Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance

Christina Benjamin

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © 2019 by Christina Benjamin

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Crown Atlantic Publishing

Version 1.1

June 2019

Chapter 1

Eric

My fingers, calloused from years of plucking guitar strings, dance against my thighs with anxiety—though I’d never admit that out loud. I’m the face of this band and there’s no room for doubts. Not today.

Somewhere behind me, I can hear James riffing quietly on his bass. The lime green instrument is unplugged so he can go over his chords one last time without drowning out the sound of the cheering people beyond the stage. I’m not even sure why he’s bothering to practice with only a few minutes left before we go on.

Practicing is all we’ve been doing for months. Ever since we found out that we’d managed to secure a gig at Lancaster Stadium we’ve been clocking more practice hours than a med student.

Though the stadium gig is still months away we aren’t taking it for granted. Every musician in this city wants to play in the infamous Battle of the Bands showcase hosted there. Somehow, we managed to be one of the lucky bands selected after the event organizer, Reggie Smith, saw us playing at a nearby dive bar—which is just the type of establishment we find ourselves at tonight.

But not for long.

Lancaster Stadium is going to be our big break—I can feel it.

If we don’t catch an agent’s eye there, we never will, and we’ve all put in too much sweat and tears to fail now. That’s why I booked us this last-minute live show.

We can practice all we want but there’s no substitute for playing in front of a hungry crowd. The energy can make or break you. At a bar as rough as this, my money’s on break, but right now isn’t the time to stress. Right now, it’s time to breathe, to focus, and to down a bit of booze. Liquid courage is mandatory before we hit the stage.

When the curtains move just right, I can see bobbing heads in the crowd. Bodies writhe like snakes, hands lifted in the air, hair flying as their chins sway back and forth to the tune of the loud music pulsing through the speakers. When my band and I arrived a few hours ago, the small dive bar with its black brick walls covered in various out of state license plates had been all but empty. The owner, taking in our uncertain faces, had simply promised us it would be a full house by eleven. Turns out he was right.

I’d heard this seedy underground spot was one of the best to get your start, and we needed a good start since our first big performance at the stadium was quickly approaching. This was the last gig I booked before then.

I check my watch. Nearly showtime.

Some guy with a mic strides past me to address the crowd, the smell of whiskey and cigars follow him. My nose twitches at the familiar scent, making me pine for a shot. My stomach always gets knotted up before performances. The only thing that helps take the edge off is a stiff drink. Plus, it helps me forget things, things I don’t want to bring out on that stage with me.

My life hasn’t always been easy, but at least I’ve always had music. It’s my outlet for the things I can’t seem to face. But the road to this stage has been tough enough without bringing my past into the mix. I’ve fought too hard and struggled too long to be restrained by my past.

I’d always known the path to being a rockstar would be a difficult one, but I had no idea just how twisted that road would be and just how much I would flounder. At least I’m not alone. I glance at Alex and James. They’ve stuck with me, getting me through some dark days—even if they didn’t know it.

The voice of the man on stage with the microphone rises over the noise of the crowd as he explains that the headliner everyone is waiting to see has canceled at the last minute and they’re left with some struggling group of unknowns to entertain them. Us.

We’ve performed here and there over the years, paying our dues on the local music scene, but we’ve yet to have our big break. Until we rock the house at Lancaster Stadium, barely anyone knows our name. But I aim to change that tonight.

I can see the exact moment the people realize the band they’re expecting isn’t coming. All the excited cheers suddenly change to angry grumbles. I feel their pain. They were getting pumped up for a three-woman band that’s already done a nationwide tour. I know I have some tall stilettos to fill.

James stops his quiet bass playing, eyes connecting with mine when I glance at him with an uncertain shrug. There’s not much we can do but play our hearts out. We’ve already been paid for the gig. Might as well make the most of it, even if no one here actually came to see us.

Armed with my smooth vocals and guitar and James and Alex rocking the bass and drums, I have every confidence we’ll change their minds.

The lights dim beyond the moth-eaten curtains. This bar may not be the fanciest in town, but it’s a well-known gold mine for rock groupies looking to headbang and jam out to some sick guitar solos. I’d been trying to get us a gig here for months and the only reason we’d been able to squeeze in is because one of the Rasping Sallies was having a little too much fun on the tour bus last night and took an intoxicated tumble that ended with a concussion. I felt sorry for the girl. Some people just can’t hold their liquor. Luckily, I can. And since I happened to be partying with them, I swiftly offered to fill in when it was obvious they wouldn’t be playing.

“What about the Rasping Sallies, Mick?” cries someone from the crowd. “We paid to see them!”

Mick grimaces as the rest of the crowd begins to holler unhappily in agreement. “We’ve got a great show for y’all, just like we always do,” he answers, shooting us a look offstage that says we better not make a fool of him. He’s gripping his microphone so hard that his knuckles are pale as bone.

“This isn’t gonna be good, Eric.” James says, always the voice of doubt in the group.

I just roll my eyes, blocking out his uncertainty. Only good vibes welcome here.

“It’s the best we’ve got, right?” Alex offers softly with a nudge in my ribs, gripping his drumsticks the same way Mick is gripping his microphone. “I mean we’ve got that huge stadium show coming up and we need to be as prepared as possible. This gig is perfect for that.”

“At least at our next show the crowd will be expecting us,” I mutter back.

Alex holds out a flask of what I know will be warm, spicy whiskey. I grab it and flip it open with a deft thumb, tilting my head back to welcome the booze without hesitation. It stings my tongue, flooding sharp heat down my throat to drip pleasantly into my stomach. I close my eyes as the comforting dullness washes over me, before taking another hearty gulp.

“Hey, man!” Alex grunts, snatching the flask away. “I was just letting you have a pick-me-up, not down the entire thing!”

He stares with dejected eyes at his flask, shaking it lightly to see how much liquor remains. Before he can take his own sip, James steals it and tilts his head back for a refreshing swallow. Alex yells again, reaching for the flask only to find that it’s almost empty. Before we can steal more of the precious amber liquid, he finishes it.

Smirking, I swipe the back of my hand against my mouth and shrug before digging my cell out of my pants pocket. I swipe across the screen, idly checking my texts one last time. Just as I figured, there’s nothing from Donovan.

My best friend is a dick.

The guy is probably still wrapped up in his unending office hours, but he could’ve at least let me know he wasn’t gonna show. I shake my head. Nothing makes a guy boring more quickly than a nine-to-five and a steady girlfriend.

Donovan said he’d try to come today, but I know what that means. He’s a busy guy with a billion-dollar business to run. I get it, or at least I try to. But sometimes I miss the old Donovan. The one I grew up with, the one who had time for me.

Cheering interrupts my sullen thoughts. To my surprise, Mick has managed to squeeze some enthusiasm from the crowd as the swelling of their voices once again rise over the thud of rock music playing over the speakers.

A severe-faced guy around my age walks up. “Are you warmed up?”

He stares at me with olive green eyes that are as bored as they are distant. I recognize him instantly as the owner of the bar. He looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life. You’d think someone running such a popular rock bar would be more personable. I can’t remember his name, but I make a mental note to figure it out. That way I can namedrop it for future gigs. There’s nothing wrong with a little schmoozing when you’re trying to make it big in the music world. In fact, that’s kind of the name of the game.

I gesture toward Alex’s flask with my patent smirk. “I’m as warm as I need to be.”

With a roll of his eyes, the bar owner presses a finger against the Bluetooth microphone tucked neatly into his ear. “They’re ready. Cue the lights before the drunks in the crowd start crashing the stage or something.”

“Alright now, y’all,” Mick announces buoyantly, the twang of his southern voice ill-fitting to the grungy atmosphere of the New York bar. The voices of the impatient crowd again pitch with eagerness as they clap and stomp their feet. “You may not have heard of Social Kingdom before, but I’ve gotta tell ya, they’re truly something else. You’re gonna leave this bar tonight wanting to hear more.”

Mick speaks as though he’d been listening while we were doing our sound check earlier, because I’m certain he’s never heard one of our songs before today; songs I’d written myself. Still, I appreciate his speech. He’s not wrong, after all. These people are about to have their little rock and roll minds blown.

As the crowd goes wild, Mick grins and nods while James, Alex, and myself grab our instruments and huddle closer to the side of the stage, the curtains flapping against our ankles. I suck in a breath, bouncing on my toes until my lungs start to burn. Only then do I slowly let the air held in my chest out through my nose while I count to ten. It’s a small ritual, but one that helps calm my nerves. You can’t exactly play your best if you’re shaking like a leaf.

One of my hands gently squeezes Camilla, who’s snuggled into my side. She’s my vintage Fender Stratocaster that I’d managed to find in a thrift store in high school. Camilla is the only thing I’ve ever loved that’s never let me down. She’s my soulmate, even if she is just a guitar. Her red paint, once fiery crimson, has faded in luster over the years, but her notes still ring true.

“Let’s welcome Social Kingdom to the stage!” the announcer calls, stepping to the side and gesturing us out with a beckoning hand. He’s grinning, but his jaw is clenched. Clearly the faith he’d had in us was all for the crowd’s benefit.

Little does he know just how hard my band can rock. Music is all that matters to me. It’s all that’s ever mattered. No matter what I’m going through, it’s always there. Writing songs and putting my emotions to music has always been my method of dealing with the madness that is life. It’s all I really need.

Together, the three of us pile out to join Mick on the stage, Alex rushing behind the waiting drum set and James struts behind me with his bass. The crowd quiets, gazing at us. I can hardly see them through the burning lights illuminating the stage, but I can tell they’re waiting to be entertained.

Swallowing, I step up to the mic and feel the familiar rush of whiskey and adrenaline as Alex’s first drum beats thump out. Eyes half closed, my fingers stroke over Camilla’s strings and my lips part with that very first note.

Chapter 2

Morgan

“Holy hell, Morgan,” Charlotte remarks, watching as I scrub my hands and arms with the pearly pink soap in our modeling agency’s bathroom.

At first glance, the soap seems to be the fancy kind you’d find in some swanky uptown spa. In actuality, it’s gritty like it’s made with sand, and its scent is so perfumed with fake roses that it makes my head spin. Usually the sharp texture of the soap is off-putting, but today I appreciate how it turns my flesh an irritated, but clean, pink.

The other model leans against the wall of the bathroom, arms neatly folding in front of her chest as she observes my incessant scrubbing. “Any particular reason you’re trying to scrub your skin off?”

I stop washing my arms only when it hurts to touch them, then grab a handful of equally scratchy paper towels to dry off. “I’m fine now,” I mutter irritably, meeting Charlotte’s eyes in the mirror and then looking away.

“Did something happen at that photoshoot you had scheduled this morning?” she asks, unmoving from her spot against the wall.

I cast another short glance her way, expecting to see prying nosiness in her expression, but her beautiful green eyes are concerned. I’m not used to other models being so kind. We’re all here just trying to break into this cutthroat career, one that doesn’t exactly breed compassion between women. Any other girl in this agency would’ve been trying to use this moment to break my spirit even more than it already was today.

“Morgan?” she presses softly.

I finally sigh, shuddering and taking a step back from the sink that still glistens with water. “It was beyond sleazy,” I mutter.

Glancing at my pink flesh I still don’t feel clean. All I can think about is that guy pretending to be a photographer touching me and contorting my body in different angles that were too suggestive to be a simple modeling shoot.

“Did you tell Hanson?” Charlotte asks of the owner of our modeling agency.

My chin bobs in a nod. “I did. He’s going to make sure none of us get sent out to that guy’s ‘studio’ again.” I use my fingers to do air quotes.

The supposed studio had been a tiny room in the back of a rundown house with little in it but a threadbare sofa. I’m just glad I followed my instincts and charged out of there after ten minutes instead of staying.

Both of us shudder and Charlotte bites her full lower lip before sidling in front of the mirror to run long, pale fingers through her crimson hair. Enviously, I watch her, forgetting to keep my face blank of expression as I typically do with the other girls in the agency. Even though I’m tall, Charlotte is taller. Her ruby hair and lips make her stand out in ways that I apparently do not. She’s always getting booked while I’m just trying to get any scraps of a job I can.

It’s not like I’m bad looking. I’m not. I’ve been told I look like a modern Kate Moss, blonde, leggy and sexy as hell. I know that sounds arrogant, but part of being a model is being confident, though standing next to Charlotte I feel like a wilting flower.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, softening. “I’m sorry.”

Why does she have to be kind on top of gorgeous? It’s not fair.

“You know what you need?” she says, spinning around and clapping her palms together with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows.

“A new manager?” I mutter indignantly.

Her eyes dart toward the door of the one stall bathroom as though she thinks Hanson could hear us through the thick walls. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was eavesdropping. Our modeling agency is tiny, comprised of only about half a dozen or so models at a time who stay just long enough to book a big gig and then land a better agency. Everyone except me, that is.

I’m one of Hanson’s originals, which means I’ve been stuck here the longest. Charlotte has only been here three weeks and I can already tell she’ll be gone before the month is out, signed by one of the elite and exclusive modeling agencies in the city. Envy again burns through my veins, but when I catch a glance of it simmering in my eyes in the mirror it makes my cheeks burn with shame.

There’d been a time when I’d been so confident in my future as a model, I never would’ve let jealousy creep in. When I first came to New York I’d been so sure that I would end up gracing magazine covers and runways.

Where was that girl now?

Satisfied that Hanson isn’t going to bust down our bathroom door, Charlotte lightly swats my shoulder. “No, silly. You need a night out. Blow off some steam, have a drink, let loose. What kind of music do you like?”

My shoulders rise and fall with effort. My head has been throbbing all afternoon after dealing with that tragedy of a photoshoot, and it shows little sign of easing. “I don’t know. I like everything, I guess, but I don’t know if music is the answer.”

Charlotte’s green eyes dance with delight. “Sure it is. There’s this amazing little dive bar across town. They always have the best up and coming bands. You should go and dance away your drama.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, running a finger down my tender arm. “I’m pretty beat. This week has been hell.”

“Nonsense, Morgan May! You’re made of tougher stuff than that,” Charlotte insists, pumping her fist with enthusiasm. “I’d meet you out but I have a meeting with—” She cuts herself off abruptly, eyes going wide as she bites down hard on her lip to stop herself from spilling whatever secret meeting she’s trying to hide.

The truth, however, is obvious to me. Had I thought Charlotte would be gone from Hanson’s agency within the month? Make that within the week.

“You’re in talks to be signed somewhere else, aren’t you?” I ask softly, already bracing myself for the answer.

Charlotte bites her lower lip again, clearly contemplating lying. In the end, she gives a short nod instead. “It’s not like Hanson isn’t a good agent,” she says, still struggling not to lie. “It’s just . . .”

“You don’t have to explain. He sent me to a fake photoshoot with a guy more interested in my boobs than in doing a real gig.”

Again, Charlotte nods before rifling through her purse and pulling out a slightly crumpled cocktail napkin. “This is the place. They always have a great band. Have you heard of the Rasping Sallies? They’re playing tonight and they’re total badass bitches.”

“I don’t know . . .” I start to repeat, but I know Charlotte is right. I could use a drink and a second or two to unwind after all the failed auditions this week. “I guess it couldn't hurt.”

And it was Friday. That meant I could invite my roommate, Stacy. We could both use a night on the town. Maybe that was just what I needed to clear my head and get ready for a brand-new week of go-sees.

“That’s the spirit. Now I’ve got places to be. If all goes well maybe I’ll meet you out to celebrate.” Charlotte winks at me before heading out of the bathroom, the heavy door swinging shut behind her.

I’m left staring at myself in the mirror, inspecting my blonde locks. They tumble over my thin shoulders. I do half a twirl, inspecting myself from head to toe. “You’re beautiful,” I remind myself quietly, though the eyes that are gazing back at me look less than convinced. “Your time will come,” I add, though I can’t help the small, “hopefully,” that squeaks out after.

Turning my back on the aspiring model in the mirror, I dial my roommate’s number.

“Hey Morgan!” Stacy’s cheerful voice answers. I can hear the shrill cries of the cluster of seven-year-old’s she’s tutoring after her college courses are done for the day. “I’m done here in like ten minutes. Can I call you back?”

“Not necessary,” I say. “Just meet me on the corner of Dunst and Brook when you get off. We’re going out.”

“Uh, okay . . .” Stacy slowly answers, not one to turn down a Friday out despite her bookish nature. “Is everything okay?”

I lean back against the counter of the bathroom. Brushing a thumb over the logo on the bar napkin Charlotte gave me. I give a faint nod that Stacy can’t see. “It will be,” I whisper, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

Chapter 3

Eric

By the time we’re hustling off the stage for a brief intermission in our performance, my heart is racing and every hair on my body is standing on edge. Excitement pulses through me, spurred on by each cheer of the crowd. Just like I thought, they only needed half a song before they realized we’re the real deal.

We have all of fifteen minutes to chug as much water and whiskey as we can before we jump back onto the stage for our last set of the night. I prop Camilla against the table as James, Alex, and I reach for red plastic cups. I chug a beer before rubbing my sleeve against my damp forehead while Alex pours whiskey in the plastic cups.

Two shots later and my veins still throb with adrenaline. The last forty minutes of our show plays on a loop in the back of my mind. Notes I hit, ones I could’ve hit better, a few mental notes to tell Alex to work on with the rhythm. There’s as much to boast about as there is to work on, especially with that big show coming up. Sure, we’re playing fine right now, but we’ve got to be absolutely flawless by then.

