I probably shouldn’t have laughed in his face, but judging by his disgust you’d think he had just volunteered to bathe with flesh-eating snails. America’s favorite rock star drummer was about to buy me girl stuff. Hilarious, especially the way he scowled at the thought. It was also really cute. Or it would have been if his motivation hadn’t been strictly work-related. Given that his exes were all glamorous singers and actresses, he needed to convince people that I was pretty enough to meet his normal standards. Nothing cute about buying someone makeup because she’s too plain without cosmetics. Still, he was right about one thing: I did need to move my stuff into the suite. But when I slid the key card into the lock on Allison and Claire’s door, the room looked completely different—and not because I’d been so seasick last night that I couldn’t remember it properly. My stuff was sprawled everywhere: clothes strewn under the bed, on the desk, even crumpled in the bathroom.
