Idol (VIP, #1)(47)

“You look green around the gills,” Brenna remarks. “Tell me that’s because you’re coming to New York.”

Close enough. I nod.

Scottie goes…less stiff. “Very good.” He looks me straight in the eye. It hits me anew how attractive this guy is. Not even sexually, though he has that too, but just the sheer force of his looks is enough to make me speechless. His crisp British accent doesn’t hurt either. “You’ve made the right decision, Ms. Bell.”

“Is that based on you not having to pass me any more notes in study hall, Mr. Scott?”

His eyes narrow. “Precisely.”

While Brenna snickers, he stands and pulls his cuffs back into place. “I have a few calls to make.”

The second Scottie is out of the room, I relax. I’m not proud of this. But damn.

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Brenna says in a whisper that carries all over the house. “How insanely gorgeous Scottie is?”

She’s either too good at reading people or just as dazed in the man’s presence as I am. I’m guessing a little of both by the way she seems to shake herself out of a trance.

“Are you and he…”

“God, no,” she says with a snort.

“Flattering.” Scottie’s dry tone catches us red-handed as he walks back into the room. He really is unfairly man-pretty. All shiny and chiseled. Not my type, but a girl can admire.

“Obviously you heard me say you were hot,” Brenna says. “You don’t need any more of an inflated head.”

Scottie takes a seat on my grandma’s pink chintz armchair. Surrounded by flowers, he sits as regally as if it were a throne. “Looks are one thing. You insinuated that my character was faulty, which is far worse.”

“Oh, stop fishing.” Brenna turns to me. “He passes the first test but failed the second. And it has nothing to do with personality but basic chemistry. We have none.”

“What are the tests?” I can’t help but ask.

“Yes,” Scottie urges. “Enlighten us, dear.” He glances at me. “She’s right, though. No sexual chemistry to speak of.”

Brenna takes a sip of lemonade. “Whether you admit it or not, every person you meet, you assess for two basic things: hotness and f*ckability.” She nods and continues. “Test one: Hotness. How hot do you find a person? Obviously Scottie’s hotness goes to eleven. He knows it. We all know it. Test two: Fuckability. Given the circumstances, would you want to do them?”

“This is true,” I admit, holding up my hand. “Yes and no.” Because I know she’s going to ask if Scottie passes those for me. Of course he’s hot. And though he acts like a snooty old man, he can’t be much older than thirty. But no matter how good-looking he is, there’s only Killian for me now.

She pouts, then goes and looks at Scottie, her gaze roving over him. He sits still, amusement in his eyes. She glances back at me. “Nope. There’s still no spark. I could look at him all day, but that’s about it.”

I nod. Brenna and I are in total agreement.

“If you ladies are done dissecting my physical attractiveness,” Scottie says, “I’d like to get going. Ms. Bell, I’ve booked you a flight to New York with Ms. James. It leaves in three hours, which means you’ll have to get packing now.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No.” He adjusts his already perfect cuffs yet again. “I’ve other business to attend to first. I’ll be following later.”

Brenna makes a noise that could mean anything, given her perfectly composed expression, but neither of them addresses it. She stands and heads toward my room. “Right then, on with the packing.”

No way am I leaving Little Miss Bulldozer to pack for me. I hurry after her, excitement and anxiety thrumming through my veins.





Chapter Fourteen





Libby



New York City has a sort of silver tint to it—half of it in constant shadow, the other half shining in the sunlight slanting through the tall buildings. I crane my head, gaping up through the car window at those skyscrapers like the little yokel I am. I don’t even care. It’s a people-watching paradise, a constant rhythm and flow of human activity. There’s an energy here that permeates the air and sinks into your skin. I have the urge to ask the car to pull over so I can walk.

“You want to roll down the window so you can pant like a dog?” Brenna’s voice is full of humor.

I don’t take my eyes off the scene rolling past. “I tried that earlier, and you complained about the hot wind mussing your hair. Remember?” We’d just come out of the Holland Tunnel, popping straight up in the middle of the Theater District, and I’d nearly jumped out of my seat from excitement.

Brenna makes a noise of smothered agreement. “We’ll go exploring later. In fact, speaking of mussed hair, how do you feel about a makeover?”

The question pulls me from my window, and I sit back against the plush leather seat of our hired limo. “As in we have some sort of Princess Diaries, dude takes a pot of wax to my eyebrows and a weed whacker to my hair moment?” I laugh faintly. “Am I that bad?”

“No, of course not.” Brenna’s cool gaze travels over me as if she’s inspecting a derelict house in need of rehab. “But every girl can do with a bit of sprucing up now and then. Especially if she’s going to be in the press.”