All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) by Liberty Kontranowski Read Free Book Online Page A

broach the subject of my children, but I suspect he’s figured out I have them. And if he hasn’t, he knows now.
    “It’s a nice little ride. I haven’t driven in a while, though.”
    “In over a year. Yeah, I know.” I wink at him.
    “Of course you do.” He moves toward me and swipes at my hair. “Bug.”
    I catch his wrist as it’s still on its return back to his side and hold it a second. I can feel his bones and the warmth of his skin. I want to pull him toward me and kiss him right here, right at this moment, but instead, I let go and rummage around in my purse for the keys.
    “Here you go.” I put the keys in his palm. “I trust you.”
    He breaks into a huge smile and unlocks the doors. We get situated and he shifts into gear, navigates through town, and merges onto the highway like a pro. He’s doing way better than I would have been.
    “Like riding a bike,” he says with a wink.
    An hour later, our conversation is lively (yay!) and things are going great (double yay!). Until a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and my stomach turns . . . and not in a good way.
    “Oh, man,” I groan. “I’m starting to feel like crap.” Memories of last night’s beers and shots come flooding back. I bite my tongue to keep from throwing up. “Aren’t you hung over?”
    “Ha, no. I’m a ‘rock star,’ Kallie, remember?” he says with air quotes. “I don’t get hangovers anymore.” He gives me a sideways glance, then squeezes my knee. “Whoa. You’re white as an Irish ghost. Want me to pull over?”
    I shake my head, even though I want to say yes. All closed up like this, I can really smell his awesome scent, but the air is stifling. I crack a window, which of course breaks the sound barrier as the wind whips in.
    “Have some water,” he instructs, pointing to the mini-cooler he brought. I want to reach back and grab a bottle, I really do, but I’m afraid doing so will jar my cookies loose. Instead, I lean against the headrest and close my eyes.
    “Just relax,” he says gently, his fingers brushing against my cheek. “We probably have another fifteen miles on this stretch, then I’ll need you to watch for our exit. Can you do that?” I nod. “Okay, good. You’re going to be fine.”
    And I am. I focus on the fact that I am sitting next to Niles Russell. He is driving my car. We took a nap together in a hotel bed. I partied with him last night. He grasped my hand during his incredible, amazing live performance. He’s coming to my house, for chrissake. Thinking of those things diverts my attention, and before I know it, he’s wheeling into my assigned parking space, looking up at my Melrose Place-wannabe apartment building.
    “My ex got the house.”
    He nods and shuts off the car.
    “Uh, do you have, like, a lot of people who walk around here?” he asks.
    This is an excellent question because the logistics of smuggling a Grammy-winning front man into my house isn’t exactly something I’ve had to give a lot of thought to. Sure, he’s no Paul McCartney, but it’s likely someone will recognize him, and showing up at a random fan’s house could do a number on his reputation. I’m guessing there are no paparazzi hiding in the bushes, but still. I check the clock and see that it’s not quite noon. It’s a hot Saturday and we have to walk by the community pool to get to my unit. There are bound to be a lot of people there.
    “I’d grab your hat and sunglasses, for sure.” I know he has them because I saw them poking out of his running bag before he zipped it up. “Also, maybe take off a couple of your shirts. People around here don’t wear so many clothes. Your mad layering skills scream, ‘rock star!’” He laughs and awkwardly peels off two of his shirts, bumping the steering wheel and narrowly avoiding cuffing me in the jaw. When I look over at the finished product, he looks like a normal guy—albeit a very cute normal guy.
    Satisfied, we hop out of the car and make our