Blue Shoes #1: New Adult Rock Star Erotic Romance (Morris Music Book 6) by JJ Knight Page A

there’s no oxygen in the store. I excuse myself and run out as fast as I can.
    Out on the sidewalk, Chet joins me. He sets down his bags of new Italian shoes so he can put both of his hands on my shoulders.
    “Jess, tell me what’s going on.”
    This time, I can’t lie, so I tell him everything. First, I didn’t get to say goodbye to Dylan on my last night in L.A., and then I saw a photo of him looking friendly with a girl, and now he won’t return my calls.
    Chet pulls me into a hug. “This is nothing, trust me. Long distances suck. Sometimes you’re both so busy, you don’t see each other for days. You know that’s normal. He gets so obsessed when he’s recording a new album.”
    I sniff, struggling to keep my emotions under control. “He does get obsessed. You’re right.”
    “But he’ll be here soon, in Rome. You know he’s missing you like crazy.”
    “Yeah.” I pull away from Chet, because we’ve been hugging for too long. We have so much respect for each other, and I don’t want him to think of me as weak. “I’m just jet lagged.”
    His bright green eyes flick left and right, then light up.
    “There’s a cure for jet lag,” he says.
    I frown at him. Is there a cure for a broken heart? Because that’s what I really need.
    “Gelato,” he says. He nods toward a guy across the street from us, rolling a portable ice cream stand on a modified bicycle.
    I put on a brave smile. “We’ll have to test this jet lag cure and find out.”
    We each get double scoops. I don’t know if it’s the warmth of the Italian sun bouncing off all the stone streets and buildings, or just my homesickness, but this gelato is the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted.
    Chet moans, “Totally worth the thirteen-hour flight.”
    He finishes his gelato quickly and chases after the vendor to get some more.
    I grab my phone and check it for the tenth time in an hour.
    When there’s nothing from Dylan, I feel so angry, I want to smash the phone on the cobblestones.
    He was the one who pushed me to go to Rome. And now I’m here, waiting for him. All alone with my boss and his Italian shoe collection.
    * * *
    The next day, I do hear back from Dylan, but it’s only voicemail.
    I play the message again and again. The connection must have been bad, because parts of his message are cut out.
    “Hey, Blue Shoes. It’s me. I hope you’re—static noise—Friday. My publicist says I’m going to—static noise—which is unbelievable, right? I can’t wait to see you in Rome. Love ya!”
    I send him more text messages, telling him I couldn’t hear half his message. Is he really coming to Rome on Friday? Which Friday? Or does he just have something else happening on a Friday?
    Whatever’s going on, Riley and Amanda don’t have any answers either. We keep sending messages and photos back and forth, but the communication feels off. I have to guess by their responses that not all of my messages are going through.
    There must be something buggy with my phone using the network here in Italy. I thought the point of all this technology and paying a massive monthly phone bill was so that everything worked all the time.
    My phone issues are as frustrating as trying to explain to a bunch of old Italian executives why they can’t just shove whatever music they want down people’s throats. Young people have a million options, I try to tell them. They always want something new.
    These guys think all singers are basically the same. And they think if they make the girls even sexier, women will buy the music. I try to explain to them how there has to be some substance, underneath the candy coating.
    They don’t get it, though. They think life is just candy and then more candy with candy in the middle.
    After a week, I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’ve picked up on a few Italian phrases, and I have Italian thoughts in my mind.
    Quando è il matrimonio?
    That means when is the wedding?
    Everyone who sees my engagement ring keeps