Page 53 of Unleashed By Eden

Stupid question. Okay, I’ll tell him. Tonight. But I’m doing this for you.

I stare at his shitty response. He shouldn’t be doing it “for me.” He should be doing it because his liver is sending up flares, and he wants to live long enough to die of old age. But a win’s a win, so I’ll take it.

One problem down, one to go.

I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as the sliding doors hiss open and Madrid greets us with a gust of cold air. At least it’s not as icy as Stockholm.

Still, I yank my hoodie over my head and shove my hands into the kangaroo pocket. To our left, a crowd of fans pack in behind a metal barricade, screaming, holding up signs and phones. A neat line of black SUVs waits on the curb, ready to whisk us away to the hotel.

Carter and the band peel off toward the barricades. They stop to sign and pose with the fans. The crew heads for the first cars, eager to get to their rooms.

“I’ll catch up with you at the hotel,” I tell Megan. She hums without looking up from her emails.

I move to the side, swing my backpack off my shoulder, and pull out my camera. Strap across my neck, finger on the shutter.

Carter’s in full PR mode. Smile on and chin angled perfectly. He moves down the fence with ease, signing whatever’s shoved at him: photos, ticket stubs, albums. He uses one pen, quick scrawl, thank you, next.

I snap shots of the crowd. A girl on the verge of hysteria. A guy in full eyeliner and a tour T-shirt, clutching a vinyl to his chest. A mom holding her kid up so he can see.

Then Carter reaches a woman who has her cleavage hoisted and bared, top tugged down, talking a mile a minute in Spanish, gesturing to her chest with manic enthusiasm. Even without understanding a word, the message is clear: “Sign here, please.”

I smirk and raise my camera, fully prepared to immortalize Carter Ashford autographing a stranger’s tits in high resolution.

My finger presses the shutter.

Except instead of looking down, he glances up.

Straight at me.

The camera clicks, capturing his face mid-movement, pen hovering over bare skin, his eyes locked on mine with a question in them.

For a split second, I stare, completely thrown. Then my brain kicks back in. Lowering the camera, I widen my eyes at him in a “shut up and sign the boobs, you idiot” kind of way.

He gets it. He looks back down and scrawls his name across her chest.

Why the hell he needs my non-verbal blessing to sign a fan’s body is beyond me. I don’t get jealous over that shit. Not my style.

I don’t even let myself glance around to see if anyone else caught that look. The fans were too busy losing their minds, but that doesn’t mean nobody on our side noticed.

He finishes with the markers and moves on to selfies. His smile is good, but I know his real one, and this isn’t it. This is muscle memory. Sign, pose, move on.

I let the camera fall back against my chest, loop my backpack over my shoulders, and head for the nearest waiting SUV.

Chris is on his phone, leaning against the car, wearing one of his suave three-piece Tom Ford suits and his hair neatly slicked back.

I roll my suitcase over to the driver. As I’m shrugging my backpack off to climb into the car, Chris speaks without looking up.

“Never thought I’d see the day Carter Ashford, three-time ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ and world’s favorite bachelor, would ask permission from a woman to sign a fan’s breasts.”

Ah, shit.

So someone did notice. Problem number two, right on cue.

I pause with one leg in the car. He’s still scrolling, thumb flicking over the screen.

I step back down onto the pavement and let the door swing shut.

“Hey,” I start. “As much as it pains me to say this, thanks. For not telling Liam and keeping it to yourself.”