Hard Rock Flirt

Hard Rock Flirt Until We Break #2 Athena Wright Copyright © 2023 by Athena Wright All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum OTHER BOOKS IN THE HARD ROCK 'VERSE Cherry Lips: A Rock Star Romance Series Hard Rock Promise - Gael and Jessie’s story Hard Rock Crush - Cerise and Liam's story Hard Rock Kiss - Nathan and Becca's story Hard Rock Muse - Julian and Everly’s story Hard Rock Love - Seth and Abby’s story * * * Darkest Days: A Rock Star Romance Series Hard Rock Tease - Noah and Jen's story Hard Rock Fling - Ian and Hope's story Hard Rock Sin - Cameron and Lily's story Hard Rock Deceit - August and Cassie’s story Hard Rock Heat - Damon and Faith's story Visit athenawright.com for more Blurb She’s got one job: Snitch on the reckless rock star. He’s got one goal: Flirt his way into her skirts. CORINNA With one too many PR scandals under his belt, I’m hired to keep an eye on rock god Matthew “Finn” Finnley. My job? Rein in Finn’s antics and report back to the label. This rocker may be charismatic, but his reckless behavior is getting out of hand. After a spectacular fall from grace, this is my second chance to prove myself. I refuse to let this rock god charm me like everyone else. FINN After one too many PR scandals under my belt, the label’s breathing down my neck. That’s why I’ve got to charm the buzzkill hired to keep an eye on me. I just need her to fall for me and get the label off my back so I can start living my life again. I’m going to pull out ALL the stops to show her a good time. “I promise to be on my best behavior.” Finn lowered his voice so only I could hear him, eyes glimmering wickedly. “Unless you’d like me to be bad?” One Corinna I could totally do this. I could totally handle this job, one hundred percent. Did it matter that I’d royally screwed up the last gig I’d been hired for? Did it matter that no client would touch me for half a year? Did it matter that I was their last resort because everyone else turned down the job? Nope. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that I could totally handle this. Which was an interesting choice of words, since “handling” was exactly what I was being hired to do. “Do you have any further questions?” the man across the boardroom table asked me, his hands clasped firmly in front of him. “Just a few.” I looked down at the pad of paper where I’d taken reams of notes. I had questions like: Why exactly did an entertainment company need to hire a PR handler for one of their celebrities? What had this guy done, that they needed someone to essentially babysit and spy on him? What exactly was so bad about this anonymous celebrity that no other PR handler would sign on for the gig? And, the most important question of all: Who the hell was I going to be “handling,” anyway? I knew they wouldn’t tell me that answer, not until I signed a non-disclosure agreement. Besides, who was I kidding. It didn’t matter who I was going to be working with — “working” being a relative term. All that mattered was that this gig came with a fat paycheck, something I was sorely in need of. I plastered on a pleasant, professional smile and nodded my head to the music exec as he adjusted his necktie. “I guess my only real question is, where do I sign?” I asked. He slid a stack of papers across the table, along with a ballpoint pen. “Read through the contract and, if it all looks good, sign at the bottom,” he said. I’d read my fair share of contracts, so I knew what tricky bits to look for, but the thing seemed solid as I flipped through it. This company clearly had quality lawyers on retainer. I picked up the pen. “I assume once I sign, I’ll be given further details about my client?” I asked. He nodded once. I scribbled my name on the dotted line. He took back the stack of papers and slid them into a beige file folder. He pulled out a second folder, red this time, and handed it to me. It was much thicker than the contract. “This is your briefing,” he said. I took it from him. Not only was it thicker, it was heavier. Wow. How much info did I need for one little job? It was almost comical, like some kind of detailed case file from some decades-long criminal investigation. I flipped open the cover. “So this will tell me everything I need to know about—?” I stopped short. I blinked. No. I blinked again. The face in the photograph on the first page didn’t change. Gorgeous blue eyes with a wicked gleam, sandy-brown hair that looked soft to the touch, a crooked smirk on full lips, and all of it set on a painfully handsome face. Oh, god, no. My stomach started sinking to my knees. I cleared my throat. “Is this…” I began, my voice tight, “…my client?” “That is correct,” the man in the suit said primly. “I can confirm that your client is, indeed, Matthew Finnley.” Forget about sinking, it now felt like my stomach had dropped to my feet, seeped out of my shoes, and was now burrowing deep into the ground, heading towards the center of the earth to bury itself deep in molten magma. “Finn is my client?” I said, my voice turning high-pitched. “Finn, bassist of Until We Break?”