Donovan always teases me about constantly being with my band, but he has no idea how hard we actually work, or what it takes to catch a break. Donovan was lucky. He struck gold early in his career and he’s soared ever since. He’s never had to struggle the way I have.

My thoughts are interrupted by the same severe-faced bar owner from earlier. His eyes are slightly less bored now. He must’ve listened to us play. Pride curves a smile across my jaw. Our music really has been banging tonight.

“This came for you,” he says, holding a box in his arms.

The box is simple, wrapped in brown parchment paper and a red bow. I eye it uncertainly until the man thrusts it into my hands when he tires of holding it. I jostle it back and forth, spilling my beer until I set it down and slowly begin to pull the paper off until I reveal a bottle of silver tequila that’s probably more expensive than all the band’s equipment.

With a low whistle, the bar owner gives a slight nod of admiration. “That’s some high-quality stuff.”

I roll my eyes, earning an even more curious look from the guy.

“Not a fan of tequila?” he asks, palms clearly itching to take the bottle off me if that’s the case.

“It’s not that,” I grumble. “Let me guess, this is from Donovan Dunn?”

He nods. “It was delivered just a few minutes ago. He’s got some good taste. That tequila is the real deal. I never carry stuff like that here. All anyone orders is the cheap stuff.”

I take in the glistening, clear liquid inside the bottle. Though I’m disappointed my billionaire best buddy is trying to buy my forgiveness because he bailed on me tonight, it’s not like I’m going to let tequila this grand go to waste.

“So,” I start slowly, eyeing the bar owner, “you like tequila?”

Again, the man nods. Perfect. Wet his whistle with this stuff and he’ll be recommending our band to everyone who will listen.

“Logan,” Mick’s southern drawl interrupts as the announcer quickly approaches. I’m relieved to be reminded of the bar owner’s name before embarrassing myself having to ask him again. “I don’t care how much the crowd likes this band, I am not staying for three more encores like I did last time. You never pay me when I stay extra—”

Logan holds up a hand, cutting Mick off, his eyes never leaving the expensive tequila bottle. “I’ll give you whatever you want, Mick, but you’re walking away right now,” he snaps.

Mick arches an eyebrow but nods, finally seeming to notice me standing there. He appraises me coolly then shrugs. “Nice show,” he calls as he walks away.

For some reason, I get the feeling that’s a distinct compliment coming from him.

“About that tequila?” Logan urges when Mick vanishes back around the curtain to entertain the audience a bit more while the minutes of our intermission tick slowly away.

“Here’s to you, Logan. And many more shows at your bar.”

He answers with a smirk, the first hint of a smile I’ve seen on his face tonight. “Reggie was right about you guys. You’re the real deal, just like this tequila.”

Chuckling, I clink the plastic cup against Logan’s. I drink deeply before he gives a faint cough and rifles something out of his back pocket. I savor the taste of the expensive booze, almost startled by just how smooth it is. Then again, Donovan only buys the best.

“Here,” Logan says, withdrawing an envelope from his back pocket and holding it out toward me. “This came too. I almost forgot.”

I take it, noticing my name written on the front in familiar handwriting.

It’s funny, the ways both Donovan and I have changed over the years. We’ve known one another since elementary school, becoming fast friends in our youth. Even as our paths began to diverge as we grew older, we still managed to hold a friendship together. While he was growing a successful business that brought him billions, I formed a rock band in my garage. It might not have brought me quite the same profit as Donovan’s business, but at least I could be bothered to show up and support my friends when they needed it.

As much as we’ve both changed, our handwriting styles are still the same. While mine is wild and scrawling, his is as neat as a typewriter.

“Are you going to open it?” Logan asks idly, his eyes interested.

Frowning, I glide my thumb under the seal of the letter and pop it open. Always a fan of showing off, Donovan had gone the extra mile and sealed the note with one of those wax dots like he’s some great empire’s monarch or something.

Typical . . . and kind of badass too.

The note is a short one, which I’m grateful for. I only have moments before I have to rush out onto the stage again.

“Easy E,” Donovan printed neatly. I could all but hear him chuckling with the use of my elementary school nickname. I’d gotten it from my easy attitude and tendency to chase after girls with the determination I should’ve put toward my studies. It’s a habit I’ve yet to shake.

What can I say? I love the ladies. All of them.

Donovan didn’t use the nickname regularly. He must be feeling pretty guilty about not showing up today. My eyes dart down impatiently to the bottom of the note.

“Leave them wanting more,” Donovan concluded simply.

It was a familiar statement coming from him. He liked to throw it in my face when I was chasing a girl around like a puppy. He always said I tried too hard to impress people, and that if I just reeled it back a bit, I’d have them chasing me instead. But what does he know? He has everything he’s ever wanted.

Irritated, I roll my eyes and toss the letter in a nearby garbage, pouring Logan and myself another shot. I make this one a double.

“I’d ask you if you’re warmed up, but I already know the answer to that,” Logan teases lightly as we clink our plastic cups together one last time.

Without a word, I chug the alcohol, letting it dull my disappointment. I should’ve known Donovan wouldn’t make it. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, but it is. I always show up when he needs me. For once it would be nice to have someone in the crowd just for me, especially in a venue where the people had been expecting someone else.

“You ready to rock, Eric King?” Alex asks, bright eyes glowing with the comforted sheen of alcohol.

I would’ve been worried about his playing had I not already known all three of us play better plastered. It made us loose enough to truly feel the music.

“Hell yeah! Let’s pound out some tunes and then some ladies.” James interjects with a whoop. His cynical detachment has been dissolved by his time at the bar.

I nod in agreement trying to muster up some enthusiasm, but Donovan’s words still remain etched in the back of my mind. Something about it stays with me, curling like icy claws around my stomach.

All my life I’ve chased my emotions away with alcohol. It was easier to avoid my painful past and just be the fun guy my friends expected. So what if I spent my time chasing women and this music dream of mine? But maybe Donovan is right. What do I have to show for it? Maybe it’s time to change.

This is my first real step toward being a rockstar. If that’s really my dream, maybe I need to stop falling over every single pretty girl that glances my way. Maybe I need to put down the bottle and face my fears. Maybe that’s what’s been holding me back all along.

Chapter 4

Morgan

Stacy’s arm is hooked around mine as we push our way toward the bar at the front of the seedy rock venue. I’ve never been in a place like this. The closest I’ve come was when I did a photoshoot where I had to dance around on a bar Coyote Ugly style. On the shoot the grunge atmosphere had been manufactured, but here every layer of grit is authentic. Strangely, I kind of liked it—the dim lights and the thud of the music pounding through the speakers. I let it slither under my skin and drive away the stress of my day, making my hips sway without effort.

My roommate and I are entirely out of place amongst the sea of dark shirts, ripped jeans and leather jackets—not that I mind standing out. The more attention I get, the better. I like to feel eyes on me. I like to feel like I’m the center of attention and the life of the party. The way we’re dressed, we’re definitely getting our share of curious looks.

Stacy is dressed in her usual prim cardigan that screams teacher-in-training, while I’m in a floaty miniskirt and a white gossamer blouse with open shoulders and billowy sleeves that connect at my wrists. It’s what I’d worn to my pervy photoshoot earlier and it’s one of my favorite outfits. Though part of me wanted to toss it in my apartment’s fireplace, I’d chosen instead to rock it at this bar that Charlotte suggested in the hopes that the memory of earlier would fade.

We finally reach the bar and the bartender leans over the counter, one dark eyebrow arching as he inspects our outfits.

“Two shots, hardest stuff you got,” I shout, glaring at him and daring his eyes to wander down the front of my nearly translucent shirt. Though I like attention, I don’t like to be ogled. There’s a stark difference between appreciation and aggression. “The cheaper the better,” I add, internally noting the lack of funds in my bank account.

“You sure?” the bartender asks, visibly taken aback by my request. “We’ve got some real cheap stuff back here. It’ll grow hair on your chest, lady.”

I lean over the bar toward him, my elbows brushing the slightly sticky surface. “Do I look like I’m not sure?”

A slow grin spreads over the bartender’s face. With a nod, he holds up one of his hands in surrender while he grabs his cocktail shaker with his other.

“Don’t bother to chill them,” I bark, feeling bossy.

“Um, or do?” Stacy pipes up, quieting when I turn my death glare toward her. “Never mind . . .” she mumbles with a faint pout on her full lips.

She hooks her arm around mine again, pulling me toward her so that I can hear her voice over the music playing through speakers. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I’m just thirsty.”

I turn away from Stacy, not wanting her to push me for more. The stage is empty though the red curtain occasionally flutters back and forth as people walk behind it. I’d heard live music playing as we approached on the sidewalk. I guess we’d missed it by a hair. Hopefully the band will be back on the stage soon. Charlotte had promised some good music and I needed an excuse to dance away my drama, as she put it. Plus, a stiff drink and some loud music was always my preferred method of destressing.

“Morgan?” Stacy asks, giving me a gentle squeeze. “What’s got you all worked up?”

When I don’t answer right away, she begins self-consciously tugging at her tan cardigan. I can tell by her face that she wishes she’d gone home to change before coming out in her teaching gear.

She doesn’t notice the eyes of the other guys wandering over toward her, drinking in the sight of her like they’re drinking in their cocktails. We stick out, making everybody else interested. Funnily enough, instead of enjoying the idea of being marveled at, I find that I’m annoyed instead. Though I’d been hoping a night out would be just what I needed to blow off some steam and relax, I find myself getting more worked up instead. I want to tell each and every man looking our way to shove off. The last thing I want is another guy’s attention after that perv of a fake photographer tried to feel me up earlier.

Normally, I tell Stacy everything, but at this moment I’m just not ready to deal with my life. I feel like a failure, like I’m never going to be a successful model, like my life will be endless car shows and fake studio shoots.

Though I know Stacy probably won’t leave it alone, I still offer her a vague answer. “I had a bad day,” I settle on saying artlessly.

“I guessed as much,” Stacy answers, unimpressed.

Frowning at me, she thanks the bartender as he passes us the shots. He’s overpoured them, giving us doubles instead of the singles I’d requested. I’m not quite ready to speak to another man kindly yet, but I do my best to soften the edge of my expression so that I look at least partially grateful for the extra booze.

He winks as though he did me a favor, accepting a few bills that Stacy thrusts into his hand before he turns toward other waiting people at the bar.

“Now,” Stacy orders, lifting her shot up toward me, “we’re going to drink this and then you’re going to tell me what made today so bad.”

Even under the dim lights, I can see that the liquid in our shot glasses is tinted a yellow that makes my tongue prickle, like it does before I eat sour candy. I can tell this shot is going to hurt, but I’m so damn ready for it. A hangover is a welcome improvement over how I feel right now.

“I’m just so over men!” I grumble before I can help it, still holding my shot midair. “I’m never dating again. I’m done. I’ll be single forever just so I don’t have to deal with guys anymore. They’re all the same, undignified and womanizing.”

Stacy just giggles when I finish my rant, clearly unconvinced. She doesn’t speak, choosing instead to smile at me.

“No, you don’t get it, Stacy. I mean it this time!”

“I’m sure you do,” she finally offers sympathetically. “To no more men.”

“Cheers,” I say lifting my glass toward my lips as Stacy follows suit.

Behind me, music begins to play from the stage as the band finally returns. I listen to those first few thuds of the drums before guitar chords fly toward me like invisible arrows. Each one hits its mark, making my spine straighten and my lungs freeze.

Slowly, I start turning toward the remarkable music just as a deep and gruff voice swells through the air. Even though I’ve never believed I was all that into rock music, the skin of my bare shoulders explodes with goose bumps like I’ve just tumbled feet first into a winter stream. The burn of the cheap shot stings my lips, but I barely feel it. I’m too entranced by the soulful voice piercing my heart.

A lone beam of light illuminates him, the shot glass slipping from between my fingers. I don’t hear it clatter against the floor. I am entirely, completely, irresistibly, drawn toward the man singing on the stage. I feel as though I can’t even control my body, like the dance is winding its way out of my soul.

He sways to the beat, a red guitar in his large hands. The spotlight glows upon his toned body, his head tilted back just slightly so that he can sing from the very bottom of his heart.

I’ve never heard anyone with a voice like that.

“I wonder if he’s Sally,” I whisper numbly, making Stacy stare at me in utter bewilderment.

“What?” she asks, but her voice melts away behind me, fading into the background.

All I can hear is his beautiful voice.

His gaze sweeps over the writhing bodies of the crowd as he rocks back and forth, expertly strumming the red guitar in his hands. I can’t help but to wonder what else those hands are capable of. Then, like I’m a magnet and he’s a steel bar, he finds me. Our eyes suddenly lock in the most intense way. My breath is frozen in my lungs, my blood boiling in my veins, my heart pounding to his music.

I keep expecting him to look away, but he never does.

My feet pull me toward the stage. His voice slowly quiets, earning confused looks from the other two men on the stage. He continues to stare at me, his jaw dropping just slightly. I can no longer hear the beat of the drums. I can no longer see anything but his dark eyes. Those black irises are deep and endless pools with something hidden within them. Something I must discover.

Something about this handsome man resonates in my heart. Something beyond the fact that he’s a sexy rock god. It doesn’t help that he’s just my type, the absolute personification of tall, dark, and dangerous. Tattoos curl up the tan skin of his arms, making me want to see more. I glide closer to the stage, my feet on a mission.

The other two members of the band stop playing when their lead singer goes silent. I don’t want this song to end. I want more. I need it.

“Please,” I whisper, as though I’m saying it right into his ear. “Don’t stop.”

Chapter 5

Eric

I’ve seen many beautiful women.

They’ve wandered in and out of my life, falling into my bed for a night or rarely two. That’s just part of being a musician. They come creeping out of the woodwork, desperate to cling to you and who you may become if your guitar leads you straight to the fame. Some women drop their panties at the first cord, sure it will lead to status and money. But not her. I can tell she’s different.

Never in all of my life have I seen a woman like her.

She stands there like a queen among peasants, like a glowing star among black skies, like a beautiful rose among thorns. No woman has ever caught my gaze like this. Though I’m known to my friends as a woman chaser, I’ve never once found myself shocked into silence in the middle of a performance just from one look into a pair of eyes so gorgeous they make my entire body feel like I’m holding a live wire.

Music has always been my first love, the only thing I’ve ever been devoted to, and I’m not sure that my band knows quite what to do now that my jaw has hit the stage floor and my eyes are all but popping out of my skull at the sight of the blonde bombshell in the crowd.

She’s all legs wrapped in a sheer white shirt that makes her look like an angel—an unbearably sexy angel that could seduce every last crumb of food from a starving man. She may not have wings, but she sure does make me feel like I’m flying.

Among the dancing bodies, the woman stands perfectly still and I find myself unable to blink, terrified that if I do she may disappear. Surely a girl like this must be at least partially a hallucination. Maybe that tequila Donovan sent me was laced with something. Maybe I died up here on this stage and she’s here to collect my soul.

If that’s the case, she can have me.

She’s absolutely smoking, her golden hair reflecting the pulsing overhead lights as they revolve over the twisting crowd. Though the bar is dingy and packed, she glows like a pure beacon of light.

Faintly, I hear James and Alex struggling to carry on the music, but I can’t bring myself to care about anything but staring at the gorgeous girl before me. I find myself thinking she belongs on a runway in Europe.

So what the hell is she doing in a place like this?

This girl could have anyone she wants. I bet all she has to do is wink at a guy and they fall at her feet, clinging to her ankles and begging to do her bidding. It’s all I can do not to leap off this stage right now and do just that.

And she’s looking right at me.

Just the sight of her makes my throat go so tight that I know I can’t sing another note. As we gaze at one another, the room spinning around us so fast that everyone else completely disappears from view, her stunned expression slowly changes. A frown finds her lush lips and it makes my heart ache. I don’t want her to be unhappy. I’ll do anything to make a smile light her face again.

Her chin tips up as her lips slowly begin to move, forming simple words that ripple through me like ten thousand volts of electricity. Just like that, I remember that I’m standing on this stage for a reason. I’m here to sing, and now I have a muse in the audience who I can sing directly to.

Words slowly rise up in the back of my mind, words that I penned for no one, but now seem only to fit the young Kate Moss lookalike in front of me. This song wasn’t supposed to come until later in the set, but I have to sing it now, just for her.

“You’re like a dream,” I croon, making James and Alex clumsily shift gears as they catch up to the song change, abandoning the last one before it was finished. The crowd is slightly confused by the change, but willing to adapt.

I belt out the next verse. “You make me want to scream . . .”

Slowly, my muse begins to move to the beat. Her eyes remain locked on mine, her hands slowly snaking over her waist and then up her ribs.

Sweat forms on the nape of my neck, my fingers taut against the guitar strings. “I’ve never wanted anything so bad,” I gasp into the mic, the words raw with meaning as the woman’s hands trail delicately over the curves of her breathtaking body.

What I wouldn’t give to touch her, to feel her supple shape beneath my hands. I have wanted and I have lusted, but it’s never felt like this. I’m so captivated by this girl that it takes all my resolve not to drop Camilla and leap off the stage to take this sexy mystery woman into my arms. I bet she tastes like strawberries and champagne or hell, I don’t know, something fancy and bittersweet. Whatever her taste, I know it’s intoxicating, more so than any wine or liquor, because I’m drunk just looking at her.

