joined the first sip in her empty stomach. She suddenly regretted skipping dinner so she wouldn't consume too many calories before the big show.
“What's up?” he propped his elbow on the bar and turned to look at her.
He was wearing a dark denim shirt, open at the chest as usual. This time, it was open enough for Delilah to see his darkly tanned stomach, which tightly rippled as he let his body curl against the bar.
“Who said anything was wrong?” she tried to take another sip, but stopped after the first drop touched her lips.
He chuckled softly as she slid the drink across the bar. His gruff voice tickled her stomach more than the alcohol.
“You don't look like the type of girl who would drink local vodka if she didn't need to,” he raised his dark brows, which arched above his thick rimmed glasses.
The dimples re-appeared as he smiled softly.
“You don't know what type of girl I am."
As she reapplied her nude lipstick, she noticed the hair that he'd tucked over her ear in her compact mirror. Pursing her lips together, she snapped the compact shut and turned to stare at the nameless stranger.
“You're right,” he nodded his head to the side, “I don't. Apart from what I've read on your Wiki page.”
“And why would you read that?” she mumbled.
For a moment, he looked like a deer in the headlights. Something told Delilah that he hadn't meant to share that piece of information.
“It made for quite an interesting read,” the amused look reappeared, “Signed at 18. Hailed as the next big thing in music. A string of successful singles, and an album on the way. Plays guitar. Birthday in May.”
“So you're a stalker now?” she meant it as a joke, but it came out harsher.
Delilah had a habit of coming across as a bitch, and there was something about the journalist that brought that bitch out in full force.
“I was bored,” he spun around on the chair and sat up straight to face the bar again.
His aftershave hit Delilah's sense as he did, making her stomach flutter.
“And why did you feel the need to find out so much about me?”
She stared at him in silence for a second as he thought of the answer. She could tell he was trying to think of the best way to put it without sounding creepy. If he was any other guy, she'd think he was creepy and leave immediately, but something kept her glued to the seat. Delilah wouldn't tell him, but it was something about the way he treated her like a normal girl that intrigued and excited her.
“I told you before,” he said seriously, “I was interested.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he shrugged, dimples on show.
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to figure him out, but it was like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces still not put into place.
“I'm not interesting,” she opened her bag and rooted around before pulling out her phone.
She stared blankly at the screen, not knowing what she was going to do with it.
“Sure you are,” he voice quiet, “it's not every day I get to study someone like you.”
Dropping her phone, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and glared at him before snapping, “Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?”
He chuckled, dropping his head into his hand to stare at her as if he was an adoring child.
“Because you're interesting,” he said.
“You can't just answer ' I'm interested because you're interesting '. That makes no sense."
“Sure it does. It makes perfect sense.”
“I'm not here for you to study,” she lowered her head towards him, “I'm here, in the pits of hell, to do a job and get out of here.”
In her mind, they were going to be her final words before she stormed off dramatically leaving the journalist to mull over what she'd said, but her perfectly round cheeks stayed glued to the stool.
He smirked at her again.
“Of course you're interesting. How does a girl from East London end up becoming an international pop star that only stays in luxury resorts. From what I've
“What's up?” he propped his elbow on the bar and turned to look at her.
He was wearing a dark denim shirt, open at the chest as usual. This time, it was open enough for Delilah to see his darkly tanned stomach, which tightly rippled as he let his body curl against the bar.
“Who said anything was wrong?” she tried to take another sip, but stopped after the first drop touched her lips.
He chuckled softly as she slid the drink across the bar. His gruff voice tickled her stomach more than the alcohol.
“You don't look like the type of girl who would drink local vodka if she didn't need to,” he raised his dark brows, which arched above his thick rimmed glasses.
The dimples re-appeared as he smiled softly.
“You don't know what type of girl I am."
As she reapplied her nude lipstick, she noticed the hair that he'd tucked over her ear in her compact mirror. Pursing her lips together, she snapped the compact shut and turned to stare at the nameless stranger.
“You're right,” he nodded his head to the side, “I don't. Apart from what I've read on your Wiki page.”
“And why would you read that?” she mumbled.
For a moment, he looked like a deer in the headlights. Something told Delilah that he hadn't meant to share that piece of information.
“It made for quite an interesting read,” the amused look reappeared, “Signed at 18. Hailed as the next big thing in music. A string of successful singles, and an album on the way. Plays guitar. Birthday in May.”
“So you're a stalker now?” she meant it as a joke, but it came out harsher.
Delilah had a habit of coming across as a bitch, and there was something about the journalist that brought that bitch out in full force.
“I was bored,” he spun around on the chair and sat up straight to face the bar again.
His aftershave hit Delilah's sense as he did, making her stomach flutter.
“And why did you feel the need to find out so much about me?”
She stared at him in silence for a second as he thought of the answer. She could tell he was trying to think of the best way to put it without sounding creepy. If he was any other guy, she'd think he was creepy and leave immediately, but something kept her glued to the seat. Delilah wouldn't tell him, but it was something about the way he treated her like a normal girl that intrigued and excited her.
“I told you before,” he said seriously, “I was interested.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he shrugged, dimples on show.
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to figure him out, but it was like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces still not put into place.
“I'm not interesting,” she opened her bag and rooted around before pulling out her phone.
She stared blankly at the screen, not knowing what she was going to do with it.
“Sure you are,” he voice quiet, “it's not every day I get to study someone like you.”
Dropping her phone, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and glared at him before snapping, “Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?”
He chuckled, dropping his head into his hand to stare at her as if he was an adoring child.
“Because you're interesting,” he said.
“You can't just answer ' I'm interested because you're interesting '. That makes no sense."
“Sure it does. It makes perfect sense.”
“I'm not here for you to study,” she lowered her head towards him, “I'm here, in the pits of hell, to do a job and get out of here.”
In her mind, they were going to be her final words before she stormed off dramatically leaving the journalist to mull over what she'd said, but her perfectly round cheeks stayed glued to the stool.
He smirked at her again.
“Of course you're interesting. How does a girl from East London end up becoming an international pop star that only stays in luxury resorts. From what I've
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