Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) by A.C. Dillon

and details too true to be ignored. There had to be something between the lines, some clue to the identity of the stalker. And that was what he was: a stalker. The shoes he'd purchased for Veronica were proof that he wasn't merely watching her perform; he was watching her , full stop. Someone with that amount of time on his hands couldn't be trusted to stop at overly sexual love letters and pricey footwear. Sooner or later, he'd want to confront her.
    Thinking of the stage door meet and greets that were customary in the theatre world, Autumn felt nauseous. Maybe he's already met her. In the light of morning, she'd ask Veronica to think carefully about her interactions with fans, see if any of them stood out in a bad way.
    Wait, no, I can't. Not right away . She had her meeting with her editor first thing in the morning to review initial feedback on her book. But after the publisher pow-wow, she'd look into security with Andrew and probe Veronica on the people loitering after shows.
    "You're worried about her."
    Autumn glanced up, startled by Andrew's words.
    "I know, stating the obvious," he continued. "What I mean is, I'm worried too. It's not just me."
    "No. No, it's not," Autumn replied quietly.
    "We'll look after her," he promised. “Because this isn't right. This guy's escalating. You see it too, don't you?"
    "But will she listen?"
    "To you? Yes. But she's not stupid. Veronica knows that tonight took things to a whole new level of disturbing. Let it sink in; tomorrow, she'll see things more clearly."
    "I hope so."
    The cab pulled up to their hotel and Andrew quickly paid him, tipping more than perhaps he'd intended in his rush to head inside. His grip on Autumn's hand was unusually firm, reminding her of the days she'd had to testify against their former instructor.
    "I'm fine, Andrew," she insisted quietly, running her thumb over his hand in light figure-eights.
    With a forced smile, he jammed the elevator call button. "I know. I can't help it, alright?"
    "As long as you know... Oh God, I'm a moron. You know who we should ask about security? My dad."
    Stepping into the elevator, Andrew groaned. "Of course. He's only one of the highest ranking security personnel for one of the largest banks in Canada. How did I not think of it?"
    "Hey, he's my dad . I didn't think of it."
    "Drop him a quick email when we get in. I'll order up some late-night comfort food."
    "I approve of this plan."
    Swiping into their suite, Andrew made quick work of ordering half of the desserts on the late-night menu, along with fries and an order of macaroni and cheese. Autumn flopped on the bed, opening her laptop and shooting off a quick email to her father that was vague, but provided everything that would keep him from panicking— I'm fine, Andrew's fine, but we need information on bodyguards was the basic gist.
    A knock on their suite door reminded her of the forthcoming comfort food buffet and she moved to shut her computer down, pausing as a new message alert popped up. Checking her inbox, she gritted her teeth at the subject line.
    Google Alert: Veronica St. Clair
    Tentatively, she opened the email, immediately regretting it. "Shit!"
    "You okay?"
    "I'm fine, Andrew. I just really hate the media, that's all." Clicking the link, she hissed angrily at the title of an article from a popular Broadway gossip blog.
    She heard a quiet exchange of voices, a door shutting, a bolt being flipped into place. Spinning her laptop around, she waited for Andrew to investigate. Clearly, her face told the story of the latest miserable turn of events.
    "Is that what I think it is?"
    "If you think it's the story of Veronica's stalker leaking on the go-to site for Broadway dirt, you'd be correct." Autumn grimaced, slamming the laptop shut. "I'm not going to worry about it tonight. Tomorrow, we'll all deal together. The Three Musketeers."
    Andrew gestured to the tray of food near the door. "Cheesecake or chocolate mousse?"
    "Yes, please."
    With a tousle of her