“Give me your heart, baby, and your body too,” I sing, squeezing my guitar against my body the way I want to hold her.

She lifts her hair over her head, shimmering strands of gold spilling over her face as she dances. With her eyes gazing so deeply into my own, it’s like she can see right into my soul, like every inch of me is hers for the taking, and I would let her take me. All of me. Anything she wants.

Camilla swings down toward my hips as I grab the mic in both hands, pulling it closer to my mouth. My lips brush against the rough curve of the metal, making me ache even more for those glossed lips of hers.

She does a slow spin, her arms still over her head, her beautiful hips swaying back and forth so that the short fabric of her skirt sways teasingly.

I bite hard at my lip, unable to resist anymore. Whoever this girl is, I need her. More than food, than water, than air . . . all that matters is her.

Chapter 6

Morgan

My body moves of its own accord, my lower lip delicately ensnared under my two front teeth as I dance. Even though I’m used to attention from others, I don’t normally dance like this. But there’s something about the way that he’s singing and the way that I’m moving that feels so right, so . . . intimate. Like our souls are connected by a livewire that neither one of us can truly grasp.

Nothing matters except sharing this moment.

I am not a woman who believes in love at first sight or that such a deep connection can be formed so instantly, but I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the depth of this bond I feel with this handsome mystery man. I know nothing about him other than he has the most beautiful, soulful eyes and a voice that seizes my heart.

It has nothing to do with him being on a stage or the spotlight swathing him in golden light or the people cheering for him, and everything to do with the way he seems unable to break his gaze from mine. In one moment, I feel that he truly sees me, the way no one else ever has before. And all I want is to bathe in his gaze forever.

The heat of his eyes on my body makes me feel bare and beautiful. I can feel him mentally peeling back the layers of my clothing as I dance. My fingers play with the hem of my shirt, lifting it just slightly up over my belly button, exposing tan flesh that I want so badly for him to touch.

His eyes remain locked on me as though his words are only meant for my ears even though the small rock bar is gridlocked with bodies. His voice has drawn them in, each person eager to find the source of his alluring voice.

The crowd comes alive around me, twisting and moving faster with each perfect strike of drums. It’s as though we’re all sharing the same breath, as we sway to the rhythm making my heart pound faster against my ribs.

“You make me wanna do bad things, baby,” he crones in that effortlessly deep voice of his as the drum takes off into a solo, making the crowd go wild with excitement, but I’m just dying to hear more of his voice.

I couldn’t care less for the drummer or the man playing the bass, all I want is more of him—my mystery rocker god.

His head bobs slightly with the beat as the bass player edges forward, his fingers flying over his instrument so quickly they seem to blur. I can feel the singer’s dark eyes still locked on me, following the swirl of my hips as I rock back and forth to the song. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly graceful, even for a model, but the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m the one on stage—and I love it.

I’d dance for him forever just so that he never had to look away.

No one else seems to notice the way we can’t take our eyes off each other. It’s like we’re the only two people in this bar. I soak up his interest like a sponge, allowing the warmth of his hungry gaze to wash away the memory of my terrible day. While I’d been desperate to shake away the remnants of my wannabe photographer, when it comes to the rock god, I can’t get enough of his gaze. He can look all he wants.

Suddenly, he’s moving.

Light refracts off his swinging guitar and the muscles of his lean body are briefly illuminated by the overhead lights as he bends down on the edge of the stage in one fluid motion. The crowd gasps as he crouches, his hand extending toward me. I freeze in confusion, watching as the crowd parts like the Red Sea as the rocker beckons me.

Startled, I simply stare at his outstretched palm, my hands still in my hair, my hips still mid-sway.

“Come up here,” he says, his voice husky with something beyond the strain of singing all night. “Come dance with me.”

A need seeps through his voice, planting itself somewhere deep in my core. Now isn’t the time for doubt. All I’d wanted was to be closer to this man and now I finally have my chance.

Hastily, I let my palm fall against his. His fingers are coarse as they wrap around mine, drawing me toward him. His tattooed hands wrap around my small waist with a strength that leaves me trembling. Effortlessly, he lifts me onto the stage so that I’m standing at his side, his fingers gripping my hip in a way that makes me bite back a moan.

“Do you like the music?” he whispers into my ear, the drummer and bass players still reveling in their solos.

When I nod, he lifts my hand over my head to spin me around to the tune of the song. I twirl easily on the silver heel of my stiletto so that my back is facing him. He tucks my spine against his chiseled abs, his arm draping around my waist. He finds my hips again, daring fingers skimming the skin just below my shirt. I bend just slightly to the side, allowing him as much access to my flesh as he could want.

There’s just something irresistible about this guy. I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never wanted anything like I want him to touch me, to whisper in my ear, to hold me.

“You’re a good dancer,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath tickling the lobe of my ear. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you out there.”

When I try to respond, that same moan gurgles up in the back of my throat and I have to bite down hard on my lip, choosing to nod rather than risk speaking, though he probably wouldn’t even hear my lustrous sounds over the raging crowd.

I glance out over the people below the stage, just barely registering Stacy in her cardigan sipping from a neon blue martini at the bar. She winks when she realizes I’ve spotted her, lifting her glass playfully toward me and hiding a sly grin.

Then my attention is again drawn back to the man swaying behind me when his palm presses against my stomach so that my hips grind back against his. Our bodies seem to fit perfectly together, my eyes pressing shut as his hand slides over the smooth flesh of my hip, playing tauntingly with the hem of my skirt.

He knows just what he’s doing, I realize. He’s teasing me . . . and it’s working. My body feels so hot that I can hardly breathe and when I crack open my eyes, everything seems to glow a passionate red.

Just before I’m about to beg him to strip me despite all these people watching, he again lifts my hand and twirls me so that I dizzily crash against his chest once more. His hand is firm to keep me steady. My breath catches in my throat, chest rising and falling in a shallow pant of desire.

Up close, his eyes are even more mesmerizing, the dark irises freckled with silver. I gaze into them, wishing that I never had to stop.

That same magnetic pull from earlier ignites in my blood and I lean up onto my toes at the same time his face descends toward mine. Our mouths crash, my arms slipping around his neck to draw me closer to him. His guitar knocks against my side, but I don’t care. All that matters is him and me and this moment—a moment that’s over all too soon when the music begins to change to a new song.

Only then do we part, my lips left swollen and bruised, my lungs gasping for air. He grins down at me, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip as though he were savoring the taste of me.

I can feel the expectant stares of his band before he slowly moves to help me off the stage once more. Every inch I edge away from him is painful. Before I can take a full step away, his hand shoots out again to grab mine, pulling me toward him. His mouth brushes my ear, his words so soft I have to strain to hear. “After the show, meet me backstage,” he insists, not leaving room for an argument I never would’ve been able to give.

While I’m left stumbling and dazed, he lifts his guitar once more for their final song, leaving me wondering if I’d just dreamt up that entire interaction.

As terrible as this week had been, suddenly things are a whole lot better.

How could they not be after that kiss?

Chapter 7

Eric

“Dude, that was the best show we’ve ever played!” Alex exclaims, taking another swig from a flask that I suspect he’s gotten refilled at the bar.

We’ve all taken turns passing it around until my toes are tingling and my fingers are numb—just the way I like it.

“We totally killed it out there,” James adds. “Those people were going crazy. I bet we’re gonna have shows lined up for months after this.”

Still dazed from my encounter with the beautiful blonde, I give a distracted nod while trying to pretend to be interested in what my bandmates are saying. In reality, all I can think about is that kiss!

Though it’d been fleeting, it was like a sucker punch to the gut. Every inch of me is still yearning for her.

As I’d expected, she tasted as divine as she looked. Lyrics already begin swirling in my mind as I think of her. A shiver rolls up my spine, my lips dry and tongue thick with desire. I’ve never felt anything like this, not in all my time as a flirtatious Casanova.

“I know, right?” Alex says in agreement, pausing to shoot a grin at me that barely penetrates the haze of my lust. “Even with you almost bailing at the end there. What was up with that? A pretty girl caught your eye, Easy E?”

The nickname irritates me, but I put on a forced smile anyway. If I argue with them, they’re just going to lay it on even thicker. “Would you expect anything else?” I smirk, playing my part.

To be honest, I’m counting the seconds until I can push them out of the dressing room so I can meet my gorgeous mystery girl. My entire body feels off, like I left part of it behind with her when I had to let her back off the stage. I hadn't wanted to. In fact, I could’ve played the rest of the show with her in my arms, but I know it would’ve pissed off my band.

My muse had stood there for just a moment longer to watch me start the last song, her eyes churning like blue fire over high cheekbones, before she vanished into the crowd. I blinked and she was gone. Hopefully my mysterious angel hadn't fluttered off to some distant cloud. If she doesn’t come to my room tonight, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to recover.

Being this hung up on a girl isn’t my style, but then again, she isn’t just any girl. I don’t know anything about her but I can already tell that I’ve got it bad. Whoever she is, she might be the one for me.

I’d give up just about anything to touch her one more time, to feel her sigh as my fingers brush over her skin.

The dressing rooms here aren’t much, just small, closet-sized spaces that Logan’s bar lets the bands use for the night. One perk of playing the venue, I suppose.

I technically have to share it with the boys, but I’m counting on them wanting to go to the bar and schmooze with some potential fans after the show.

“I bet that girl is gonna post all about this online,” Alex adds, a devilish glint in his eye. “Maybe someone took a video and it’ll go viral or something.”

“A video of me dancing with a girl isn’t gonna go viral,” I mutter irritably, glancing at my watch and wishing they would leave.

“Wanna go celebrate?” James asks, prodding me. “Logan said he’s gonna hook us up at the bar. I guess sharing some tequila with you softened him up.”

“Yeah, I’ll meet ya there,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to come up with a realistic reason to hang back. I’m the hardest partier out of the three of us, and that’s saying something. “I, uh, just need a minute here first. You know, to decompress and make some notes about the show.”

“Seriously?” Alex asks suspiciously. “This is the best show we’ve ever played, man! It’s time to celebrate.”

My lips part then press shut again like a goldfish stuck on dry land as I rack my brain trying to come up with a decent excuse. While I’m floundering, my bandmates exchange a look before James bursts into laughter.

He shakes his head. “You dog. You asked her to come to the dressing room, didn't you?”

Alex laughs. “That’s our Easy E!” he crows. “Can you imagine how much fun we’re gonna have once we get our big break and start touring? Every night is gonna be like this. We’ll have more women than we can handle.”

James whoops and claps me on the back. “Yeah, but still never as many as Easy E, here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I answer tersely. “Now get out of here.”

The two guys bumble out of the dressing room, laughing and passing the flask back and forth on their way to the bar. The second the door swings shut, I burst into action. The first order of business is to put the expensive tequila Donovan gifted me in an ice bucket after taking a healthy sized swig or three—just enough so that the buzz I’ve started to sweat out while playing is reignited.

Alcohol simmers in my veins, my eyes darting constantly toward the door.

Will my angel really come?

Just as I’m tossing a few pillows onto the couch, a light tapping resounds against the wooden door. I suck in a breath, counting to three before rushing over so it doesn’t seem like I’m waiting on bated breath for her to arrive. Before answering, I smooth my hands through my dark hair and tug at my shirt, wishing I’d taken ten seconds to freshen up. But this sexy woman isn’t going to wait around. With any luck she likes the look of a man who’s just spent three hours rocking his soul out on stage.

When she knocks one more time, a faint hesitation to the sound, I quickly pull the door open. It’s her!

The woman standing before me is painfully gorgeous. Even though I already knew how beautiful she was, seeing her here in the bar’s back hallway instead of under the heat of the spotlights takes her beauty to a whole new level.

It literally makes my eyes ache to gaze at her. It’s the same feeling that I got when I was eight and Donovan dared me to stare up into the sun. I’d thought then that the dark swirly spots would never fade, but they had, only to be revived once more by the dazzling beauty before me.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other. My whole plan to play the smooth rockstar disappears in the wake of her arrival. I was going to sweep her inside with a passionate kiss, pour us some drinks, then serenade her before stripping her slowly, making sure my lips paid homage to every curve of her perfect figure. But now, standing before her, my mind feels as though it’s frozen.

“Hi,” she says softly, her voice smooth and delicate.

She even sounds like an angel!

Her eyes gleam, making my throat tighten.

“Hi,” I answer, uncaring that our first exchange isn’t the smoothest.

Had this been any other woman I would’ve been desperately attempting to come up with some silver-tongued line, but with my beautiful angel, there’s no need. There’s something effortlessly natural about the way we speak, like we both know our attraction is beyond words.

It’s refreshing and tantalizing all at once.

She glides into the room, with the most graceful steps I’ve ever seen, her eyes skimming the small space before locking back on me. Her full, pouty lips press together into a light smile, making lust bloom in my soul. She’s taking gorgeous to dangerous levels.

“Want some?” I ask, flicking a hand toward the tequila bottle on ice.

“Yes,” she answers, though I can tell it isn’t the booze she wants . . . it’s me.

I pull her toward me and she melts against my chest, my arms locking around her, my lips desperately seeking hers. In an instant I’m lifting her off her feet so her ankles can twine around me. Her fingers knot in my hair, her teeth grazing my lower lip as pure, carnal desire rushes through my veins.

The kiss deepening, I stumble forward, our bodies collapsing on the sofa. In a desperate haze, my belt is undone and her skirt is bunched up over her hips. Then, with just a sliver of boiling air separating our bodies, time seems to slow to a halt.

“I want you,” she breathes against my lips, her hands still twisted in my hair.

The simple sentence is enough to almost undo me right there.

Chapter 8

Morgan

“Let me help you . . .” he whispers huskily in my ear as I fumble with my skirt, my hands shaking with ecstasy.

His eyes are half closed, his voice drowsy with fatigue, though I’m sure I must look equally dazed. The flush of amazing sex still warms my skin, tinting it crimson.

Every time I blink the room seems to swirl, not because of the shot I’d had with Stacy earlier, but because I’ve yet to be freed from the euphoric haze of the most intense orgasm I’ve ever experienced. Not one single time has a man been so attentive to my needs.

My rock god had been dogged in his pursuit of my ecstasy, and now I don’t think I’ll be walking straight for a month. I know when I close my eyes, I’ll be reliving those blissful moments over and over again. It’s going to color my dreams crimson for weeks, and I’ll feel the pressure of his fingertips over my body for even longer.

I gaze up at him, basking in the glow of pleasure in his eyes as the faintest hint of a smile graces his handsome mouth. I still don’t know anything about him. We didn’t waste time sharing personal details and the last thing I want to do now is ruin this moment by pressing for any. I need this heavenly haze to last and that means it’s time to go.

Every girl knows it’s best to leave them wanting more.

Strong fingers hook under my thighs as he falls to his knees in front of me. He’s still shirtless but his pants grace his hips again, though the button remains undone giving me a tantalizing view. My eyes follow the wisp of dark curling ink that disappears beneath his rock-hard abs, making a tremor of desire quake through me once more.

He reaches for the bottle of tequila, taking a healthy swig before offering me the bottle. I politely shake my head. He sets the bottle down and smooths my skirt over my thighs though his hands linger, his dark eyes peering through equally dark lashes at me.

I bite the corner of my mouth, my head tilting back as I collapse against the arm of the couch. He pulls me toward him, his lips grazing mine with another kiss that leaves me breathless.

“If you keep doing this, we’re never going to get out of here,” I whisper, startled by the seductive throatiness of my voice.

“Maybe that’s what I want,” he answers playfully.

He grins and reaches for the bottle of tequila again, taking another swig straight from the bottle. The question of his identity almost rises up my throat but I swallow it. I can look him up later without seeming clingy. I’ve been in the dating world long enough to know that you can’t lay all your cards on the table at once. I mean, sure, my old roommate Chloe did, and she got lucky, but lightning doesn’t strike twice.

Manhattan is a man-eater, you have to play it careful and you have to play it coy to snag a guy like this.

If what he wants is an all-night fling, then I’m going to have to leave right now so that he can’t get me off his mind.

Instead of capturing that delicious tequila infused mouth of his again, I reach past him and grab a scrap of paper and pen off the table. I write my number and scrawl my name under the digits before setting it face down on the table.

“That’s my number,” I say simply, bending so close to his face that our noses brush and his chin tips reflexively toward my own. Though I want to kiss him more than anything, I somehow manage to resist. “Use it,” I whisper.

I stand up, step around him and head for the door.

I feel his eyes follow me the entire way. Walking out of this dressing room is the single hardest thing that I’ve ever had to do. Every inch of my body is craving one more kiss, one more touch, one more romp on that legendary sofa. But I stay strong and I keep my eyes focused forward as I leave. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that he wants me just as badly as I want him.

He’ll probably call before I even get home.

There’s no way he’ll let me get very far, not with the look of raw lust I saw in his eyes.

I slip outside, smiling to myself as I close the dressing room door behind me.

Outside the bar, I find Stacy waiting just where she promised. We push our way through the people on the sidewalk. She stumbles just slightly, clinging to me as we walk quickly away from the bar. After a minute or two, I look back over my shoulder, half hoping to see my hunky rockstar following me. Unfortunately, the sidewalk is empty of rock gods.

