“Yeah?” A voice comes from inside the dressing room. My heart lurches.
The guard turns. “Fuck, is that your real name?”
“Well, it’s not fuckingRandy Romeo,is it?” Cyrus sounds bitter. “Dude, I’ve worked here for years.”
The guard sniffs. “Whatever. There’s a girl who wants to see you.”
There’s a pause, and then I swear I hear a low groan. The dressing room door pushes open, and Cyrus steps out. He’s changed into a new outfit: a grey suit and white collared shirt. A silky tie hangs around his neck, and his hair has been combed back. My mouth practically waters. He looks like some kind ofFifty Shades-inspired wet dream.
And he doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Beth,” he says flatly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Thirty-One
Beth
I lick my lips, forcing myself to focus. “Uh. Hey. Can we talk? Do you have time?”
He shrugs, resigned. “Intermission is fifteen minutes,” he mutters, wrapping his hand around my wrist. “Come in.”
He tugs me into the dressing room. I squeak, covering my eyes—but not before I get an eyeful of abs, biceps, and bare, muscly thighs. I’m pretty sure I saw a penis.
“Hey!” someone calls. “What the Hell? You didn’t let me bring my girl in here!”
“Sorry!” I call, keeping my eyes squeezed shut as Cyrus drags me through the room. “I’m not looking!”
A chorus of low laughs echoes through the room.
“She’s cute, man,” a deep voice says. “Nice one. Y’all need protection, or…?”
“Shutup,” Cyrus snaps. “She’s my neighbor. I just need to talk to her.” A chorus of wolf-whistles go up. Cyrus tightens his fingers on me. “Guys. Don’t. Seriously.”
I wave at them as he yanks open an unassuming-looking door and pulls me inside, slamming it shut behind us. I look around. We’re in a storage cupboard filled with shelves of plastic bins. I examine the label on one.Sexy firefighter, XL. Includes jockstrap.
Nice.
“What a pretty broom cupboard,” I say, looking up at Cyrus. “Thanks for bringing me here.”
He doesn’t smile, leaning against the wall. His mouth is pressed in an angry line. “Did you follow me here?” He demands. “Did one of the guys tell you where I worked?”
My eyes widen. “What? No! No, I swear, my friend bought me a ticket. I had no idea you even had a job.”
“Right. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair. It has some sort of styling product in it, so when he messes it up, it sticks straight up in a ruffled, tousled mess. My fingers itch to fix it.
“Go on, then,” he sighs deeply. “Give it to me.”
“Give what to you? I just wanted to check you were okay.”
“This is my job,” he says, deadpan. “Of course I’m okay. Just really fuckin’ embarrassed.”
I wince. “I figured. But you shouldn’t be. You were incredible up there.”
He tenses. “What?” He asks, incredulous.
“You were great. I really liked it.” I twist my fingers together. “And I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, or whatever, watching. I should have thought that it might embarrass you. I can leave, if you wa—”
He takes a step closer to me. My breath stops in my chest.