Fallen for Rock (2 page)

Chapter Two

VIP. Access All Areas
.

I stared at the pass dumbfounded, but the words wouldn’t go away. They definitely said,
VIP. Access All Areas.

My tired brain refused to wrap itself around this surreal reality. Why did I hold in my trembling hands two all-inclusive concert tickets and backstage passes for a MonX concert? Somebody other than me would kill for these.

‘There has to be some mistake,’ I announced to thin air. I put the passes on the coffee table and grabbed my glass of wine instead. Restless and agitated, I rose to my feet and paced the length and width of the lounge.

Step, step, step, stop. ‘There
has
to be a mistake,’ I reiterated.

Step, step, step, to the other side of the lounge. Quick look at self in mirror above fireplace, but ugh, no, look away. My hollow-eyed appearance held no clues to the mystery.

‘I don’t even
lik
e MonX.’ Step, step, step, stop. Sip of wine.

‘I mean, I know the whole world seems to have gone crazy about them, but they’re not my cup of tea. So how come I got these tickets?’

MonX were a new rock band phenomenon very much on the up-and-up. Their first album had recently gone platinum, and they had gained airplay even on the most commercial of chart radio stations. This band was the hottest UK rock sensation since Tuscq, or so the media said. Girls and rock lovers all over the world were going mad for them. These tickets and passes in my hand would be worth a fortune to a fan. But not to me.

I sneaked another look at myself in the mirror. ‘I don’t even like rock,’ I snorted, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation. ‘It’s too loud and too crude. Let’s face it, it’s only noise with no skill.’

The truth was I couldn’t stand rock music. I liked classical music. Give me violins and cellos, skilled musicians, and singers with big, beautiful voices any day. Mozart, Bach and Beethoven ‘rocked’ my world. The great tenors would make me go weak at the knees. But rock music? Ugh.

Unfortunately, I had voiced my opinion about rock to Nate one time too many, and he had taken it personally. Of course, I hadn’t
meant
it personally, but we had had the mother of all rows, at the end of which, in the heat of the moment, I had asked him to leave and never come back.

You see, Nate
loved
rock. Nate lived and breathed and
played
rock. Nate would have gone delirious over these tickets…

Nate!
Of course, Nate. A memory clawed at the back of my mind. A Saturday afternoon, a few months ago. Oh, what was it?

I ran my hands through my hair in frustration and, when I couldn’t rake to my heart’s content, I swiftly undid the chignon, leaving my fingers to create havoc with my curls.

‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Emily, think. What was it?’

A Saturday afternoon… Plans to go to an exhibition at the Islington Arts Factory quashed when…when…when Nate had glued himself to Rock Radio because… Yes! Because they had a competition going for some exclusive tickets to see MonX. Nate had behaved like a teenager, punching the air, thrumming his fingers on the table, texting the station, tweeting and leaving comments on Facebook, all to win these ridiculous tickets.

I had watched with frustrated amusement, and in the end I had taken myself off to the exhibition alone. By the time I came home that evening, I had forgotten all about the contest, and Nate had never mentioned it again. Could this be the source of the letter? Had he actually
won?
But why was my name on the package?

I sat down on the sofa once more and picked up the brown envelope for another inspection. When I had first opened it, the tickets and passes had fallen out straightaway, but perhaps there was something else, something more?

I turned the envelope upside down and shook it. Sure enough, a with-compliments slip fluttered out and settled on my lap.

It was a handwritten note on Rock Radio FM stationery.

Dear Nate
, it said.

Thank you for entering the MonX VIP Backstage Extravaganza Giveaway. I’m delighted to tell you that you’ve won! Way to go, man. Per your direct message on Facebook, I’ve made the tickets out to your girlfriend. I hope she appreciates what you’ve done for her! I can’t wait to see you both at the gig. The band says hi too.

~Sam

I stared at the note wordlessly for some time. I was reeling with a mix of confused emotions.

‘I hope she appreciates what you’ve done for her,’ I read out loud, then let go of the note and reclined on the sofa.

‘Oh Nate, you moron. Now what am I going to do?’

Chapter Three

Neither the scalding hot water splashing on my head nor the scent of my favourite luxury shower cream managed to ease the chaos in my mind. After my blinding insight into the provenance of the tickets, I had dropped everything onto the coffee table and fled the lounge.

Nate had really loved me.
Really
loved me. More than I had ever appreciated. He must have done, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked for the tickets to go in my name.

And okay, he knew I hated rock. But he had never given up in his quest to get me to see the light, to
understand
the music. He had patiently taken apart some of ‘the greatest rock songs ever’ to explain the complexity of the composition and the harmonies. He had laid them next to a Bach score and drawn out the parallels. Literally, with pink marker pen.

‘These rock songs, they’re like mini symphonies,’ he had assured me, but I had simply laughed. I had never really listened.

And despite all of my disdain, when he had gained the opportunity of a lifetime, he had dropped it in
my
lap.

I turned to face the shower jets and let the water wash over my face. The grime of the day had long since run down the plughole, but my head failed to stop spinning. By now, the bathroom resembled a first-rate sauna. I could see layers and layers of steam wafting up to the ceiling like fog rising on a damp November morning. Glittery droplets of water sparkled all over the inside of the shower doors, forming into bigger drops and eventually little rivulets as gravity got the better of them. The visual association took me right back to the day Nate and I had met.