“So . . .” Stacy presses.

I only offer her a sly smirk.

“Oh my God!” she accuses. “You totally got it on with that guy, didn't you?”

My glowing grin is all the answer she needs.

“I knew it! The second I saw him I knew he was your type, all tall, dark and broody.” She rolls her eyes. “So much for your whole ‘woe is me, I hate all men stuff,’ huh?”

“He’s not all men.” I can’t help but sigh wistfully. “Stacy, you have no idea,” I whisper, shaking my head and trying to remember how to breathe. Just thinking about him makes me blush. “That was the most intense, most amazing, most wonderful thing I have ever experienced in my life.”

Stacy stops walking. “Wow, really?”

Nodding, I sigh again.

“Damn, what’s this Romeo’s name?” Stacy demands. “And does he possibly have a single brother?”

The question makes my dreamy grin turn to a grimace “Um . . . Actually, I have no idea. I didn't ask.”

“What? How could you forget to ask?” Stacy whips her head back toward the bar, squinting to read the band name off the marquee. “Huh, Rasping Sallies. He didn’t look like a Sally to me. You should’ve gotten his name, Morgan.”

I roll my eyes. “You know how it is. I didn't want to seem to clingy. We’d just hooked up, I didn’t want him to think I was stalking him like some kinda groupie.”

“By asking his name?”

I shrug. “I left my number. He can call me . . . which he will.”

Stacy shakes her head. “This is why I don’t date.”

I smile and squeeze her arm tighter while we walk. “I have a good feeling about this one.” A really good feeling.

The night air is warm as we walk. The breeze caresses my long blonde hair the same way my handsome musician had. When I close my eyes, I can still see his face, I can still feel his fingers locked with mine as he pinned my arms over my head . . .

A shiver rolls up my spine.

He’ll call me, I know he will, and the rest will be history.

I look around me, cataloging everything I can about tonight. I’ll want to tell our kids everything about the night I met their rockstar father. Well maybe not everything . . .

But I know a connection like this only happens once in a lifetime. And for the first time in a long time, I feel a genuine smile on my face and hope in my heart.

Chapter 9

Eric

The dressing room feels cold and empty without my beautiful angel in it. My body moves on its own, sagging heavily down against the arm of the faded sofa where our bodies rested only moments ago. I can still hear her soft moans in my ears and feel her fingernails running over my skin, making my still shirtless back erupt in goose bumps that leave every inch of me tingling.

I take another shot of tequila to dull the ache her absence has left me with. The booze blurs the edges of my mind, crippling tiredness creeping in like a storm. I fight against the tide of my exhaustion, desperate to know the name of the woman who left an imprint on my heart, but every move feels like I’m fighting against gravity.

In a haze, I twist slightly toward the note that she left, trying to imagine what her name might be. Despite my curiosity, I’m unable to convince my legs to move yet. Every inch of my body feels like it’s buzzing with euphoric energy thanks to the tequila and mind-blowing sex. I glance toward her note again, but in the end, I succumb to fatigue. I sag against the sofa and breathe in the lingering fragrance of her body as I fall asleep.

My dreams are haunted by her perfection. Everything about her is perfect, from her endlessly long legs to the delicacy of her moans to the way she bit the corner of her lip with slightly crooked top teeth. She’s so beautiful, though the word feels dull in comparison to her. I didn’t even know her name yet but I’m already sure it will inspire a thousand love songs.

* * *

Noise outside my dressing room rouses me, the taste of tequila stale on my breath.

How much time has passed?

I sit up and spot the note my angel left just as the door to my dressing room opens and James and Alex storm inside. Alex sweeps the room with intoxicated scrutiny as though he’s expecting my girl to be hiding somewhere while James saunters toward the tequila and pours himself a large glass. He takes one short sip, savoring it, then downs the cup before noticing the note and scooping it up.

“What’s this?” he crows with a cackle of delight. “Did Juliet leave her number for you, Romeo?”

“Juliet?” I ask dazedly. “Is that her name?”

Alex’s eyes flash. “You don’t even know her name?” he snorts. “Easy E strikes again!”

Both men laugh, elbowing each other in the ribs and passing the expensive bottle of tequila back and forth. Regaining movement in my legs, I stand up and shuffle toward them, reaching out a hand for my angel’s note.

“Let me have it,” I say trying to snatch the scrap of paper, but my movements are still lethargic and clumsy.

“Why?” Alex asks, taking it from James and folding it up so that it sits easily in his palm. Staring at me with defiant eyes, he curls his fingers around the note and I can hear the thin paper crumpling.

Hair lifts on the back of my neck in irritation and my fingers curl into fists. “Because I want it,” I answer quietly.

Alex and James exchange a look, sharing conspiratorial grins. Something cuts through my tequila haze, telling me to tread carefully. Too much interest and one of them will end up swallowing the tiny piece of paper just to spite me. Not enough and they might keep the note to call the gorgeous girl themselves.

Sometimes I forget why I spend so much time around these guys. They still act like we did in high school.

“You were gonna call her, weren’t you?” James clicks his tongue in disappointment. “You know that would make you seem desperate.”

“Totally desperate,” Alex adds.

“You gotta make her wait, E,” James preaches. “That’s the game, bro.”

Alex snorts. “What game? She’s way outta your league, E. I bet she texts ya back once, then ghosts ya—if you’re lucky.”

James nods in agreement, enjoying this moment a bit too much from the entertained glint in his glassy eyes. “Face it bro, you were some checkmark on a bucket list.”

“Yeah. She’s probably always wanted to bang a rockstar,” Alex teases.

“Who doesn’t?” James says raising another glass of tequila.

Alex clinks his flask against it. “To Easy E, the master of scooping up girls on stage.”

“I might have to steal that move, bro,” James adds attempting to be more considerate now that he looks envious that I’m the only one who managed to snag a woman to bring back to the dressing room.

Alex waves him off. “Nah, James is right. Don’t call her. You’ll only humiliate yourself.”

“I don’t care,” I respond before I can help it, making both of them cackling with laughter.

I know I’m not following my own advice of playing it cool, but I’m too drunk to care.

“You’re right,” I grumble. “She’s way out of my league and I have no idea why she was into me, but there was something there . . .” I trail off, unwilling to divulge the depth of the connection I felt with her.

When we were laying curled on that couch entwined in each other, chest-to-chest so that our hearts beat in perfect rhythm, all I could think about was how I wanted to lay there with her forever.

Neither of the two buffoons in front of me have ever felt even a sliver of that in their lives. Hell, neither had I before today. I would’ve been standing right there laughing with them had anyone else been in my shoes.

None of us ever seriously dated. The biggest taste of devotion we get is the occasional two-night stand between shows. Other than that, it’s one girl, one night, then never again.

However, the thought of not seeing my angel again feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

“Listen, E,” Alex says, unfurling the note in his hand and extending it toward me. He holds it delicately between two fingertips like he doesn’t actually want to touch it. “We’re bandmates, bros even and we care about each other, so I’m gonna do you a big old favor, okay?”

My shoulders lift and fall in relief, an invisible burden releasing my body. “Thanks,” I answer honestly. “That girl is perfection. If I mess this up—”

Before I can finish talking, a wily grin crosses Alex’s face as his gaze connects with James. In a flash, he hands the small scrap of paper to James who slips it into the bottle of tequila.

“No!” I roar, lunging for the bottle. But by the time it’s in my hands the note has nearly dissolved. The numbers vanish from the paper, nothing more than swirls of dark ink mixing with the clear liquid. Never again would the numbers fit back together the way they had before—just like my heart.

“What the hell?” I shout, unusual rage swelling in my voice as I take a lurching step toward my bassist.

I’ve always been the type to channel my emotions into my music rather than display them through aggression. Showing how I truly feel isn’t me. It’s not Easy E. But right now, I don’t know who I am anymore. Not with this kind of rage coursing through me.

James steps forward, a light hand clapping my shoulder though Alex’s smug grin from behind him makes me want to punch them both square in the jaw. “Like Alex said, we’re doing you a favor. Our big show is coming up. You don’t need to waste time caught up on a girl who won’t call you back. We need to focus.”

“Yeah,” Alex adds. “This is no time to get wifed up before our big break. You had your fun, now it’s time to put it behind you and focus on what’s important.”

James moves away, heading toward the door. Alex, still smugly smirking, follows close behind. “You’ll thank us later,” he assures me, though it’s all I can do not to fall to my knees and claw the ruined paper from the bottle even though I can already see it’s useless.

The ink has dissolved in the potent booze. My only choice now is to drown my sorrow with it. I pick up the bottle and take a long swig. The liquid tastes as potent as my anger.

Alone in the dark haze of the dressing room I have nothing left but my dashed hopes and the faint fragrance she left behind.

Chapter 10

Morgan

My heart is like an overfilled water balloon. It’s swollen and heavy and ready to burst.

“How many days has it been?” Stacy asks gently, patting my shoulder before pushing another cup of the terrible coffee she made toward me.

I groan, both with dramatic melancholy and from imagining what the bitter brew will do to my empty stomach. I drop my head into my hands, my elbows making the table wobble. One of the misshapen legs of our small kitchen table is propped up with an abandoned school book of Stacy’s so that it’s mildly level. Everything in our tiny apartment seems sadder than usual.

At the sound of the chipped mug moving across the table, I shake my head. “Four days!” I moan. “It’s been four whole days since he rocked my world. We both know what that means. He’s not going to call. He wants nothing to do with me.”

“Morgan,” Stacy croons, her tone motherly and warm. It’s probably the same one she uses to soothe her students. “He’s a musician, playing in different bars every night. What did you expect?”

“I know, but it felt so special!” I whine.

My voice is pathetic; it makes me cringe. I’m not naive, but I certainly sound that way right now.

I’d called Charlotte the morning after my whirlwind romance with my mystery musician, desperate to find out more information on the Rasping Sallies so I could track down my sexy rock god, but she didn’t know anything. Apparently, the Sallies was the band that was supposed to play at the dive bar. But my mystery guy’s band stepped in at the last minute and no one I spoke to at the bar knew anything about them since they didn’t handle the booking.

I’d been calling nonstop but I’d yet to find anyone who knew more. It was lucky I even managed to get someone to pick up the phone. The bar had odd hours and worse customer service than a cable company.

“Maybe he lost my number?” I suggest hopefully though the look on Stacy’s face speaks the truth. He didn’t lose it. He just never intended to use it.

All of a sudden, I’m back in high school, crushing on the varsity quarterback who’d slept his way through half the cheerleaders—all but me. Except instead of a football, this guy had a guitar, and everyone knows there’s nothing sexier than a man who knows how to pluck an instrument. But I’m still the loser in the story. The girl who makes a fool of herself. The girl who no one wants.

The band is probably laughing at me—if they even think of me at all.

“Did you write your number on a paper airplane or something?” Stacy teases.

When I heave another sigh all the way from the tips of my toes, she takes the cup of coffee she’d made for me and gives it a healthy gulp. She tries to disguise her shudder from the awful taste and decidedly pushes the mug away.

“Come here,” she says, taking my shoulders in her hands and sitting me upright.

Stacy smiles at me, trying to get me to return her sunny expression though I just stare at her with a sullen scowl on my face that will probably last until my next photoshoot.

What do I care? It’s not like I’m booking shoots anyway.

“Do you really want to hunt this guy down?” she asks. “Clearly, he’s not interested.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better!” I wail, tilting my head back in exasperation before I slouch back against the chair.

“I’m just saying he’s not worth your time. You’re Morgan May. You’re fierce and fabulous. You don’t chase men, they chase you.”

“Not lately,” I grumble.

“Morgan, don’t let this one jerk get you down.” Stacy squeezed my hand. “Besides, you don’t want to be with someone who can’t see how amazing you are.”

“I know . . .” I groan. “But did he really not feel the sparks?”

Had I imagined the magic between us?

As dramatic as I’m being, it truly felt like what we shared was special . . . like it was one of a kind . . . like fate. I let my head fall into my hands again. “Maybe I’m grasping at straws, but I really thought this time was different.”

Stacy observes me with disproving, eyes. “I thought you were over men?”

“That was before I met the man.”

Stacy blinks hard as though she’s trying not to roll her eyes. For a long moment she’s silent, probably debating between trying to body-shake some sense into me and remaining as patient as ever. She settles on patience. “I called Chloe,” she offers, patting my hand with only slight irritation.

My head snaps up. “What? Why?”

“Because, with the way you’ve been acting, I feel like I could use some backup. She’s coming over for a girls’ night. Pizza, drinks, you name it, we’ll have it. It’ll be just like old times before she moved in with her boyfriend.”

“Don’t say the word boyfriend!” I pout theatrically, even though I’m more than happy for Chloe and Donovan.

I’d only met him a few times, but he dotes on my friend and I can tell how happy she is.

Why can’t I have that?

Chloe’s room still sat empty in our apartment. Her billionaire boyfriend, the marketing mogul of Manhattan, paid for the room so we didn't have to rent it out to a stranger. It sorta made it hard not to like him, even if he did steal my friend.

At least Chloe occasionally came by to visit. And this way she still had a room when she wanted to spend a day or two here during emergencies such as this.

I should’ve been excited for a girls’ night with my best friends, but my missing mystery man was still dampening my spirits; not to mention my lacking career. “I have a car show next weekend, Stacy. Pizza and wine isn’t a good idea,” I grumble.

Since my photoshoots started falling through and I’d been getting hired less frequently, I’d gotten extremely careful about what I eat. Salads only. No croutons, no dressing, no cheese—no taste.

I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it someday . . . and it will, won’t it?

Stacy gives me a knowing smile, and even though I want to continue being childish and angry, it’s hard with her around. She’s so kind and giving. She’s going to make an amazing teacher one day. And an even better mom.

My mom’s face flashes through my memory and my heart hurts even worse. I push the thought away and focus on Stacy.

“Don’t you have classes?” I ask abruptly, stiffening and glancing toward the clock. “Oh no, you’re gonna be late!”

“I called in sick.”

“Why?”

“You needed me, Morgan,” she explains with a flippant grin despite the fact that I know it must be killing her not to be in school right now.

It isn’t like her to skip classes or to shirk her duties with the children she tutors. I must be really pathetic. And all this fuss over a man whose name I don’t even know and probably never will.

I sigh and sit up even though it feels like the gravity in this room is stronger than elsewhere on the planet. Every movement takes more effort than I have. “You don’t have to do all this. I’ll be fine, Stacy. Just give me a bottle of vodka and I’ll forget what’s his name.”

Even though I eat rabbit food, I always have room for vodka.

Stacy wags her finger and shakes her head. “It’s not healthy to drink alone. Besides, Chloe should be here any second.”

Before I can argue further, the front door breezes open and Chloe saunters inside like she’d never left. She grins at us, dressed in a pencil skirt and a tight cotton blouse. She’d always dreamed of being a high-profile advertiser and now she’s living her dream—and looking good doing it.

“Damn,” I mutter before I can help it, suddenly hyper-aware of my unbrushed hair and lack of makeup. “You look very Samantha Jones today, Clo!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she shoots back sassily, pushing her glasses up her nose before sliding into the chair beside me.

Stacy laughs though I still don’t have the heart.

Chloe gazes around, a satisfied smile on her face. “This place never changes,” she murmurs. “It feels really nice to be back where it all started with my two favorite girls and a pot of liquid lava that Stacy pretends is coffee.”

“Hey!” It’s Stacy’s turn to pout, giving a little sniff and staring down the bridge of her button nose. “Clearly my talents aren’t appreciated here.”

Chloe giggles and takes the cup from Stacy, inhaling the roasted scent of the tar-like drink. “Actually, I almost missed this, too.”

“Oh please, I’m sure you only drink fancy cappuccinos in your beautiful penthouse apartment with Donovan,” Stacy gushes with just the faintest hint of envy in her voice. “I still can’t believe you snagged a billionaire. Love suits you, Clo. You’re glowing.”

Chloe blushes faintly though I interrupt any response with another mournful wail. “You’re not allowed to talk about how amazing love is!” I complain. “Love sucks!”

Chloe and Stacy scooch in closer, wrapping their arms around me in a tight hug. I bow my head to sniffle into Chloe’s shoulder, wishing she was still my roommate. It was so much fun living with both these girls, especially during times like this.

I’m not exactly a stranger to bad romance.

Why had I thought this would turn out any different?

“You know, I’ve heard the only way to get over a guy is to find another,” Stacy suggests with a slow smile, looking pointedly toward Chloe. “Don’t you think so?”

Chloe blinks, a slow frown forming over her pretty face. “I’m not sure I agree. What it takes is time and reflection. Morgan should try to learn something from this experience.”

“That’s easy to say when you’re head over heels in love with the perfect man,” I mutter.

Stacy frowns at Chloe, two tiny furrows appearing between her brows. “Care to rethink your statement?” she asks firmly.

When Chloe finally takes the hint, she rolls her eyes and turns back toward me. “I guess dating someone new wouldn’t be the worst idea.” Suddenly, she gasps, clapping her hands together in excitement. “I’ve got it! We should go on a triple date! Donovan has some cute friends that I can set you two up with. It might take your mind off this guy for a little while, Morgan.”

