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biggest band on planet Earth only added to the spectre of Chris and Graham.
    "We're going to take a few more calls," the DJ said. "We have Jennifer from Swarthmore on the line."
    "Hi Graham and Chris. I'm such a huge fan and I think you're so awesome and I just love you guys so much."
    Graham leaned into the microphone. "Thank you. We love our fans. Did you have a question for us?" His voice came out with a sexy rumble. I nearly had to grab the wall to keep my balance.
    "Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Oh my God. I'm so nervous,” the caller said. “Um, my question is for Christopher. I didn't really know what to ask but I really wanted to talk to you, so I'm just going to ask if you prefer brunettes or blondes."
    Chris grinned wide. "I have to ask what color your hair is, love."
    "Oh my God. Are you serious? Blonde. I'm blonde."
    "Well, I generally prefer brunettes, but I'd absolutely make an exception for the right blonde." He said it in an unbelievably flirtatious tone. Between Graham and Chris, every girl listening to the station had to be dying, especially poor Jennifer from Swarthmore. I was certainly about ready to faint. No wonder there was a legion of girls out there for them—their allure was indisputable, like gravity.
    "Excellent answer. It's like you guys have done this before." The DJ laughed at his own joke. "Does that answer your question, Jennifer?" His inquiry was met with dead silence. "Huh. I think you might have killed her, Mr. Penman."
    "I'm very sorry," Chris said. "That happens sometimes."
    "And how about you, Graham?" the DJ asked. "Blonde or brunette?"
    "Yes."
    Everyone in the studio burst out laughing. I caught the look on his face, that sly pride that said he was glad he'd done what he had. And I'd caught it on film.
    Graham snickered. "But seriously, I think it's an unfair question to be honest. What about gingers?" He pivoted in his seat and looked right at me. "I love a fiery redhead."
    Cheeky bastard. My face heated and I retreated back behind my camera, my mind back to running in circles. I was doing more than letting him flirt with me— was lapping up every second of it like a thirsty puppy. I needed to get my head on straight—I was enjoying being around him way too much for a woman who was sure she wanted nothing more to do with him.
    The DJ wrapped up the interview and Reggie escorted us down to the limo waiting behind the radio station. They let me into the car first, but Graham followed and sat next to me. Proximity was going to make my attempts to focus on work difficult, especially given the subject of my photo assignment.
    The police had blocked off the alley, so there weren't any fans, but sure enough, there was a mob of them once we made it to the street. They shrieked something awful. I love you, Graham. Christopher, we love you. Despite the presence of police officers and a barricade, the girls pushed through to the limo, pounding on the windows, making the most horrible sound, like hail the size of golf balls pelting the car. A dozen or so fans chased after the limo, screaming for Graham and Chris. Luckily, our driver seemed to know what he was doing and lost them quickly.
    "Is it always that bad?" I pulled out my camera and started taking pictures again. Focus. I snapped a few of Chris, but then he pulled out a tissue and blew his nose, so I decided I'd best turn the lens on Graham.
    "It's really weird to feel like I can't let down my guard around you," Graham said to me. The soft light in the back of the car made his eyes blaze with intensity. His hair was pretty damn exceptional today, too—messy and slumped over to one side, perfect for fingers. "What with you taking pictures non-stop."
    "Oh, come on. You know you love it. And this is the sort of stuff the magazine wants. Slice of life. The back of the limo. Doing a radio interview. It might be old hat for you guys now, but it's incredibly glamorous to a teenaged girl. Just relax and pretend like you're extremely busy being a rock