Backstage with Her Ex by Louisa George - Romance>Contemporary
Her ex...the VIP!
Hiding out in the gents' toilets backstage is not the way Sasha imagined bumping into her significant ex. Especially when that ex is notoriously damaged, famously wild rock god Nate Munro! She has a massive favor to ask him, but one glimpse of his sinfully dark eyes and all she can think about is that he's seen her naked!
Nate's used to women doing anything to get his attention, but he never pictured bubbly schoolteacher Sasha as the groupie type--she's far too sweet! But when the paparazzi get a hint of their reunion, it's scandal all the way. Now the question on everyone's lips is this: In this showdown between the girl next door and rock-and-roll royalty, who's going to come out on top?
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Sensuality Rating: Not rated
Hiding out in the gents' toilets backstage at the London Arena was not one of Sasha Sweet's personal highs. VIP toilets they might have been but, gold taps be damned, she wanted to go home. I'll kill you, Cassie.
Bad enough she'd let herself be harangued into this ridiculous exercise, but ducking into the men's room in a moment of rare claustrophobic panic? All kinds of embarrassing.
A whoosh of air and a wall of encroaching noise announced the arrival of someone else in the room. Thank God she'd found an empty cubicle.
She checked the state of the wall before she slumped against it. Grateful to be in an empty cubicle? In the men's room? Could my life get any worse?
She held her breath to listen, knowing if she was discovered in here, flouting all security rules, she'd never achieve what she'd set out to do. And the dreams of fourteen kids would literally go down the pan, along with her professional reputation.
Plan A should have worked just fine: approach someone in authority, ask politely, make an appointment. Not hide out like a weird stalker. In a cubicle. While thousands of fans charged the backstage corridors wanting a piece of the notoriously damaged, famously over-sexed rock deity, Nate Munro.
Where was Plan B when she needed it?
A deep American accent bounced off the tiled walls. 'Quick, Nate. In here. Give us five minutes 'til they've been herded out. There's a car on its way to pick you up out the back.'
No. Sasha's shoulders crept towards her jaw, tightening the muscles around her neck like a noose. Not Nate. Not here. Not in this bathroom.
'What happened to Security? They're crazy out there.' Sure enough, it was Nate's voice now, much deeper, richer than she remembered, but unmistakably his. Tinged with his working-class roots and a smattering of amusement, but refined by maturity and years of stateside living.
The American voice responded with an air of glee, 'Crazy for you. They love you. The world loves you, Nate. You are gold.'
True enough. Aeons ago in Sasha's smitten seventeen-year-old eyes being with him had felt as if she'd been sprinkled with gold dust. Nathan Munro. Her eyes fluttered closed at the storm of innocent memories. A young singer desperate to be heard. Night after night of listening to his songs, songs he'd written about her.
He'd scaled the heights against the odds. She'd watched his life spiral out of control, as Chesterton had turned its back on him. And she'd been as scathing as the rest.
But now... Wild boy turned out-of-control rock star. Sold out across the globe on his five continents Hall of Fame tour, catapulted to the top of the charts with his husky sultry songs and edgy dark style. The devil with a god's voice.
And powerful too. What he wanted he got and to hell with the consequences.
So what the heck she thought she'd achieve by asking him for help now, she didn't know. But Sasha inhaled, renewing her resolve. It had been for ever ago. Ten years. He'd probably forgotten about her, about them. Or hated her, still.
No matter. She would find a way to ask him for help, and make good on that promise to her kids--that was what was important, not their past history. But she couldn't face him here, after all this time, not in a loo. Even she wouldn't be able to take herself seriously surrounded by pipe work and the cloying smell of pine.
No, she was a music professional and she had standards. She'd find another way: phone his agent, bribe him into submission. Beg. Something.
So just leave. Please.
The American spoke again. 'You want...