“I don’t want cute,” I answer with a wounded tone. “I want my rockstar.”

Chloe sighs and shakes her head. “Well, I can’t promise you a rockstar but I can promise free drinks. Will that do?”

I start to shake my head but Stacy takes my hand and leans in toward Chloe. “We’d love that,” she answers, shooting me a look that leaves little room for argument.

Though Stacy is sweet as pie, she’s stubborn as a mule and I know I don’t have any choice in this matter. With a groan, my chin tips into a heavy, reluctant nod. “It’s not like I can feel any worse than I do already.”

Chapter 11

Eric

The sleek glass doors of Dunn Advertising glide effortlessly open. I stride inside, a white plastic bag from Cup of Joe’s dangling from my hand. Styrofoam boxes of deliciously decadent food strain against the bag, begging to be unleashed as they flood the labyrinth-like hallways of Donovan’s office building with the pleasant scent of half a dozen croissants, two patty melts, and a chicken salad sandwich. In my other hand, I balance a cardboard cup holder with three warm coffees inside. One of them spilled on my walk here, meaning Donovan was about to be short-changed. He deserved a half-filled coffee after skipping my show.

I was still pissed at Alex and James for destroying my dream girl’s note, so that meant I’d been spending more time with Donovan—when he had time for me.

I hadn’t given up on finding my angel though. I’d asked around at Logan’s bar and stopped back a time or two, but no one seemed to know anything about her. I was starting to fear I conjured her into existence.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had a drunken hallucination.

I briefly considered telling Donovan about her. He certainly had the resources to track people down, but his ridicule wasn’t worth it.

I scan the halls as I walk toward his office. As always, the upper floor of the huge advertising building is bustling with life as interns and staff members rush back and forth, their hurried footsteps accompanied by the tapping of fingers against keyboards and the soft but pressing tone of voices making important calls. A corporate symphony. Ugh.

I could see this being a professional’s heaven—but to me it’s hell. There’s nothing appealing about those tiny cubicles or computer screens, or God forbid, khaki slacks! It makes me shudder when I think about trying to fit into this stuffy corporate world. I like my faded jeans and worn t-shirts. My tattoos make me stick out here and I’m pretty sure I don’t own a pair of khakis—thank God!

Soft giggling floats under Donovan’s closed office door as I approach, making me roll my eyes. I give the door a solid knock with the back of my knuckles, the plastic bag rustling loudly. Even though I’m not exactly a patient guy, I wait to be let in. There’s no way I’m going to walk in on Donovan and his girlfriend groping each other.

A few seconds later, the door swings open to reveal a pretty woman with a big smile on her face, her black hair slightly tousled and her cheeks a bit too rosy.

“Hey, Clo,” I grunt, thrusting one of the still filled coffee cups into her unexpecting hands. She frowns at me, arching an eyebrow. When I tell her I brought her a chicken salad sandwich, however, her frown quirks into a smile.

“That’s so sweet of you, Eric!” she says, stepping aside to allow me into Donovan’s office.

My best friend grins at me, sniffing the air with interest. “Is that my favorite croissants I smell?”

“Well, it’s either I bring them to you or you send whatever intern you have this week across town to hunt them down.”

Chloe laughs. “He’s not allowed to do that anymore,” she says perching on the side of the desk near her boyfriend.

I open the bag of food, passing everyone their meals and leaving the croissants in the middle of Donovan’s desk. I end up taking the half empty coffee for myself, giving Donovan the other full one. Staring down at the scrumptious food that I would normally wolf down in a heartbeat, I find my appetite non-existent.

“Not hungry?” Donovan asks idly. “That’s not like you.” He pauses, then groans. “Wait, you’re not still pissed that I missed your show, are you? I sent you that tequila—”

“No, it’s not that,” I interrupt.

“Then what?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustrated that I’m so transparent. I wasn’t going to tell him, but . . . “I’ve met someone,” I interject shortly. “Possibly the one.”

Donovan huffs a laugh. “Always with the jokes.”

I glare at him with churning eyes. “I’m serious. This woman is the other half of my heart. The one who completes me.”

Chloe gasps, caught off guard. “Who?”

Donovan lifts a hand and dismissively waves away my words. He pats Chloe’s knee, his hand lingering for a moment. “Don’t listen to him, babe. Easy E says this about every pretty lady who crosses his path. Seriously, he’d date a rhinoceros if it was wearing a bra and booty shorts.”

“This girl was no rhinoceros,” I snarl. “She was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

“So, what’s going on with her?” Chloe asks, looking strangely unhappy that I’d discovered true love.

The corners of my lips tug down. “It’s a long story, but I think I may have blown my chance.”

Suddenly, Chloe looks hopeful again. “Well . . . this is your lucky day, Eric. I was just telling Donovan that it would be fun to have a group date. My friends are awesome. One’s a model. She’s gorgeous. Here, let me show you a picture—”

“I don’t want to see a picture of another girl,” I grumble, sticking a hand in my pocket to withdraw my flask. I pop open the lid of my cup of coffee and add some whiskey.

“Eric,” Donovan says quietly. “It’s eleven in the morning. Do you really need that?”

I scowl at him, firmly shoving the lid back on the coffee and tilting the paper cup toward my face so I can drink it. The whole thing spills, sending booze-infused coffee down the front of my shirt. I stare at it with blank eyes for a moment before giving up on the coffee and lifting the flask to take a hearty gulp. Why even dilute it with java when I could just feel the burn straight up?

Maybe, just for a second, I’ll forget everything that hurts. My calloused fingers, my heart, my past. The whiskey helps it blur away for a little while, but when I put the flask down, Donovan and Chloe are staring at me with matching looks of veiled worry. I don’t care. I just take another gulp. Eventually, those expressions will blur away too.

“Chloe, can you get us some napkins?” Donovan asks, his tone unsubtle.

Even working on my buzz, I can see right through it. Chloe pauses for a moment before nodding and scampering out of the office.

When she’s gone, Donovan leans toward me. “You doing okay, E? You look . . . I don’t know . . . down. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Ha! As if he cares.

Donovan can’t even be bothered to show up at my gig but now he pretends to care? A day late and a dollar short buddy!

I shouldn’t be surprised. Our relationship has always been this way. Still, the liquor in the flask loosens my tongue. “Yeah, D, I am down. I can’t be sunny all the time, especially not when all I can think about is this girl and how I screwed up.” I squeeze the back of my neck in frustration. “It’s like she’s taken over my brain. Every time I close my eyes I see her, every time I fall asleep I dream about her. I have no idea who she is and I’m going crazy trying to figure it out.”

Donovan’s eyes go slightly distant, his gaze shifting toward the closed office door that Chloe had vanished through. When he looks back at me, he’s smiling faintly. It makes me want to chug the rest of my flask.

“Actually,” he murmurs, “I know that feeling well, Eric.”

“Then you know why I can’t go out with whatever bimbo model Chloe is trying to set me up with. I need my mystery woman. She’s an angel. My angel.”

“You can’t keep chasing a fairytale, E. You don’t know who this chick is and in a city this big you’ll never find her.”

“But she was perfect!” I argue.

“Yeah, probably because your time together was cut short. Had it gone longer, you would’ve found out that she’s a stalker or worse, one of those nut jobs who dresses her pets up in baby clothes and pushes them around in a stroller.”

“What kind of weirdos have you been dating, man?” I mutter, frowning at the billionaire until he bursts into laughter.

“Listen, I’ll make you a deal. You lay off the booze and go on this date and I’ll come to that big show you have at the stadium. I promise, and you know how I am about promises.”

I stare at him, trying to keep the edges of my vision from blurring. I can see the concern in his eyes and the hopeful smile on his normally somber face. I want so badly to deny him. I don’t need his pity or his favors, but Donovan is my oldest friend, and I can tell he’s worried about me. In his own strange way, I guess this is how he thinks he can help.

Plus, with this agonizing heartache and stress about the stadium show, maybe I could use a little distraction. Perhaps if I get out for a little while, the hollow feeling in my chest will ease.

“Okay,” I murmur, though the idea of being with another woman makes my stomach turn.

As soon as I agree, I regret it.

Chapter 12

Morgan

The walls of Hanson’s office are slowly shrinking in on me. The halls are lined with photos of his most successful models with their stunning smiles and promising futures. Then there’s me, who will never be a picture on Hanson’s wall. I’m starting to think I’ll never be a picture on any wall.

What will I do if modeling falls through? Who will I be?

I can’t breathe. All I’ve ever wanted to do is model. Some girls dream about being president or a veterinarian or a ballerina . . . but I knew I wanted this. It was a dream my mother had for herself, but she didn’t get the chance to carry it out. That’s why I have to succeed. All of this is for her.

“What?” I ask when I realize Hanson has asked me a question, his words drowned out by my buzzing worries.

“Morgan, all I’m saying is that we need to do something to get you back on track. You look like you’re tipping the scales. This is a weight sensitive industry,” Hanson explains smoothly, his glaringly white-toothed smile making my head ache. “The trend is lean and mean again. If you can lose an inch or two maybe we can turn your go-sees around.”

I smooth my palms self-consciously over my hips, feeling the ridges of bones through my clothes. I’m so careful about what I eat. There’s no way I’ve gained weight. My stomach is constantly, achingly empty.

“I was just measured again last week and my numbers haven’t changed,” I answer, trying to find a firmness in my voice though the fake sympathy in my agent’s gaze makes me waver.

It’s that moment that I realize I’ve already lost this battle. It’s not that I’ve gained weight. It’s that Hanson doesn’t want me anymore. The worst agent in New York City doesn’t want me.

Ouch.

But I suppose it’s not that big of a shocker. Last minute, I’d been cut from the car show I’d been prepping for all week. The last thing I expected was to have that taken from me too. Those demeaning shows were my only reliable jobs in the last few months while I tried my best to land an ad campaign or a shampoo commercial.

Hell, I’d even take a hemorrhoid cream ad at this point! I have bills to pay!

“I’ve been thinking, Morgan . . .” Hanson starts.

This is it . . .

Just as I am trying to convince myself not to burst into tears while I’m being fired, there’s a knock at the door and Hanson is distracted from ending my career for the moment. The door to his office nudges open and Charlotte’s lovely face peers inside. She smiles at me, her silky auburn hair curling around her shoulders. I try to smile back but I can tell it’s more of a grimace.

Does she know what’s happening?

There’s a tautness to her smile that doesn’t sit well with me, and I noticed she’d been curt during our interactions lately.

“Charlotte!” Hanson says with a joviality that feels like a punch to my gut, gesturing her forward. “Come here for a second. You can help me out here.”

Is he going to have her fire me? How much more humiliating can this get?

Even though the beautiful woman claimed she was being scouted for other agencies, she’s still here. It’s been two weeks since we had that discussion in the bathroom—I know because that’s the day I met my rockstar. But Charlotte hasn’t mentioned her potential move since.

Maybe she likes being the big fish in a small pond. I’d like to be a fish in any pond at this point.

“Look at Charlotte,” Hanson says, not even disguising the worshipping tone of his voice as he takes her hand and gives her a slow twirl, reminding me of those diamond ads where the perfectly cut gem spins slowly on a rhinestone-studded plate. “Isn’t she dazzling?”

Charlotte preens, soaking up the praise and attention like a desperate sponge. It’s apparent that I was right in my assumption that she likes the security of this agency, where she is the top earner and Hanson would do anything to keep her. She doesn’t have the stones to take a leap of faith to see if she could make it in a more competitive agency.

Little does she know Hanson will tire of her eventually. He always does. She’s not the first sparkly thing to catch his eye. I would have tried to warn her but she’s gazing at me now as if she wants nothing more than for me to walk out that door and never return.

“Morgan here needs your help, Charlotte,” Hanson continues. “Can you tell her what you do to keep your figure so flawless?”

Charlotte appraises me as though I’m a horse up for sale. I keep my chin high despite their scrutinizing stares. Charlotte bats her lashes at Hanson. “Oh, the usual. Yoga and running.”

Hanson’s eyes turn toward me. “And you?”

“The same.”

He turns his attention back to Charlotte. “You must have a secret, darling. I mean look at you, you’re perfection.”

“I wish I had a secret to share, but my figure is mostly natural,” she explains with another haughty look at me.

Where did all that kindness from before go? Was she only being nice because she was entertaining the thought of leaving the agency? Now that she was staying, perhaps she wants me to be the one to go. It would mean less competition for her—not that I’m considered competition these days.

“Of course,” Hanson sighs. “But Morgan just doesn’t have that luxury.”

Charlotte nods. “I’ve actually been trying this raw food diet recently. Only unprocessed, uncooked vegetables. I could get you a recipe book, Morgan.”

“I don’t need to diet!” I snap back, my tongue escaping its leash after trying to keep quiet.

Charlotte purses her lips, her arms folding over her chest. “Maybe it isn’t just your weight that’s costing you jobs. Maybe it’s your attitude.”

Anger floods me with heat. “Excuse me?”

“I tried to be nice to you, Morgan, but I think the nicest thing I can do is give you a harsh reality check, sweetie.”

“And what’s that?”

“Not everyone’s cut out for modeling. Right, Hanson?”

My jaw drops slightly, my eyes turning to meet Hanson’s.

“Well, that might be true,” he stammers, “but I think if Morgan has the grit to keep fighting, we should let her.”

He smiles at me as though he’s being helpful, but his words lodge like a knife in my ribs. Even though I want to go off on him for insinuating that I’m anything less than good at my job, I simply turn on my heels and march out of the room.

A second later I hear Charlotte following. She corners me in the bathroom while I splash water on my face, hoping to cool my flaring temper. No matter what I want to say or do, I need this job more than I need the last word. It’s my dream.

“I’m sorry I was blunt with you,” Charlotte says quietly from behind me, though her eyes in the mirror are decisively unapologetic.

I note she isn’t apologizing for her words, but for her tone. It’s almost commendable.

“It’s okay,” I answer rigidly, forcing the words out from between my teeth.

“It’s just that not everyone has what it takes to work in this field. You have to recognize your limitations. I would want someone to tell me if I wasn’t cut out for this.”

Slowly I straighten, my face still damp. “So, you really don’t think I can model?”

She lifts her chin, green eyes blazing into mine. I can’t believe I’d thought she was kind earlier. Charlotte might be beautiful on the outside, but she’s nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing . . . and in my opinion, that’s the ugliest thing someone can be.

“When was the last time you booked a meaningful job, Morgan? How much longer are you going to drag this out, starving yourself while you get edged out by the younger girls every day? I mean, you can’t even keep a car show. I feel sorry for you is all.” Charlotte offers a phony smile and pats my shoulder. “It’s not too late to find something else you're good at.”

Before I can grab her by the beautiful red locks, she’s gone and I’m left staring after her in humiliated shock.

Who does she think she is to speak to me that way?

My phone suddenly buzzes in my pocket, and through my stunned haze, I lift it and answer as Chloe’s cheerful voice meets my ears.

“Hey, Morgan!” Chloe says. “I finally found some guys for you and Stacy. We’ve got someone from Donovan’s advertising firm for Stacy and one of Donovan’s friends is a musician so I figured that would scratch your itch for your guitar playing one-night stand. Sound good?”

“Never sounded better,” I whisper through gnashed teeth, eager to eat some real food for a change and wash it down with a stiff drink so I can forget this happened.

Even though I’m still not particularly interested in this date, I need to get out and let loose or I’m going to explode. Besides, after this craziness with Hanson, I need something to look forward to, even if it’s an awkward blind date. I know I’ll be thinking about another musician the entire time, but maybe my friends are right. Maybe the best way to get over him is to get under someone else . . .

The thought is unhealthy and it makes my heart ache but it’s all I’ve got at the moment, so I cling to it with all the hope I have left.

Chapter 13

Eric

‘Dinner tonight at 7. Don’t be late. La Folie. Wear a suit.’

I stare down at the text from Donovan, jaw clenching and unclenching irritably.

Seriously? Did Donovan have to pick the most uptight French joint in Manhattan?

He knows how much I hate those stuck-up places. The last time he tried to drag me to one I ended up spending all night at the bar trying to convince the bartender that forty bucks for a shot was madness and if she was going to charge me that much, I should get a little side action along with it. I ended up getting myself and Donovan’s whole group of yuppie friends kicked out.

That’s the last thing I want to deal with tonight. But I can’t help myself at places like that. I’m not made of money and even if I was, I wouldn’t blow it on drinks with pretentious prices just because they happen to be hip. Not to mention the idea of suiting up and pretending to be interested in one of Chloe’s friends is about as appealing as a root canal.

It doesn’t help that the only suit I own is the one I got three years ago for my dad’s funeral. Putting it on will only make me revisit the memories of that emotional day that I’m still trying to avoid.

Plus, if this mystery model that Donovan set me up with turns out to be anything but a total snooze-fest, I don’t want her thinking I’m made of money. I’m not. And I definitely don’t frequent places like La Folie, where the plates range upwards of two hundred bucks for little more than a salad and an ounce of weird puréed meat.

It’s not like I’m expecting to have a connection with this chick, but I also don’t want to lead her on. There’s nothing I hate more than a fraud and I refuse to be one.

I rub my temples wondering if there’s any way out of this date. If this were anyone other than Donovan playing matchmaker, I’d just admit funds were tight and dip, but I know he’ll brush me off and insist on paying. That’s what he always does.