It was in November, barely six months ago. A Thursday, if memory served. I was going for lunch at one of the small coffee shops in a secluded corner at the back of Covent Garden. It was raining heavily, and the whole place was steamed up. I ordered my chicken and pesto panini and scanned the tables while I paid. There, bingo! A prime space right at the window.

I picked up my tray and made a beeline for the table, reaching it and taking a seat at the exact same moment that a really attractive man grabbed the other chair. We sat and faced each other for a moment before he broke the silence.

‘Hi.’

Not the most eloquent of opening statements, perhaps, but he looked thunderstruck, somehow. Dazed. As if he had been hit over the head with something. Against my better judgement, I found myself smiling.

‘Hi.’

He breathed out and relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, but I got here first. Would you care to join me?’ He made a grand gesture as though inviting me to sit down.

‘I got here first, incidentally, but I don’t mind if
you
join
me.
’ I giggled.

I
giggled?
What in God’s name was going on? I
never
giggled. Well, obviously, I did giggle, sometimes. I wasn’t a sad case of terminal grumpiness or anything, but I never giggled in a flirtatious way after having met someone for all of ten seconds.

Ten seconds is all it takes
, a voice piped up in my head. What the heck?

‘That’s good news. Thank you.’ The man flashed me a smile, and warmth flooded all through me. Instinctively, I crossed my legs and sat up straighter, but the unexpected heat wouldn’t go away. I wiggled on my seat—surreptitiously, I hoped—and made myself think of the large pile of work I had waiting for me on my desk. But I caught sight of the stranger in front of me, and it was no good. Within seconds, I was positively frothing with desire. That had
never
happened before. And yet here I was, eighty percent orgasmic because of a deep voice and a bit of humour? Clearly I was losing my mind.

‘You’re dripping.’ His voice cut drily through my thoughts.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

Did he have laser eyes or something?

‘You’re dripping. Pesto sauce, I think. Onto your trousers.’

Eek!
Sure enough, my best black work trousers were spattered with drops of crushed basil in extra virgin olive oil. I grabbed a napkin and rubbed at the stains ferociously. At least my hot flush had come to an abrupt end.

‘Leave it be. You’re only making it worse. Besides, it won’t show on black. Trust me.’

He reached out and touched my hand lightly, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Heat soared from his fingertips right to my brain. I could feel little beads of perspiration form on my brow. I
so
wasn’t prepared for this.

He let go of my hand and sat back, hopefully oblivious of the impact his touch had had. Moments later, he picked up his bacon butty and lifted it to his mouth.

‘I’m Nate, by the way,’ he offered before sinking his teeth into the sandwich.

Crunch
. His pearly whites detached a bite of meat-in-bread.
Clench
went my inner muscles. His tongue flicked out to collect a small crumb from the corner of his mouth, and I nearly fainted. My breathing grew shallow as I watched his jaws moving rhythmically. A trickle of sweat ran down my back. In a second, I would be hyperventilating and doing the When-Harry-Met-Sally thing. My head lolled back ever so slightly, and I swallowed hard.
Get a grip, Emily
!

I clamped my fingers around the edge of the table to stop myself from falling off the cliff. Apparently, that made matters worse, because Nate cleared his throat and shot me a devastating smile. Mischief danced in his brown eyes.

‘You okay there? You look like you’re about to do a Sally.’

OMG.

O.M.G. One of the only romcoms I had ever watched in my entire life, many years ago, on a rainy Sunday afternoon; and one that barely any of my friends knew, seeing as that we were mere toddlers when the film first aired…and there he was, reading my mind.

‘Yes. Yes.
Yes!
’ I exclaimed, momentarily unable to formulate a complete sentence, and Nate burst out laughing.

‘Really? How exciting! You crack me up. I don’t think I’ve ever had that effect on a woman before.’

I swallowed hard. Damn, but where was all that saliva coming from?

‘No! What I meant was, yes. I’m okay.’

Right. So I had uttered a sentence, but it wasn’t doing a great job of convincing him. He wasn’t buying what I was saying, I could tell from the way his lips curved into a little smile. Oh, and he had the most delicious little dimple on his chin. I wanted to reach across and touch it, kiss it.
Stop it already!

‘I’m okay, really,’ I croaked. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just—I’m hungry.’ I grabbed my panini and took the most enormous, unladylike, un-Emily-like bite. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’ I sprayed crumbs as I spoke and clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. ‘So sorry.’

‘No need to apologise. I like it when a woman likes her food. But you still haven’t told me your name.’

‘Mmm-lee,’ I mumbled around my food.

‘Mmmlee? That’s unusual. But I like it.
Mmmm-leeee.
’

He closed his eyes and rolled his head while he deliberately mispronounced my name for the second time. He looked like he was revelling in a sublime taste of something special; a nice glass of wine, perhaps.

He was teasing me. He was
flirting
. No, we were
both
flirting.
I
was flirting with a stranger in my lunch hour. I was doing a floozy act and enjoying myself. OMG.

‘Emily,’ I enunciated clearly once I could speak again. ‘My name is Emily.’