Page 52 of Mic Drop (Passionate Beats #3)

I close my red notebook. “We flew in late last night and I crashed for six hours before we met up today. My bed’s calling me.” On tired feet, I stand. “I’ll keep in touch about the filming.”

He chuckles. “Welcome to the life of a documentary director. You got this.”

His faith in me settles in my bones. Never having a dependable father figure in my life, I eat up his approval.

With a cheery wave, I scoot out of his office, gather my things, and hit the New York City streets.

I inhale, soaking up the walking culture so anathema in LA.

On my way home, I stop by my favorite Thai place and pick up some Pad Thai. Tonight, it’s me, the TV, and takeout.

After collecting my mail, I walk into my apartment.

Leaving my shoes at the door, I put my bag onto the dining room table and go into my bedroom to change into some leggings and a long tunic top.

Wearing my pink bunny slippers, I return to the kitchen and retrieve a plate on which I pile a mess of the noodle dish.

Using the chopsticks not as utensils but rather to secure my hair in a messy bun, I walk over to the sofa and plop down.

What a day. Week. Month. Months, plural.

If only I had someone here as company. Ha!

When has adding a man to the mix ever worked out for me or my family?

Look at Ma. She and Daddy claimed to be in love, and even appeared to be that way when I was growing up.

Sort of. When he showed up. He always chose to stay with his other family.

Never stepped up and claimed us as his own too.

It’s a miracle I ever became friends with my sister Paige. Well, half-sister.

A smile plays around my lips as I remember attending her wedding before heading out to LA.

I saw something between her and Jesse right from the start of “New York Views,” even before they did.

The world will never know of their more intimate moments caught by the “hidden” cameras during the taping.

Even when they turned us down to take over the winner’s show on Renovation TV , I never regretted deleting the sexy footage.

It showed them happy and intimate and free, scenes not for strangers’ eyes.

Ah, to be able to live a life so open like Paige and Jesse’s, unfettered from lies surrounding me from day one.

I learned from the start about the weight of misdirections, having been hidden from Daddy’s other family until recently.

From the world, however, is a different story.

On this I agree with Daddy—unlike Ma, who fought with him over this topic constantly—I never saw an upside in bringing my connection to the Hansens public.

Daddy told me not to tell others because if they knew, they’d look at me differently.

Given his incarceration, I couldn’t agree more.

I shovel some Pad Thai into my mouth, my gaze skimming to my plants.

Since my “plant sitter” last came a week ago, they’re droopy.

I get it . Getting to my feet, I empty the contents of my water bottle into them and toss the empty into the recycle bin.

Eating another few bites of my meal, I save the rest for later.

Time for some R&R. I click into my digital library and select a wonderful movie by my absolute favorite director, Alfred Hitchcock.

Don’t care if the movie’s in black and white. His stories carry the day.

Before I turn it on, I pour myself a glass of red zinfandel and take a sip, allowing the tingles to soothe my soul. In the living room, I hit play and Rear Window fills the screen. Soon I’m absorbed in Grace Kelly’s performance. Before she became a princess, she was a fantastic actor.

All of a sudden, my sofa shakes. Bounces is more like it. As if a hurricane pulsates through its springs. Assuming sofas have springs. And I know exactly what is playing since I heard it over a dozen times today—“Crushing Blow.” What the hell?

I stare at the floor, from where the offending noise emanates.

Pausing the movie, I go into the closet and pick up a broom and bang it with three satisfying thuds.

The music continues as loud as ever. In frustration, I groan and stomp.

Considering I’m in my slippers, this makes no difference either.

Oblivious to my torment, Untamed Coaster continues wailing their massive hit. In my ear, I hear Tristan’s added flourish, thinking he’s right and it does add to the song. But whatever. Not my fight. However, this music madness is .

Not bothering to put on my shoes, I march down the stairs and stop outside the apartment below mine. Never been here before, but I don’t care so long as the band at the center of my work life continues to blare.

I curl my hand into a fist and bang on the offending door—which I, myself, can barely hear over Bennett’s voice, dammit.

I pound again and receive the same no response. Should I go down and buzz the intercom? If steam could billow out my ears, it would.

Deciding to give it one final try, I beat on the door for all my worth. I wait a minute and am rewarded when the door handle turns. Finally.

The music intensifies as the door opens.

Standing before me is a ginger-headed man with a trimmed beard, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Water droplets run from his wet head down his chiseled chest. Bright blue eyes skim me from head to toe.

With a deep Scottish accent, he holds up his wallet. “Where’s my pizza?”

Great . Not only do I have to deal with Untamed Coaster literally moving me off my sofa, now I have a wet Jamie Frasier living beneath me. Where’s my stone to time travel out of here?