Normally, I’d be more than happy to let him flaunt his wealth as repentance for dragging me out to such an insufferable place to begin with, but it’s a slap in the face to do so in front of a girl. Then again, I guess it’s not like I’m trying to impress her. Not when I still can’t get my angel out of my head.

I stare down at the text again and sigh. Can’t we for once just go to somewhere normal? What happened to getting a good, old-fashioned American meal? Like cheeseburgers and beer? Is that too much to ask?

When my phone buzzes two seconds later I assume it’s Donovan calling to see if I’m getting ready yet, but to my surprise, it’s Logan from the dive bar that James, Alex and I played at a few weeks back. I’d been going every couple of days to drown my sorrows and hopefully run across my mystery woman, but no such luck.

I answer it swiftly, cupping the cell to my ear.

My phone is an old one. Until the band and I make it big, I’m going to have to keep my second-hand things alive. Even my house is secondhand. I’m subletting it from a college student out of town for the summer since I was too stubborn and proud to take the house I inherited from my dad.

“What’s up?” I grunt, kicking my feet up onto the glass coffee table after easing down on the couch.

I know I should be getting ready for this fancy dinner and this supposedly gorgeous model waiting for me, but I can’t seem to muster up any enthusiasm. Maybe all my years of being Easy E have left me feeling a bit jaded in the skirt-chasing regard.

“Have you heard?” Logan asks grimly.

He and I had formed a tepid friendship mostly spurred by sharing drinks at his bar. I’m not sure if we’re friends or if he’s just glad to have another customer, but I appreciate him pulling me into his circle. Booking gigs in the city isn’t easy, so I’ll take any I can get.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out if I’d left the bar the other night without paying my tab or something. I’d gotten pretty hammered the last few times I was there. “Heard what?”

“Ah, hell. Why do I have to be the one to tell ya? Reggie was supposed to call you earlier today.”

“Reggie?” I ask hesitantly. “As in Reggie Smith, the event planner at Lancaster Stadium? The one who got us our gig there? Why would he be calling me?”

Logan gives a low groan. “I really shouldn’t even say anything . . .” He sighs, though there’s no way he’s getting off this phone without telling me what the hell’s going on. “The only reason I called was to see if we needed to double our whiskey inventory for you tonight.”

“Why would you need to do that?” But my heart is already in my stomach as my mind whips through every terrible scenario that would drive me to drink.

“When you’re bummed you drink like a fish,” Logan answers honestly, “and this is gonna bum you out.”

The statement isn’t comforting in the slightest.

“Just spit it out already, Logan,” I urge, one of my feet fidgeting anxiously.

“You know Reggie’s a buddy of mine. We coordinate events sometimes, especially with bands that play at both our venues.”

He’s stalling, trying to dance around whatever terrible news he doesn’t want to give me. Every second that passes makes my throat grow tighter. I give a grunt, unable to speak.

“Well . . .” Logan drawls, “we were out for drinks last night and Reggie told me some bad news about the agents who were supposed to come to the stadium for the Battle of the Bands show you’re in.”

My stomach lurches up and then down, making me slam my feet against the plush carpet. I stand, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Don’t say it—” I hiss, but Logan is already speaking.

“They backed out. Every single one. I guess there’s a pretty high-profile indie festival that just got put together in Cali. Everyone in the biz is rearranging their schedules to be there to scope out the talent. That’s pissed off a lot of the bands planning to play Reggie’s Battle of the Bands gig at the stadium with you guys and now a bunch of bands have backed out.” A beat of silence hangs between us. “I’m sorry man, I know you were hoping to get a shot in front of some reps.” He sighed. “I wanted to give you the heads-up.”

I didn’t have words.

Logan spoke again to fill the silence. “Look, you’re out of luck this time but it doesn’t mean that you’re out of the game. Keep playing . . .”

His words fade, vanishing in my aching head. I don’t answer, my mind spinning as I hang up the phone while Logan is mid-sentence and collapse back against the couch so heavily that the furniture creaks. My palms press down hard against my eyes, drowning out the evening light spilling in through the murky windows of my tiny apartment.

No way.

This can’t be happening.

Everything is falling apart right in front of me.

First, I lose out on the woman I’m meant to be with and now my band’s one chance at success has just gone up in smoke. This can’t be real. Everything we’ve worked for, it was all for this moment. Even though singing at that little rock bar had drummed up a small bit of business, it’s nothing like this big show at the stadium was supposed to be.

When would we ever get a chance like that again?

We’d been waiting for it for years!

How was I going to break it to the guys?

They would be crushed.

Unable to even start processing this news, I grab the bottle of whiskey that I opened at breakfast. I’d had a few drinks here and there throughout the day to take the edge off this horrible date I was going to be forced to go on, but now I need the whiskey more than ever. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to hurt. I just want everything to go away. I want it all to disappear, and alcohol is the only magic eraser that I know of.

Just a few more shots, then I’ll be able to put on a brave face for Chloe and Donovan and their friends.

Yeah . . . just a few more sips to dull the pain and shove this dread away.

The bottom of the bottle lifts toward the ceiling, overhead lights reflecting through the glass like shimmering stars. My heart aches because I know a few more sips will never be enough.

Chapter 14

Morgan

One of our bathroom lights flickers while Stacy and I crowd into our single bathroom. Chloe’s on her way but running late from the office. It’s sweet that she’s coming all the way over here to get ready with us.

Stacy grins at me, holding three different shades of lipstick next to my face before clicking her tongue. “You’ve gotten some nice sun this summer. I’m thinking you might want to try out this bright red. I know you prefer pink but it’ll match your complexion so well. Ugh. You’ve got such gorgeous skin, Morgan. You were born to be a model.”

My fingers lift subconsciously, brushing against my jawline. Today had definitely not left me full of confidence. “You don’t think I look swollen or anything?” I ask hesitantly.

After my confrontation with Charlotte, I came home and spent the better part of the afternoon staring intently at myself in the mirror picking apart every flaw in an attempt to pinpoint whether Hanson was right about me gaining weight.

If anything, I looked even more slender than normal, to the point where even I was a little disturbed by the gauntness of my eyes and collarbone.

Stacy frowns at me. “God, no. You’re flawless, you know that. Since when do you doubt yourself? Chloe might be Miss Independent, but you’ve always been Miss Confident.”

Had I? I felt so out of touch with myself lately. There had been a time when I loved what I saw in the mirror and when I felt proud of myself for pursuing my modeling aspirations . . . but I hadn’t had that feeling in a while. Being with my rockstar was the last time I remember feeling like myself—strong and sensual and confident.

When did I let that get stripped from me?

“Right,” I say with forced certainty. “I was just fishing for compliments.”

“That’s my girl,” Stacy teases. “Now, what do you think of my outfit?”

Stacy spins in a circle, showing off a modest lace dress that falls just an inch or two above her knees and doesn’t show off too much cleavage. Her hair is pulled into an elegant bun, her makeup subtle but glowing. Even though she claims that I’m the gorgeous one, it’s clear as day that Stacy is a natural beauty with her creamy white skin, sparkling hazel eyes and thick brunette curls.

She’s short, curvy and cute. Features that are only accentuated by her stubborn sass. Stacy is going to make some lucky guy very happy someday. But someday will never come if she keeps covering up.

“Your date would enjoy your company a bit more if you were willing to show off that body of yours,” I say tugging on the cuff of her full-length sleeve.

“We’re not all supermodels like you,” she says playfully, gesturing at the skimpy couture dress I’m wearing.

The neckline of the red gown plunges between my small breasts which are taped perfectly into place—a little runway trick I’d picked up. I wanted this blind date of mine to drool over me. God knows I could use the attention after all the rejection lately.

So what? I wanted this guy to like what he saw—but I wouldn’t let him have it. Not unless he helped me forget my sexy rockstar . . . then maybe.

I’d just have to hope he had some industrial glue dissolvent to help me free my boobs first.

We migrate to our tiny kitchen once we’re dressed. Stacy starts to clean up our mess from earlier. “Did you get any pizza?” she asks, eyeing the box of leftovers trying to remember how much of it she consumed herself.

I snap the lid closed to distract her from the greasy box. “I’ve got to keep up my figure for my auditions this week. Besides, Chloe will be here soon and we’ve got to save her some.”

Stacy frowns at me. “But I got extra mushrooms and peppers just for you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be craving it tonight after our amazing triple date.”

She laughs, concern fading. “If you say so.”

The door bangs open and we turn in time to see Chloe burst through, slamming it shut with a distressed look on her face.

“Guys,” she pleads with a gesture to her buttoned blouse and office-worthy skirt. While her outfit is adorable for the workday, it isn’t quite suitable for a red-hot date at La Folie. “I need your help!”

“You sure do!” Stacy quips before I can stop shaking my head at Chloe’s ensemble.

“Look at you!” I scold. “You look like you’re headed to the convent, not to a date with your billionaire. Get over here so we can fix you.”

With a giggle, Chloe nods and rushes over, allowing us to take her into our arms as we start pulling at her clothing, replacing her office-chic look with one that will drive Donovan wild.

By the time we’re finished fluffing her hair and doing her makeup, I realize I’ve laughed more in the last forty-five minutes than I have in the last three weeks. It’s hard not to feel a little optimistic about tonight when I’ll be spending it with my best friends. I cling to the feeling that they’re right, all I need is a new man to help me forget the last one.

Besides, what do I even know about my rockstar? Sure, he knows how to use his hands and his smile will live in a dusty corner of my memory forever, but we only had a few minutes of perfection together. Maybe in the real world we’d have nothing in common other than animalistic attraction.

My heart thuds in protest.

Fortunately, I don’t have much time to listen to my heart. Our dates await!

Before I know it, we’re climbing out of our Uber, walking down the Manhattan sidewalk arm-in-arm, heels clicking against the concrete beneath us.

“It’s so good to see you smiling again,” Chloe murmurs into my ears. “You’re going to love Eric. He’s funny and smooth and really good looking. He can be a bit immature but I’m sure he’s looking forward to this.”

“I’m not looking to marry the guy, I just want to forget about my rockstar.”

“Well, that’s why I picked Eric. He’s always a good time and he’s a musician too!” Chloe says enthusiastically.

I bite back a groan, knowing she’s just trying to be helpful. But the last thing I want is another smooth-talking artist. My heart can’t handle it.

“Perfect,” Stacy gushes, not noticing my expression of uncertainty. “Tomorrow you’ll wake up freshly laid and full of smiles.”

“Hey now, what kind of girl do you think I am?” I tease, making both of my friends laugh.

As we walk up to the front of La Folie, I recognize Donovan instantly. He’s not the kind of guy you forget, with those powerfully broad shoulders and stern eyes that glow like blue embers. Chloe is one lucky lady. Standing beside him is a nice but boring looking man about Donovan’s age in a tailored suit.

“Ladies,” Donovan greets us coolly, striding by Stacy and me to take Chloe into his arms. In one fluid movement, he dips Chloe backward and plants a deep kiss on her lips that makes me want to swoon and barf, simultaneously.

Ugh. To have what they have . . .

I push away the lingering insistence of my rockstar’s lips in the back of my mind, refusing to allow him to bother me tonight.

“My name is Tom,” the man in the suit is saying to Stacy when I stop watching Chloe and Donovan’s embrace and turn around. “You must be Stacy?”

Stacy smiles and nods, letting him take her hand and place a chivalrous kiss on the back of it. She blushes and giggles before she remembers my presence and turns toward me. “Where’s this Eric guy?” she asks, as Tom stuffs his hands in his pockets and Donovan’s expression turns cold.

“He’s, uh, running late,” Donovan says slowly. “Why don’t we go inside and get some drinks. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

Turn up? Like a lost set of keys or something?

This is just my luck.

What kind of model can’t even get a blind date to show up?

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, I follow both couples into the restaurant. We take a seat and soon the waiter sweeps by, asking for our orders.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Stacy says softly so only I can hear. “Don’t give up.”

I force a smile, but I already know how this night is going to go. Romance is dead, and my heart is too.

“Vodka,” I demand, sitting up straight and facing the waiter. “A whole bottle. Ice is optional.”

Chapter 15

Eric

Stars spin across the ceiling, wildly dancing and frolicking about like fireflies. It takes me until I lift my hand to block out the glare of their painful light to realize that it isn’t my body or the room that’s wildly revolving, but my intoxicated mind.

How much did I drink?

My thoughts are sluggish and painful, my temples throbbing as though my head is being squeezed between two powerful and unyielding palms.

I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve felt this level of drunken discomfort, but hangovers from hell have sort of become my status quo lately. At least I woke up in my living room this time instead of a back alley without my wallet.

Every movement sends another shockwave of pain rippling through my head but I force myself to sit up on the floor between my couch and the coffee table. The world pitches violently back and forth like I’m on a boat in heavy seas. Bile rises in my throat while an empty bottle of whiskey stares condescendingly at me.

Through an open window, a warm breeze blows, bringing with it the scent of street tacos that makes my stomach revolt, at first out of hunger and then out of nausea. The thought of eating is both tempting and repulsive. For a moment I think I’m going to be sick, but I suck in a shallow breath of air and hold it until my lungs scream. Only then do I let it escape through my nostrils.

The scent of alcohol is heavy in the air. Even in my drunken state, I can still smell it and it makes my stomach heave. I don’t want to drink anymore, but the emotions simmering too close to the surface make me reach for the empty bottle anyway.

How am I going to tell the guys that our big show is a bust? How am I going to finally push that beautiful woman’s face from my mind? When is something going to give?

I don’t know how much longer I can struggle like this. I’ve failed my parents, letting my drunk of a father destroy everything good about my mother and now I’ve inherited his problem. In a way, I’ve failed him too. I couldn’t put aside my anger long enough to make him get help, or take the help he finally gave me when I inherited his house and fortune.

Who knew my drunk of a dad had squirreled away a almost a million dollars? That money is all gone now—even with the sale of his house. It’s what I’ve been living off. And if I’m honest, I’ve pissed it away on booze, the band and this bachelor lifestyle. I have nothing to show for myself and nothing left to keep the band afloat. I’ve failed them too.

I’ve failed myself.

It’s getting harder and harder to find a reason to hold on.

Something creaks behind me and I freeze with my hand still extended toward the empty bottle of booze. There’s a faint noise coming from the kitchen and then I see the hazy figure walking toward me. I open my mouth, trying to speak, but only garbled words come out. When the figure bends closer, I recognize a cup of water and the familiar expression of a very unhappy Donovan Dunn.

“Why ‘er you here?” I slur hoarsely, pushing away the cup of water with a grunt of disgust.

I turn toward the empty whiskey bottle instead, determined to get at least one more drop from it.

“You’re drunk,” Donovan answers matter-of-factly, moving to take the bottle away from me.

With a scowl, I curl my fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle, tipping it over my face and begging a few more drops to hit my tongue, though all that does is dry summer air.

Donovan tries to take the bottle again but I refuse to let it go.

“Come on, Eric!” he grumbles impatiently, “You don’t need this stuff. Believe me, you’ve had plenty. If you drink anymore you’re gonna end up with alcohol poisoning. You’re not a camel. You can’t store this stuff up for the winter.”

“And you’re not my father!” I yell. “You can’t tell me what to do.” Not that my dad ever cared how much I drank.

My father had always been an angry drunk, as quick to lift his fist as he was to pop a beer can. How many times had I stood between him and my mother, even when I barely reached his knee?

Not enough, I think as I picture my mother’s battered face the day she left us.

I always prayed I’d never turn out like him, but I’m just like my dad—never knowing when to stop.

It makes me sick.

Donovan scowls at me. “Not only did you flake on me tonight, but you made that poor girl Chloe was trying to set you up with feel like crap. She was so upset she got totally blitzed and completely humiliated herself. I had to help Chloe and Stacy get her home so they could take care of her—”

“She’s lucky to have such good friends,” I spit out. “Not that I would know how that feels.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he shoots back, his heated frown drawing deeper over his chiseled jaw.

“Drop the act, D. No one’s here for you to impress. You don’t have to pretend you give a crap about me.”

“I don’t give a crap about you?” Donovan shouted. “Are you kidding me, E? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“For the moment.”

Donovan looks like he wants to hit me, instead he grinds he teeth and throws his hands up. “You know I think of you as family, E, but enough is enough. I was trying to help you tonight. I was trying to set you up with someone nice so you could forget about that girl at the show.”

“The show that you weren’t even at!” I shoot back.

“E, I have a busy schedule.”

“Yeah, well families make time for each other, D! I’m tired of trying to pretend like I don’t feel anything! Booze is the only thing that’s there for me! How pathetic is that? It’s the only thing that doesn’t let me down!”

I stagger forward, reaching for a new bottle of whiskey on my bar, but Donovan is faster. We wrestle over the bottle and in the end it flies from our hands, crashing against the glass coffee table and bursting into what seems like a thousand sharp shards, scattering the carpet like diamonds while the whiskey soaks into the floor, stealing my hopes of escape.

“Happy now?” Donovan growls.

I’m not happy at all. That word is as foreign to me as success.

We stare at one another, both fuming.

“What’s this really about?” Donovan finally asks. “Why are you acting so crazy? Some girl doesn’t want you, so you drink yourself into a stupor?”

My heavy shoulders sag. “What else am I going to do? I’m alone.”

