“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Reed replies smoothly. But he can’t hide the flash of disappointment that flickers across his face as he says it. This time, he’s not a teenager asking his crush to prom. He’s the boy who’s just gotten flatly turned down.
I brush my fingertips against Reed’s forearm. “Will you give me a tour?”
He clears his throat. “Of course.” He turns and gestures to the expansive space. “This is my living room—the place you’re going to party like a rock star this Saturday night.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“This room is the main reason I bought the house. I wanted a place where I could throw epic parties. And when I walked in here, I said to myself, Bingo.”
“Why so many parties?”
“It’s a big part of my business plan. Whenever one of my A-list artists kicks off a tour in LA, I throw their after-party here to celebrate and generate buzz for the tour. I also throw parties to celebrate award nominations and wins. Also, to celebrate whenever one of my artists’ albums goes gold or platinum or diamond—which, thankfully, happens a lot these days. Plus, on top of all that, I allow certain charities to throw their annual fundraising galas here.”
I look around the impressive space. “Do you ever throw parties here just for fun?”
“Sure. I’ve hosted bachelor parties and birthday parties. I even had a wedding here—for my best friend, Henn. You met him at the bar.”
I nod. “That was sweet of you to let him have his wedding here. You’re a good friend.”
Reed shrugs. “Henn is a brother to me, and his wife, Hannah, is the best. It was my pleasure to do it for them.”
Aw, damn. My heart just skipped a beat. “So, uh, what are some of the charities you’ve let use the place?”
Reed talks passionately for a bit about his favorite charities—one his sister is heavily involved with that helps kids with cancer, and another devoted to saving the planet. And as he speaks, I have the urge to do two things: one, jump his bones, just because he’s yummy as hell, especially when he talks about making the world a better place. And, two, I’m dying to pull out my phone and record him speaking, or at least take furious notes, so I can quote him precisely when I eventually sit down to write my article. But I refrain, figuring Reed might clam up if he sees me pulling out my phone.
“And, of course,” Reed says, “CeeCee’s favorite charities always have an open invitation to throw their fundraisers here. When it comes to the indomitable CeeCee, my answer is almost always yes.”
I shoot Reed a snarky side-eye. “Yeah, unless what CeeCee wants is an in-depth interview for Dig a Little Deeper.”
Reed chuckles. “I said my answer is almost always yes. CeeCee knows she can have anything she wants from me, except that.”
“Why is that, again?”
“Because the inner workings of my mind and life aren’t anybody’s fucking business.”
I make a face that says, Well, alrighty then. And Reed smirks in reply before returning his attention to his expansive living room.
“It might seem like this house is too big for a bachelor to live here alone,” he says. “But I’ve never once regretted buying this place.”
Excitement about Saturday night’s party ripples inside me. “I can’t wait to see your house in action. Thank you so much for throwing the party, and for letting me invite Alessandra.”
“No need to thank me. Like I said, I’m throwing the party for business reasons—because I’ve determined it will help you and the other writer assigned to the special issue bond with my musicians in a way that will elevate the end product.”
I flash Reed a snarky look. “Sure, Reed. You not wanting me to party with C-Bomb this week didn’t inspire your decision at all.”
“Not at all.” He matches my snarky expression. “Come on, Intrepid Reporter. There’s a lot more to see.” He takes two steps and tosses over his shoulder, “And, yes, you can take notes on your phone. But, please, don’t record me speaking, unless I’ve expressly consented.”
I stop walking, surprised he’s read my mind so accurately, and Reed stops walking, too.
“Georgie, you’ve got the most expressive face I’ve ever seen, and I can already read it like a book.” He crooks his finger. “Now, come, come, little kitty. I’ll show you the whole house, anything you want to see. Just as long as the last stop is my bedroom upstairs.”
Chapter 2
Georgina
Reed leads me through several rooms on the ground floor of his impressive home, while I “ooh” and “aah” and take furious notes on my phone. He shows me a game room. A wine room. A home theater. We walk down a hallway and turn a corner and, suddenly, I’m standing in the most spectacular kitchen imaginable—a beautiful, sleek space that instantly makes me wish my mother were alive to see it.