He turned in his seat on the bench, spearing me with his shockingly crystalline eyes. Not blue, not green, not gray—a mix of all three. I tried to scurry back to the side stage and fell on my ass.
“You steal my light and now steal my thunder?”
“Shit.” I scooted back to the side of the stage.
“Now, now, love. Don’t go running away.” He stood and followed me. “You obviously wanted a picture of me, yeah?”
His accent held something other than just London. Not that I knew the difference besides a few binge-worthy moments with Sherlock. No, this guy’s voice was insidiously captivating and made my skin sizzle.
“Dare I make it a little easier for you?” He snatched my camera. “Just how am I supposed to take a selfie with this?” He turned to the crowd a
nd the snickers started.
I lunged for it, but he was even taller than I’d first thought. Add in him extending his long arm above his head and there was no hope of me getting it back. That, and I was about as athletic as a toddler.
“No, definitely not one to take a selfie with.” He frowned up at it then back down at me. “Insta? Is that what this is? Are you even old enough to have been born when this was created?”
I was never going to be able to call it a Polaroid after he said it that way. And that annoyed me even further. “Give it back.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I quite like it. I think I’ll keep it. The cost for interrupting my show.”
I jumped. He could not have that camera. Any one but that one. Panic crawled up my spine. “You’ve had your fun.”
A dimple dented his cheek as he looked out at the crowd then back down at me. “Oh, you haven’t seen me have fun. Yet.”
“I’m serious.”
“She’s a feisty one. Little bit of a thing, but feisty.” He leaned down until our noses were nearly touching. “What will you do to get it back?”
I didn’t even think about it. My knee came up automatically, thanks to Bent’s training. For a split second, I knew he’d be proud.
But then singer guy crumpled into himself, and my camera hit the floor. Son of a bitch. If he broke it, I was going to kill him. I lunged for it, but my slouchy hat slipped free due to the forward momentum and then there was nothing but a pile of blond and lavender hair in my way.
It gave him just enough time to scoop up my camera. “You’re definitely not getting it now.”
The house lights went down and a furious torrent of whispers from the crew was all I could make out as they came out to reset the stage. Chaos rained down on me and the only thing left on the stage was my hat.
But suddenly, there was applause. Lots of it.
I caught the prick’s quick grin from the other side of the stage. Then he took off with my camera.
“Fucker.”
Two
With a heavy exhale, I dropped down into the seat at the dressing room table and scrubbed a hand over my sweaty brow. I’d actually run from the photographer.
Like a child playing hide-and-go-seek.
Hoping she’d give chase, and soon realizing she had not.
Now I had this ancient relic in my hands and I didn’t have the foggiest what to do with it. So I set it on the side of the table and frowned at it as if it were a serpent.
It had become a lucky charm of sorts. I’d finally gotten the audience with me when my part of the set was over.
That it had taken me sparring with the lively blond-haired sprite who’d darkened my stage for the crowd to truly come alive was a burr I couldn’t quite dig out of my side.
I twisted my hair up into a hasty bun and peered into the mirror atop the table. It was like a cracked sliver of glass, but worked well enough for me to scrub off the hint of eyeliner I’d dutifully painted on. Even using that much makeup was new for me. I’d never been one to like much artifice onstage until I’d done the talent show and suddenly, rouge and lip stain had become a part of my life.