“Alone? What about your band? I thought music is all you need,” he says mocking me.

“Maybe it’s not enough anymore,” I mutter.

Donovan’s voice is missing its usual edge when he replies. “You’re not alone, E. You know you always have me.”

I bark a bitter laugh. “Ha! That’s a joke. You don’t even know me anymore.”

“Eric—”

“No, I’m done being your charity case. Friendship is a two-way street, and we haven’t been in the same zip code in a long time.”

Donovan’s jaw tightens, but I’m on a role. “Think about it. When was the last time you bothered to support me?”

“All I do is support you!” he roared. “I funded half the junk in this apartment.”

I shake my head. “It’s always about money with you, isn’t it?”

Donovan threw his hands up. “Whatever, man. I’ll come back in the morning when you’re making sense.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I’m not looking for a handout. I’m looking for my old friend, Donovan, the one who actually had time for me and liked coming to my gigs.” Emotion tightens my voice. “Why the hell can’t you ever just be there for me? Whenever I need you, you always have some snide comment to go along with a bought excuse. A pricey bottle of booze isn’t a replacement for being there. I don’t need that, Donovan. I need support and respect.”

Donovan goes quiet, his eyes wide with alarm. The expression doesn’t fit his normally self-confident face. “I didn't realize—” he starts to say quietly, but I’m not done.

There’s so much I’ve never said, that I’ve kept bottled up inside of me for so long. “You weren’t even there for me when my mom left because my dad was a drunken lowlife who used her as a punching bag. You didn't care.”

“That’s not true! I asked you to move in with us.”

“And every time I tried my dad nearly killed me. How many times did I show up at your house with a black eye or a busted lip and you just asked what kind of trouble ‘Easy E’ had gotten into?”

“Wait,” he whispers, “You never . . . Eric, you never told me that!”

“Because I’m just a joke to you. Easy E, the comic relief.”

“Eric, you never told me about your dad. If you did, I would’ve been there for you. Just like you were there for me when I lost Vivian.”

“You didn’t even come to his funeral,” I hiss.

“Whose funeral?”

“My dad’s!”

Donovan’s eyes widen. “E . . . you told me you weren’t going.”

My eyes meet his, cold and distant. “He was my father. Of course I went.”

“Jesus, Eric. I didn’t know.” He ran a hand through his perfect hair. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You always make everything a joke. How was I supposed to know you were hurting?”

“If you were really my friend you would have known! You would have seen how messed up I am, how alcohol is the only thing that makes me feel better until . . . until her. She’s all I want, D!”

“Then we’ll find her, Eric,” he starts to say. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean for it to come to this. I didn't know you were so unhappy.”

“You’re sorry?” I scoff, both because I’m startled to hear the powerful, successful Donovan Dunn apologize, but also because it just doesn’t help. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You’ve let me down too much—”

I start to storm away from him, but my foot clumsily catches on the foot of the coffee table. Donovan lurches forward to catch me, but the glass covered ground beats him to it. My hands sprawl out to brace my fall, meeting jagged glass.

Crimson heat surges from my torn palm as I stare down at ripped and mangled flesh. With a roar of pure pain, I roll onto my back as Donovan leans over me.

“It’s okay,” he promises, but his face is full of panic. “I’m gonna get you to the hospital and it’s gonna be okay.”

He says the reassuring words over and over, but I can’t stop shaking my head. “No,” I moan, “it’s my playing hand.” My vision is spotting with pain. “Donovan, it’s over.”

He speaks, but emptiness is all that greets me as I close my eyes.

Chapter 16

Morgan

Tears that I have fought for weeks spill down my cheeks. I slump against the side of the bathtub, my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. Though I fight not to make any noise, squeaks of my strangled sobs escape until there’s a faint knock on the door and Stacy’s gentle voice floats through.

“Morgan, want to let us in?” she presses in that way she has of making a demand sound so nice that you have no choice but to oblige.

I curl up tighter, the room wobbling back and forth in my drunken delirium, my stomach flipping. Even though I told Stacy I’d had some pizza earlier, that had been a lie. I’d barely touched any food since Hanson’s remarks on my body. And after three shots of vodka on an empty stomach, I burst into tears at La Folie and started wailing about how no one would ever want me again.

Shame burns my cheeks as bits and pieces of the night start to come back to me. I’m such an embarrassment. All I’d ever wanted is circling the drain and my behavior tonight has sealed the deal. I’ll never be a successful model. I’ll never have my name in lights while people gaze at me on a runway. My career is small and pitiful, just like my life.

Here I am, drunk and depressed in my pathetic New York bathroom, in my pathetic New York apartment. Hanson and Charlotte are right. I’m not cut out for this. I’m just a small-town girl from Kansas who never should’ve been allowed to dream so big.

Maybe it’s time to stop struggling and go home.

“Morgan,” Stacy repeats before she jiggles the doorknob. “Let me in.”

The door swings open after a second, leaving both her and Chloe gazing at me from the doorway. Stacy glides the hairpin she used to pick the lock back into her hair, then walks over to me, kneeling at my side. After a moment, I sink into her arms, letting her hold me the same way my mother used to. God, I miss her.

My tears fall faster and faster, soaking through Stacy’s pretty lace dress until a stain of mascara remains. I hate that I’ve fallen so far. All I ever wanted to do was make my mother proud. Sure, I was only twelve when I promised her I’d be a model. But those were the only memories I had left to cling to. The ones where I lay curled up next to her in her hospital bed, flipping through fashion magazines and daydreaming about the lives of the beautiful people on the pages.

My mom always told me I’d be one of them someday. I wanted to achieve that goal for her, for all the time and dreams the cancer had robbed from her.

“What’s going on, Morgan?” Chloe asks softly when I’m done choking on my sobs. “I know you’re upset about this guy, but I know you and I know that isn’t the only thing putting you in such a state. Talk to us. Let us help you. We love you.”

To my friends, I’m beautiful and confident, but inside I feel lost and broken. All my doubts have piled up—too old, too fat, too lanky, too blonde, too ordinary.

Not one single time have I let Chloe or Stacy hear my fears. How am I supposed to tell them that I’m failing—that the cutthroat world of modeling has kicked my ass for possibly the last time?

I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of every day being a struggle. I’m tired of being lonely.

I’m just plain tired.

“I want to go home,” I slur out in a teary whisper.

“You are home,” Stacy answers in bewilderment. “Donovan drove us all home hours ago.”

“No. I want to go home, home. To Kansas. I don’t want to be a model anymore. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I haven’t gotten a real job in months. Hanson thinks I’m washed up. It’s only a matter of time before he fires me.”

I grimace, thinking of the way Charlotte looked at me with pity in her eyes. How many others had looked at me the exact same way but I hadn’t noticed?

“Are you kidding me?” Chloe gasps. “You’re beyond gorgeous, Morgan. You’re a drop-dead knockout. Every time I see you all I can think is how lucky you are. Even without a drop of makeup, you’re absolutely stunning. And not only that, but when you walk into a room, you command attention. That’s a gift.”

“Then why can’t I get a job?” I plead. “Why doesn’t anyone want me? I can’t even get a blind date!”

“Oh, Morgan. That wasn’t your fault.” Stacy sighs, hugging me tighter.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to give Eric a tongue lashing he’ll never forget,” Chloe insists, her bitter tone furious. “Donovan may be giving him stern words now, but he has no idea what he’s in for with me.”

“Tongue lashing?” I echo numbly, almost laughing though it only makes more tears burn my eyes. “Nobody talks like that, Clo.”

She smiles at me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders and hugging me so that I’m sandwiched between my two best friends. I close my eyes, inhaling a deep but shuddering breath.

“Your dreams are going to come true,” Chloe whispers into my shoulder. I can feel her looking at me though I don’t open my eyes. “Mine did. I never saw it coming, but it happened. All I ever wanted was to work at Dunn Advertising and—”

“And you got lucky,” I interrupt. “You found the love of your life and the career of your dreams. But I’m not lucky, Chloe. I’m not like you.”

“You’re not,” she agrees firmly. “I may have gotten lucky, but you’re more than lucky. You’re talented and tenacious. You always have been. When you want something, you get it. This is going to come to you, too. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”

I close my eyes tight, my whole soul aching with the weight of my heavy heart.

I used to be as certain as Chloe but I don’t think I’m that girl anymore. This city and this lifestyle have chewed me up and spit me out. Everyone has a breaking point and I think I’ve finally reached mine.

Chapter 17

Eric

I am surrounded by a sea of sterile white walls. I stare blankly ahead, listening to the heart monitor beside my bed punctuate the eerie silence. Beyond my hospital room, nurses and doctors bustle back and forth, tending to patients.

Two days have passed since my intoxicated meltdown with Donovan, an event that still fills me with humiliation. I can only remember fragments of the conversation my best friend and I had, but I do distinctly remember shouting at him and then slicing open my hand.

With a wince I lift it, inspecting my stitched palm beneath the delicately wrapped gauze. I’d been so drunk when I arrived that I didn't remember much. Not having my stomach pumped, not the surgery or the dozens of stitches used to put me back together.

I’ll be lucky if I can even play guitar again, let alone the Lancaster Stadium show. It was probably a blessing the agents weren’t going to be there. If I did manage to play, I’d certainly sound like garbage with this Frankenstein hand.

The band came to see me as soon as they heard about my injury. I guess Donovan called them. They were devastated about the prospect of missing the show. My ruined hand was about all the bad news they could handle. I didn’t have the heart to tell them about the label reps bailing too. There would be time to explain it later. I might as well let them enjoy one last performance. I know they won’t want to continue when they find out the truth.

It’s hard to believe that the end of my dream has arrived so soon. It means I’ll have to hang up Camilla for good and get a real job. Even though the thought of sitting in a cubicle makes me want to chuck myself out a nearby window, I’m working on accepting it. Maybe Donovan will have an opening for me.

If he ever speaks to me again.

I won’t blame him if he doesn’t. All I’ve done the last two days is replay what I can remember of our confrontation, and none of it is good. Anger and alcohol made me take out my frustrations on Donovan. But my mess of a life isn’t his fault. It’s mine.

I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate my life while I’ve been here recovering in my hospital bed. The morning after my arrival, when I finally regained consciousness, Donovan had been sitting at my bedside. He was asleep, half curled into a stiff hospital chair that would leave him sore for days, his suit crumpled and his hair mussed. He must’ve been completely exhausted because he continued snoozing away even as the doctor walked into the room to check on my hand.

The news the doc brought was sobering. Literally.

“Your blood alcohol content was .28 last night, Eric,” he’d explained quietly, staring at me from behind a set of thin-rimmed glasses, his mouth an equally narrow line. There was no gentleness or compassion in his eyes—only judgment.

When I stared at him blankly, he’d heaved a sigh and sat down, laying my chart on his lap. He folded his hands and leaned forward after taking off his glasses, letting them dangle from the front of his white coat.

“Do you even understand what that means?” he asked, answering before I could manage to shrug. “Over .3 is life-threatening. At .35, irreversible damage can be done. Your body starts to shut itself down bit by bit until there’s nothing left to sustain you. You could have, and probably would have, died last night if your friend hadn't gotten you here.”

Death.

My whole life I’d considered myself invincible. I was untouchable, strong, fearless. But I was kidding myself. I’d almost died and I might never get to play guitar again thanks to the injury I caused myself. I wanted to be Easy E, to make some sort of sarcastic comment or joke to lighten the mood, but the doctor’s stare was so heavy that even my ill-timed humor couldn’t help me cope.

“I want to tell you never to drink again, son,” the doctor said sternly. “But I know how this works. I’ll probably see you again in three months, lifeless on this same bed you’re in now. Next time, luck won’t save you. Nothing will. I’ve seen so many young people like you lose this battle. Lives wasted, potential squandered. Think hard about that, son, and whether your future means anything to you and the people who care about you before you pick up the bottle again.”

With that, the doctor stood up, grabbed my chart, and left the room. I was again plunged into silence, except for the sound of Donovan’s breathing.

He’d woken about thirty minutes after that, though he had little to say to me. He’d made sure I was alive and would stay that way for at least the foreseeable future, and then he was gone.

Still, the words of the doctor remained. They hung in the air long after night fell, and the sun rose once more. They buzzed between my ears, playing on an endless loop that I had little control over. I haven’t been able to eat or to sleep. All I’ve been able to do is brood over what happened that night and how exactly I got here.

Had Donovan not come over, I wouldn’t be breathing. I would’ve blacked out and died in a pile of my own vomit.

Was alcohol really to blame or was it just my self-destructive nature?

I was so determined not to share the pain in my heart or my true feelings that I turned to booze to keep everything suppressed. Even if liquor wasn’t entirely at fault, it would be the wisest choice to cut it out completely, especially with my family history.

I could tell by the doctor’s expression that he doesn’t expect me to be able to do such a thing . . . but I’ve spent my entire life proving people wrong.

It’s going to be a hard road. Life as a musician is practically synonymous with indulgent intoxication, and if that doesn’t work out, I’d be so bored at an office job that I’d have a hard time staying away from the bottle . . . but still. I can do this. Whether I manage to find another path in my music career or if I end up with a boring nine to five, I can stop drinking as long as I know I have something worth living for.

My mind aches when I consider all the mistakes I’ve made in my life that relate to drinking. All the songs that remain half finished, all the conversations over potential opportunities forgotten, all the friends and new relationships I might have pushed away.

Then, there’s my angel, perhaps the most haunting lost connection of all.

Had I not been so plastered, maybe I would’ve asked for her name. Maybe I would have looked at her note right away instead of allowing Alex and James the chance to destroy it. Maybe I never would’ve let her leave . . .

How different my life might be if I didn’t dilute all my problems with alcohol. It’s clear to me now that as soon as I’m out of this hospital, things need to drastically change and I need to make some major apologies. Donovan’s first. My oldest friend who’s tried his best to be there for me even when I won’t let him. Then Chloe, who I’ve surely made feel uncomfortable with my drinking habits. Then there’s the poor girl who I flaked on the other night. And my band . . .

The list is endless, but some way or another, I’m going to find a way to make all of this right again. I have to. There’s no other choice.

Chapter 18

Morgan

“Chloe, I promise I’m doing fine,” I say quietly into my phone, keeping one eye on the closed bathroom door while I hide from Hanson and Charlotte.

Chloe and Stacy have both been hovering over me like mother hens since my drunken meltdown. I can tell Stacy doesn’t want me to move back to Kansas and leave her stranded without a roomie and a friend, but I honestly don’t know how much longer I can put up with this—or how much longer I’m even going to be employed at Hanson’s agency.

Every time he walks up to me, I expect him to tell me he’s cutting me. I’ve just been loitering around the agency for days hoping to make an impression on any potential clients who come in for meetings, but Hanson hasn’t even given me a single go-see since I was dropped from my last job.

Charlotte is busy of course, constantly out on shoots. To say I’m envious is an understatement.

“I just wanted to check in and make sure you were hanging in there,” Chloe says breezily. “The office is closed today so I’m stuck at home trying to entertain myself. Honestly, this conversation is more for me than for you.”

“Oh no, poor Chloe stuck in a beautiful penthouse with a view!”

She laughs and I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. Then, from under the door, I suddenly hear my name whispered in soft utterance though I can’t tell exactly who’s speaking.

“I can’t talk now, Clo. I’ll call you back,” I whisper-hiss, hanging up before my she can argue.

Carefully, I tiptoe over to the bathroom door and press my ear against it.

“Did you do what I asked, Hanson?” the voice purrs. “Does Morgan know she’s out?”

I realize it’s Charlotte speaking and my bones go cold. Why is she talking to Hanson about me?

“I really don’t know if this is the best idea,” he answers quietly. “She’s beautiful and clients love her personality. I’ve been giving you her jobs like you want, but she gets requested a lot. Even with you and the other girls picking up her calls there’s too many to keep turning away her jobs.”

Turning away my jobs?

“We both know she doesn’t have what it takes. She’s holding us back. Besides, there’s only room for one top model here. With me as your anchor your agency could be so much more. Just cut her out of the picture and you and I will own this city!”

Unable to help myself, I force open the bathroom door and stumble out rather gracelessly to find Charlotte and Hanson whispering farther down the hall. Charlotte is pressed against him, batting her eyelashes and clinging to his shirt.

Charlotte gasps in shock when she notices me.

Hanson’s face goes bone white. “Morgan, whatever you heard—”

“I’ve heard enough to realize you’re a snake, Hanson. I trusted you. I can’t believe you would turn away my jobs and make me believe that I wasn’t talented! I refuse to be treated like this!”

“Morgan—”

“No! We’re done, Hanson. I’m out. I’d rather go out on my own than have anything to do with an agency like yours. And you better believe I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you can’t do this to anyone else.”

Charlotte grins broadly. I know I’ve just given her what she wants by quitting, but I don’t care. There’s no way I can continue working in an atmosphere like this. All I want is to kick her right in her pretty, porcelain teeth, but I plaster on my best smile and glare down the bridge of my nose. “And you, Charlotte, you just wait until he turns on you. It’ll happen. Mark my words. A newer, prettier girl will come along, and he’ll do exactly what he did to me. It’s called karma, look it up.”

I flick my hair over my shoulder then storm deliberately toward the door. Behind me, both Charlotte and Hanson are left gaping.

