Tapped by the Rockstar


 
 
 
 
 
 
 TAPPED BY THE ROCKSTAR
 
 Mile High Rocked
 Book 4
 
 
 
 
 CHRISTINA HOVLAND
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
 
 
 
 Copyright 2022 by Christina Hovland. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
 
 
 
 For rights information, please contact:
 Prospect Agency
 551 Valley Road, PMB 377
 Upper Montclair, NJ 07043
 (718) 788-3217
 
 
 
 Holly Ingraham, Development Editor
 Audrey Nelson, Copy Editor
 Shasta Schafer, Final Proofreader
 
 
 
 Cover Model Photography by:
 Lindee Robinson Photography
 Brian Boynton, Cover Model
 
 
 
 Cover Design by Christina Hovland
 
 
 
 
 First Edition January 2023
 
 
 
 
 
 
 To all those who can’t find the words when you need them most.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 
 Chapter Two
 
 
 Chapter Three
 
 
 Chapter Four
 
 
 Chapter Five
 
 
 Chapter Six
 
 
 Chapter Seven
 
 
 Chapter Eight
 
 
 Chapter Nine
 
 
 Chapter Ten
 
 
 Chapter Eleven
 
 
 Chapter Twelve
 
 
 Chapter Thirteen
 
 
 Chapter Fourteen
 
 
 Chapter Fifteen
 
 
 Chapter Sixteen
 
 
 Chapter Seventeen
 
 
 Chapter Eighteen
 
 
 Chapter Nineteen
 
 
 Chapter Twenty
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-One
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Three
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Four
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Five
 
 
 Chapter Twenty-Six
 
 
 Epilogue
 
 
 Acknowledgments
 
 
 Also by Christina Hovland
 
 
 Going Down on One Knee Sample
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 SAMANTHA
 
 
 
 
 “Nobody told me Twister was a bad idea,” Samantha “Sam” Johnson mumbled under her breath as her right hand went to green, left foot to blue, and her ass in the air. She balanced precariously, so she didn’t tip over into Great Aunt Etta Jane, the reason she’d come to work at Purple Peony Assisted Living.
 Thanks to her great aunt, Sam’s reputation as the premier activities director for the over-eighty crowd continued the upward trajectory she’d begun at The Plains in Newark and continued at Hillsong in Birmingham.
 Of course, that was all after the whole Sami Jo fiasco that had landed her with—
 “Tits up, sweet cheeks,” Betty announced in Sam’s general direction.
 Crud, what had she missed during her little near-tumble down memory lane?
 “Right foot yellow, Sammy Lamb-y,” Mertle mumbled out of the edge of her lips.
 Sam stilled at the quirky nickname, her blood draining unreasonably from her cheeks. Dammit, she was over this. Why did it still bug her? Sami Jo…
 “Sam,” she corrected quickly, with all the cheer she could muster while in an awkwardly fragile downward-facing dog pose. “Just Sam.” Always, just “Sam.” She shivered.
 Yeah.
 “Sam the ma’am, bam, bam,” Mertle sang, as she handled the pose beautifully. Like a swan playing Twister without a care in the world. What would that be like?
 And where the heck had a woman of her… uh… age learned to be so limber? Seriously, the woman’s ligaments must’ve been made of rubber.
 Sam’s were not. She’d sort of hoped when the women in her care had requested the twister, they’d meant the movie with Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton from 1996. Or perhaps a dance party featuring Chubby Checker.
 Luck was not hers, since they’d meant the activity she’d accidentally created based on the classic children’s game.
 “Left foot, red!” Nadzieja hollered from her perch on the edge of a chair. She came to the United States from Russia ages ago, and her accent remained true to her heritage. Also, Nadzieja's stash of vodka; that Sam had negotiated to a more reasonable level.
 Everyone moved their left foot to red.
 Of course, Sam didn’t have the elderly women in her Tuesday group class all on one large plastic Twister board—that would be dangerous. No, she set them up on multiple carefully crafted, non-slip felt alternatives. She’d used special Velcro strips to adhere the dots to the plum-colored carpet.
 All the latest literature suggested that the elderly in these communities benefited from daily activity. Things like yoga and outside walks when the weather allowed.
 The assisted living crew scoffed at her idea for all of that, but Sam was not one to give up. So she’d tricked them into doing some yoga via Twister. The walks? She made a scavenger hunt around the neighborhood that ended at the cookie shop. They loved her ideas so much that they insisted not only on playing Twister 2.0 but also her participation. This required her to hand over calling duties to Nadzieja.
 Nadzieja, who was a master manipulator and the Monarch of the Purple Peony. That’s what Sam had called her in her head, anyway.
 “Left hand yellow,” Nadzieja announced, cackling a little since that was going to really shake things up. There was not a way for Sam to move her arm in that direction without toppling over.
 Instead of moving her palm, Sam spared her dignity and stood. She clapped her hands three times in quick succession. She always did this to give notice to the residents that she was ending the activity and they were moving onto the next. “Nice work, all. Let’s call it a day?”
 Dammit. The moment those words slipped from her lips, she knew she shouldn’t have phrased them in question form. These women found loopholes in everything and had no issue climbing right on through those holes to get what they wanted.
 As could be expected, the participants all fussed an