His c**k swelled even more at the sound of his last name on her lips. He had never been called “Mr. Aehrenthal” so earnestly, without any attempt on seduction, and yet somehow it sounded sexy as hell.
Saffi March’s light, lilting voice was so angelic and sweet it made Staffan imagine tossing her Alice in Wonderland skirt up and showing her how it felt to be tumbled. By him.
He moved on his seat, his pants feeling unbelievably tight. That did it. To hell if it was going to make him appear like a f**king pervert. He would definitely jack off tonight while looking at Saffi’s unbelievably enticing photo.
“Is there something wrong?”
Staffan started to assure her that there wasn’t any problem when a warning beep sounded, reminding him that his phone’s battery was about to die on him any second.
Frustration seared him. “My phone’s about to die.” He paused, expecting her to protest, to do what all the girls he had previously called did just to make him stay on the phone longer. But she didn’t. That confused him, which he didn’t like at all, making Staffan speak more sharply than usual as he asked, “Do you want to say anything else before I hang up?”
Saffi’s silent response meant more than any words could say, her hurt traveling through the phone line that whipped him with guilt.
Shit. Now he knew why the girl wasn’t saying anything. It was because she didn’t believe him, and it was like karma biting him in the ass. It had been his standard response to cut his call short with the other girls. Yet now that Staffan didn’t want the call to end, it had to, and she didn’t believe him.
Fuck karma.
“Saffi.” Saying the name out loud made him pause. It seemed as if his world had been altered with it, and the change was eternally binding. It was like f**king serendipity, literally---the kind that his c**k sensed. “I’m---”
Saffi did not want to hear false apologies from Staffan, the thought of it not sitting well with her for some strange reason. Humiliation colored her cheeks, making her privately thankful that she was only having an ordinary call with Staffan instead of one that involved cameras and videos.
Mentally squaring her shoulders, she decided to take his words by face value anyway---because that was what a true fangirl would do: accept that famous personalities were humans, too, and they had off days like ordinary humans had.
She interrupted him quickly, “I, umm, do have something to say.”
Staffan told himself not to expect too much. Even though Saffi March had so far proven different from all his pre-conceived notions of women who were after his fame, fortune, and f**king, in the end she would still be like the rest. She would still have an agenda, would want him to---
“Please be happy, Mr. Aehrenthal.”
Staffan stiffened.
Saffi said with nervous determination, “I love how you dance. I love how you sing. I love your lyrics, and I just think…it would be such a waste if it’s true that you’ve been…”
Staffan’s heart started to beat fast. Then he told himself that she wouldn’t say it. Of course she wouldn’t because at the end of the day, she was his f**king fan, she worshipped the f**king ground he walked on, and she would never risk antagonizing him even if---
Saffi closed her eyes. “I just hope you’d realize how much you mean to your fans, Mr. Aehrenthal,” she whispered. “I just hope you’d stop…doing the…stuff you’ve been doing recently because we really don’t want to lose you. You have so much to give.”
He should have been incensed. She was a f**king nobody, and he was Sweden’s #1 somebody, the #1 on Billboard charts, and in everything else.
He should have been creeped out. Was she a f**king stalker or what? How the f**k did she know that he had been drinking every night and taking the craziest risks that his insurance company had terminated its contract with him?
He should slam the phone down, but he didn’t.
And he wasn’t mad.
Staffan wasn’t even creeped out, not when the earnestness in her angelic voice made him remember the old days, back when he used to be in her shoes once, and he, too, had been one of the first to know what was happening with the singers he had idolized. In fact, it was because he had been such a great fan of another rock legend that he had found his mentor – and eventually his calling.
His iPhone made one last final beep.
Staffan said quietly, “Thanks.”
But it was too late.
Chapter One
Saffi March, Facebook Status: Single
Three Months Later
“Ooooh. Are you checking her Facebook again?” Yanna suddenly appeared at his back, leaning past him to sneak a look at his laptop.
Staffan managed to snatch his Macbook away from her, slamming it shut to prevent her from taking a closer look.
“Spoilsport!” Yanna exclaimed indignantly just as a tall, golden-haired man in the balcony walked back into the hotel room. He was gorgeous and impeccably dressed, his coldly beautiful face softened by the smile that touched his lips when he saw Yanna.
Staffan scowled at the other man. “Control your girlfriend, will you?”
Constantijin Kastein settled into one of the armchairs. “Were you?” His question was directed at his friend, but all he had eyes for was the woman he loved, sending her a lazy smile while his gaze promised her something wicked.
Yanna blushed, but already she was walking towards Constantijin, her body drawn to him like a magnet.
“Was I what?” Staffan had to say the question twice before Constantijin finally heard him, leaving him exasperated and amused with the lovesick way the pair acted when they were together.
Constantijin drawled, “Were you checking on her Facebook again?”
Faint color stained Staffan’s high-boned cheeks. “Fuck you.”
His friend only grinned in response, taking Staffan’s baleful look as an affirmative. But Constantijin was quickly distracted, with Yanna finally reaching his side. When she made an attempt to sit on the armrest, he shook his head and pulled her onto his lap instead.
“Constantijin!” Even though they had been dating for almost a year now, she still wasn’t used to her Dutch billionaire’s extremely public displays of affection.
Staffan smirked. “Don’t mind me.”
Yanna glared in response. When she tried to get up, Constantijin pulled her back and murmured, “Stay, schat.” She sank back onto him after that, never able to resist his tender commands.
Something in Staffan twisted at the tenderness in his friend’s voice. He didn’t like hearing it, didn’t like to remember that once he had been like that with a woman, too. But unlike Yanna, that woman had ended throwing him under the bus and running Staffan over as many times as she could get away with it.