Geekerella (Starfield #1)(65)

“Well maybe you should sign,” I reply for Miss May, who’s growing paler by the moment. “Maybe that’s exactly what you should do, Darien Freeman. Maybe you should’ve realized that being Carmindor is more than just putting on a pretty face.”

It’s a good line, because I happen to be quoting directly from my blog post. And when his gaze hardens into a glare, I realize he must recognize it. Well, good.

“You’re just a spoiled star like all the rest of them,” I add, waving my hand toward the door. “So why don’t you work for once and go sign some autographs! It’s the least you can do, if you call yourself Carmindor.”

His handler—bless her, she looks overworked and underpaid in those terribly old sneakers—puts a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

Darien Freeman faces me for the first time. I kind of see the allure—he’s beautiful in person, especially with the scar, and those eyes—but his personality is the biggest turn-off I’ve ever had. He’s definitely been working out for Starfield. I don’t remember him looking so, um, imposing in Seaside Cove. He folds his arms over his chest, shoulders straining his T-shirt. “You’re that blogger, aren’t you. The one who hates me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then what’s your beef?”

I stand taller—which, next to Darien, is not very tall. “What I hate is that you’re being a bully!”

“I’m not being a bully.”

“Oh, so going up and demanding things from nice people is what you consider normal, polite behavior?”

“I said ‘please’! Didn’t I say ‘please’?” He asks in disbelief, looking back to his handler for confirmation. She purses her lips tightly, and something silent passes between them. When she doesn’t come to his rescue, he throws up his hands. “Fine! Okay! Look Miss, uh—”

“Miss May,” I interject. “Her name’s Miss May.”

“Miss May,” he repeats. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’m sorry for being forceful. It’s been a long day—”

“It’s barely one o’clock,” I mutter. Darien glares at me.

“—but I just want some free time at the con, you know? Just a few hours, and I won’t have that with the signing. Could you please get your director on the walkie-talkie and tell him to find me? I’ll be at the Starfield panel”—he looks back to me—“working.”

Then he turns on his heels and leaves. A flood of fans has amassed outside and tries to overtake him as he exits the office, but a beefy guy—probably his bodyguard—shields him from the fans and guides him and his handler through the lobby. The door closes behind them, successfully shutting out all the people crying his name.

I roll my eyes and scowl. But Miss May is grinning at me.

“You really are your father’s daughter.”

“He acted like I was invisible,” I say. “I just did what anyone would do.”

“Nope, that was all Robin.” She shakes her head. “I worked with him for so many years I can see when he comes out in you. You barely gave that boy a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“He was being really rude to you,” I point out.

“Mm-hmm.” Miss May nods and swivels back and forth in her chair, picking up a walkie-talkie. She radios the new director—Herman Mitchs, one of Dad’s old buddies, balding, beer gut, loves to cosplay as Chewbacca—about Darien Freeman before turning her attention back to me. “So what can I do for you?”

“Well…” I wring my hands. “See, things happened and my passes were stolen—two of them, for me and a friend. I have the receipt here, but the guy at the ticket booth said—”

“Receipt?” Miss May laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Elle, the daughter of Robin Wittimer never needs to buy a pass! You’re part of this con, honey. You’re family.”

From her desk, she draws out a badge. The top is marked yellow, the highest type of badge you can wear—the all-access kind that tells everyone else you’re not just somebody but you’re somebody important. This is the Stan Lee of badges.

She extends it to me and I take it, my fingers gliding over the black name printed at the bottom. Robin Wittimer. Tears sting my eyes.

“We’ve printed one for him every year,” Miss May says. “Just in case you decided to come.”

“Every year?” I ask, my voice distant. “But—”

“Didn’t your stepmother tell you?” Miss May frowns. “For the first few years we sent them to your house, but when we kept getting them back we just decided to keep them here.”

So Catherine knew I was welcome at ExcelsiCon all this time? She knew I had a badge just for me—from my dad—every year and sent it back? I chew on my bottom lip, trying not to cry.

“I had no idea,” I whisper. “If I’d known…”

Miss May sees my face crumple and offers up a bowl full of butterscotch candies. “Well, you’re here now. And your friend can wear this one,” she adds, taking out one of those extra badges I knew they had lying around for special guests. “What’s the occasion, anyway? Here to see the Starfield panel? Because I’m afraid you’re missing it…”