dress, her hair dancing in the wind. Ignoring my half-mast, I humored her.

“Yeah, well, that’s because people want to be full of me .” I plucked a cigarette from behind my ear and rolled it between my fingers. I needed a fag. But I also needed to get over my sudden infatuation with Miss Bellamy. I was only going to fuck her to get back at Lucas. I was fifty percent certain my interest in her stemmed from the fact she was the only female I had with me on the road. The other fifty was her telling me she wanted to shag Waitrose. Perhaps ‘shag’ wasn’t the right word. Stardust was more of the movies-and-ice-cream type of bird.

Stardust? Stardust. What the fuck!

I was wearing a Burberry cap that Chris, my chavvy mate from home, gave me after I won my first four Grammys—same night. No one recognized me, but that didn’t make me feel less exposed.

“Do you actually believe those things you say?” she asked, pulling at the band that held her blue hair in a bun. Her looks were growing on me every day. Her over-the-top Old Hollywood dresses were intriguing. Her big lips/small teeth situation was undeniably sexy. And I fucking loved that she sassed around like I wasn’t the one calling all the shots here.

“Wholeheartedly.” I parked my hip on the washing machine she was sitting on, scanning her face. “Are you going to ogle my cock tomorrow before the show?”