Even though I just quit the only agency I’ve ever had, I suddenly feel full of hope. Without them holding me back I’m more ready to face the day than ever before. By the time the bright afternoon sun hits my shoulders, however, I realize the extent of what I’ve just done.

Not only am I without an agent in one of the most cutthroat modeling industries in the world, but Hanson could easily blacklist me from other agencies and clients for speaking to him the way I had. Sure, he was in the wrong, but it’s his word against mine. By walking out of there so dramatically, I might have just sent my dreams crashing down even faster than they were before.

Though how could I stay?

He’d admitted that he was basically trying to smother my career before it even took off.

What was I going to do? Give up and go to Kansas? Start passing out my headshots in Times Square?

I feel numb as I stumble up the stairs of my apartment and strip out of my tight shirt and jeans to replace it with a sweatshirt and yoga pants. As tears well in my eyes, I remove my makeup and try to wash away my worries, but I can’t. I’m still sobbing when I hear the front door swing open.

“Morgan!” Stacy calls, her head popping in through the bathroom door. “What are you doing home so early?”

I turn, throwing my arms around her shoulders and holding on tight. She jumps in surprise but then squeezes me back and strokes my hair until I manage to stop crying.

“I quit!” I wail, overwhelmed by the choice I’ve made and the effects it may have on my future. “I found out Hanson was turning down my bookings so I just walked out!”

“That’s great!” she says, always one to try and turn a negative into a positive. “Now you’ll be free to pursue your dreams on your own, right?”

“No! Now it means I’m never going to get another offer once Hanson tells every potential client in the state how obnoxious and difficult I am or whatever other lies he spins to badmouth me.”

Stacy pulls back, her warm palms on my shoulders. While I sniffle, she smiles at me gently. “You are obnoxious and difficult,” she teases, though her comment only makes more tears well in my eyes. “But that’s what everyone loves about you!” Stacy adds with a soft laugh and another hug.

“What am I going to do?” I moan.

“You’re going to come with me,” she says firmly, cutting me off before I can start lamenting about moving to Kansas again.

Not hesitating another moment, Stacy grabs my hand and hauls me outside to hail a cab. I’m too busy moping to even pay attention to where we’re going until we roll up in front of a gorgeous apartment building. Stacy pulls me by a doorman straight to an elevator with crystal buttons and sleek black doors. My tears are starting to dry as I take in the luxurious surroundings.

When the doors glide open, Chloe is standing in front of us with a wide smile. She doesn’t comment on my sweatshirt or tear-streaked face, too excited to see both of us at her new home.

“Welcome!” she cries, wrapping us both in a hug and dragging us through a waiting door at the end of a long hall.

“I can’t believe you live here,” Stacy says in awe.

“Me either,” Chloe admits.

“Donovan has good taste,” I add, admiring the space.

The suite is gorgeous, decorated in elegant whites with pops of bright color to accentuate the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows pour beautiful light through the home and warm the floorboards as we walk. It’s a modern-day castle, and Chloe is the lovely queen.

We collapse together on a sleek white couch. I curl up into a ball as Stacy fills Chloe in on my dismal career move. Chloe’s silent for a moment, tapping away on her phone. After a second, she passes me her phone, a number already dialed on the screen.

“Whose number is this?” I ask suspiciously, half expecting her to tell me to start making business calls.

“Donovan gave me the number of the concierge downstairs. Our top priority today is pampering you. It’s all on Donovan. He said to order the most expensive, decadent, outrageous things we can imagine.” Chloe squeezes my hand. “I just want to take your mind off all this stress and remind you why you came to New York, the city where dreams come true.”

To be honest, she’s right. Lately, I’ve lost sight of why I moved here. I felt so worn down from the pressure of failing to achieve my dreams that I forgot how they started.

Sighing, I take the phone from Chloe mouthing a silent thank you.

How did I get so lucky to have these girls in my life?

I rattle off a list of menu items, my stomach already growling at the prospect of real food. I’ve been depriving myself of everything delicious for far too long. I suppose there’s no reason for that anymore. Even if I decide to continue to model, it’s going to be on my terms. No more starving myself to fit someone else’s idea of beautiful.

In less than thirty minutes, Chloe’s apartment is covered in plates of decadent food—lobster and chocolate covered strawberries and elegant mini cheesecakes. There are so many things here that I hadn't eaten in years trying to keep up a perfect figure, but today I don’t care Today I help myself to anything I want.

“I can’t believe this is your life, Chloe,” I say softly. I don’t know how many hours have passed, but the food and wine have begun to dwindle. “You’re so lucky.”

Chloe sidles over to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I can see a Chloe pep talk coming from a mile away. Stacy looks on, sucking the last bit of cheesecake off her fork.

“The reason I have all this now is because I refused to give up. I knew it was a long shot to get a job at Dunn Advertising, but I went for it anyway. I was willing to do anything to make that dream come true and eventually it did. It didn't happen overnight, Morgan. It took time and perseverance.”

“But I’ve put in so much time and perseverance already,” I mutter.

“Then you’re nearly there,” Stacy adds with a kind smile. “Please don’t give up on your dreams, Morgan. You’re beautiful and you’re going to be a success whether Hanson throws roadblocks in your way or not. This is what you’re meant to do. A face like yours is rare, and even more so is your heart. You work hard and you’re a good person. Keep that gorgeous nose to the grindstone and it will pay off.”

“A year ago, I never would’ve imagined I’d be sitting here with you two girls in my boyfriend’s penthouse. But here I am!” Chloe sighs with another gentle squeeze of my shoulders. “Who knows where you’ll be tomorrow? Just have a little faith, Morgan. And know that Stacy and I are here for you. We’ll support you for as long as you need.”

Tears well my eyes as my friends speak and I have to swipe the back of my hand hard against my cheek to stop from breaking down into a full-blow ugly cry. Their love is so clear that it makes my heart want to sing.

They’re right. I don’t really want to go home to Kansas. I can’t give up yet.

If modeling is what I want, then it’s what I’ll do. Tomorrow, I’ll start the hunt for a new agency, or perhaps I’ll freelance for a while, or maybe I’ll reevaluate my portfolio. There are avenues I haven’t explored yet, ones that Hanson won't be able to touch. And even if he does badmouth me, I’ll just be so damn good at my job that clients won’t have a choice but to hire me.

But today I’m just going to be grateful for my friends and I’m going to take my very full belly back home for a well-deserved nap.

“Thanks, girls,” I say, squeezing them tight. “I needed this. But I think it’s time I head home. I need to rest up so that I can start fresh tomorrow. It’s gonna be a long road, but you’re right, I’m not ready to give up.”

“You really mean it?” Chloe whispers enthusiastically. “You’re going to stay?”

I nod, laughing when the girls squeal in delight. I can’t imagine being without them. Plus, who knows, if I stay in the city maybe someday my mysterious rockstar and I will cross paths again. Even with everything I’ve been going through, he remains at the back of my mind, creeping in every time I try to sleep or distract myself from my failing career.

“I’ll go with you,” Stacy offers. “I have some materials I have to put together for tutoring tomorrow.”

We walk together to the elevator doors, still chatting softly about Chloe and Donovan and how happy we are for them. Stacy reaches toward the gleaming elevator button, but before she can press it, the doors swing open on their own.

“Excuse me,” a deep male voice says making me go still.

Familiar dark eyes lock on mine. My hand flies to my chest, my heart already thundering against my ribs. “It’s you!” I gasp.

Chapter 19

Eric

There she is! My angel, looking even more beautiful than I remembered in a faded gray hoodie and yoga pants hugging those legs that won’t quit.

“It’s you!” she gasps.

For a moment I’m positive that I’m back in that hospital having another vivid hallucination about my dream girl, because what in the world would she be doing at Donovan’s apartment?

But then she moves, her blonde hair catching the shimmering sunlight off the windows nearby, making it gleam like spun gold.

This is no dream.

I feel drunk even though I haven’t had a drop of booze. But I don’t know how else to explain the euphoric feeling that’s just settled over me. I came here to apologize to Donovan for the mistakes I’d made and tell him how much I want to change, but instead, I found the woman of my dreams waiting for me.

I knew instantly it was her. It’s not like I could ever forget that face. There are some things that just stick permanently in your mind. That embarrassing thing you said in front of your fourth-grade class. The first time you truly felt proud of yourself. When you got locked out of your apartment in nothing but your boxers right after high school graduation. And the face of the first woman you go crashing head over heels for.

I’ve been seeing that face in my dreams since the day we met. How many times did my mind wander back to that night, wishing with all my heart that I hadn’t let her slip away?

This is fate, pure and simple.

It’s been weeks since our tryst but somehow it felt like mere seconds and an eternity all at once.

Before I can help it, I’m moving toward her as fast as my legs will carry me. We may only be a few feet apart, but any amount of space is too much when it comes to this woman. I don’t care how lame this makes me, or that I won’t leave her wanting more like Donovan always says I should, but I’m throwing myself at her one hundred percent.

Nothing matters but feeling her in my arms one more time. Her eyes are shining like sapphires and her lips are curved into the most beautiful, radiant smile that I’ve ever seen. She looks just as ecstatic as I am about our reunion.

Could she have been searching for me too?

Our bodies collide with passionate force. She leaps into my arms. Her messy bun unravels, letting her hair tumble around me. The other women and the apartment beyond them disappear, just like it did the first time I laid eyes on the angel in front of me. I don’t feel the floor under my feet, nor do I hear the elevator whirring behind me.

All that I see is her.

And now that I have her in my arms, I don’t plan on ever letting go.

Chapter 20

Morgan

My heart is pounding so hard that I don’t hear the confused gasps of Stacy or Chloe behind me. The sound of my heart against my ribs drowns out everything, even my own thoughts.

He’s here!

How is this happening?

I can barely comprehend the fact that after finally coming to grips with never seeing him again, my rockstar has magically appeared right in front of me. Not only that, but he’s excited to see me. So much so that he’s just swept me off my feet.

Why would he be this enthusiastic after he totally ghosted me?

His chest is heaving as he crushes me to him, his dark-as-night eyes scouring mine with fiery intensity. Even though I have a thousand questions, the moment I’m in his embrace they all disappear.

He looks down at me, his arms just as powerful as I recall. My own arms loop around his neck, my fingers running through his silky hair. He has a bandage on his hand but he seems to have forgotten it.

Slowly, he slides me down his chest so that my toes touch the floor, but our arms remain locked tight around one another. I want to ask him why he didn’t call but I can’t get the humiliating words out. My lips are desperate to kiss him again, but I’m also eager for answers. The last thing I need is to make a fool out of myself after finally finding the courage I need to restart my career from scratch.

I study his handsome face. He looks so overjoyed that it can’t possibly be an act. His expression is of pure delight, not just the face of someone who’s excited about the potential of another hookup.

My entire face feels hot, like I’ve flushed to a thousand degrees. I’m sure my cheeks are bright crimson. I suddenly remember my horrible outfit and start to get embarrassed, but he’s looking at me like he’s dying of thirst and I’m the only oasis for days.

Has anyone else ever looked at me this way?

If they have, I’ve never cared. Not like this.

He looks like he wants to devour me, and I want to let him.

“Please,” he begs, “tell me your name.”

Confusion settles over me. “My name? But I left you a note with my name and number.”

“The note got ruined before I could read it,” he answers in that gruff voice that makes my body shiver. “You have no idea how much time I’ve spent looking for you. I kept going back to that bar just hoping to catch sight of you again.”

“That’s all I’ve wanted too,” I answer, unable to suppress my emotions.

How long had I fantasized about this moment?

About kissing his lips once more, holding him, feeling him, stripping every inch of clothing off his strong, muscled body . . . I stretch onto my tiptoes as his palms graze my back, feeling the dimples of my spine beneath my thick hoodie. His hands wander me, reacquainting with the curves of my body.

His lower lip is pinched beneath his top teeth, a soft growl rumbling from his throat. He cups my cheek before his fingers slide behind my neck and weave through my hair, his powerful arms pulling me harder against his chest, so hard that not even a small breath of air would be able to part us.

Before I can beg for a kiss, his mouth descends on mine. His lips possess me as he lifts me back into his arms, my legs twining around his hips. We cling to each other desperately, our tongues dancing with renewed passion. Heat pulses through my body, making the hall wobble dangerously back and forth. My legs would have gone to jelly had he not been holding me so firmly against him. My hair falls in a sheet around our heads, blanketing us from the prying eyes of my completely stunned friends.

Eventually I’ll explain this to them, but for now I can’t be bothered to tear myself away. I want to soak up every second of this man. I’d almost convinced myself that I’d dreamt him up after I left the show that evening and never heard from him. But here he is, as delicious and passionate as ever.

Somewhere far off beyond the haze of our shared joy, the elevator dings once more and a man in a suit ambles out into the hall. Donovan Dunn pauses, bewildered eyes taking in the scene of us embracing in the hall.

“Eric?” he asks, his tone more stunned than I’d ever thought possible of the stalwart man. “Morgan? What the hell is happening right now?”

Chapter 21

Eric

Slowly, I lower the beautiful woman in my arms back to the floor though I keep my arms tangled tight around her waist to prevent her from going too far. She seems just as keen to stay close to me, her head resting on my shoulder as she melts into me. She fits just as perfectly into my arms as she had on that night.

I just barely register my best friend in the hall, his head shaking slowly back and forth. Donovan, who still looked absolutely puzzled, slowly eases by us to wrap Chloe in a tight hug before pressing a kiss to her waiting lips. Then he turns back toward me and this beautiful woman who I can’t seem to tear my eyes from.

Donovan clears his throat. “Eric. Morgan. You two know one another?” he asks with uncertainty.

“We met at his show,” Morgan answers with a laugh before suddenly sucking in a sharp breath.

Her eyes, which had been brimming with delight, now suddenly darken. She whirls on me, half pulling away though I instinctively tug her back into my arms. She doesn’t resist, though her gorgeous smile melts into a slow frown.

“You’re Eric?” she asks with a suddenly wounded tone. “The Eric. The jerk who stood me up for our blind date? If you had come then we would’ve been reunited sooner!”

I flinch, abruptly realizing that my angel had been waiting all that time for me to show up and I’d blown it.

“He would’ve come,” Chloe interjects while I’m struggling to answer, “but he was just so hung up on this beautiful girl he met at his concert that he didn’t want to go out with anyone else.”

“Is that true?” Morgan asks softly.

I nod, biting my lower lip hard. “I was . . . I am . . . still hung up on you. All I’ve wanted these last few weeks was to track you down. It’s been killing me knowing I let you walk out of my life.”

“He was a real hot mess,” Donovan smirks.

“Yes, we’ve established I have problems,” I grumble at him, playfully glaring over Morgan’s head.

Morgan. What a beautiful name for a beautiful angel. My angel.

Her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink, a pink that reminds me of wild roses and sweet cotton candy and delicate silk. She is so entirely beautiful that it hurts to look at her, and every time I blink, she only grows more intoxicating.

I realize with a start that she’d been preparing to leave when I showed up. Had I stopped to grab a coffee or wallow in my sadness over losing the agents at the Lancaster Stadium show, I would have missed her entirely. I would’ve shown up at Donovan’s to apologize and then gone home to eat Chinese takeout all alone while trying to keep up my resolve not to drink.

The thought makes me shiver. The world is both cruel, and randomly generous. As luck would have it, I now stand here with the woman of my dreams in my arms, the taste of her kiss still on my tongue. It’s a taste I want to savor forever.

I know it’s crazy to be thinking in terms of forever when Morgan and I only just learned each other’s names, but I can already tell that she is the one.

My one.

It’s impossible not to feel like our chance meeting is more than blind luck.

It feels like it’s destiny . . . like fate.

There has to be some greater force in the universe that made our paths cross like this. Whatever that might be, I will be eternally grateful for it.

It’s true that if I’d shown up the other night at La Folie, Morgan and I would have been reunited, but I still would’ve been a disaster—the walking embodiment of a ticking time bomb. I’d still be drinking too much and avoiding my issues. Instead, I had that horrible night and the conflict with Donovan that I still have to apologize for. It was awful, but I’m strangely grateful for it.

That night, I hit rock bottom and I learned a lot about myself in the process. I’d like to think it was fate that kept us apart until I was ready to appreciate this beautiful woman in my arms to the fullest extent. I feel now that I am more worthy of her time and her heart. That may not have been the case had I found her earlier.

I turn to her, cupping her face with my good hand. I gaze wholly into her loveliness. Her eyes shimmer, a blue so clear that I can see all the way to her soul, which is just as beautiful as the rest of her. “I want to take you out on a proper date, Morgan,” I say softly, savoring the way it feels to finally say her name. “I know that I don’t deserve it after losing your number and standing you up the other night, but it would make me beyond happy to get a second chance with you—”

“Yes!”

I’d been prepared to grovel and beg for a second chance, but before I can even get that far, she throws her hands up into the air with vigor and nods.

“Yes!” she cries again smiling so bright it stops my heart. “I would love that, Eric.”

I wrap her up in my arms again, my heart soaring so high that I feel like I’m walking on air. Every other problem in my life feels so insubstantial now that I’ve found Morgan. With her by my side, I feel like I can handle anything.

I tip her chin, greedily stealing kiss after delicious kiss while we cling to each other.

Chapter 22

Morgan

As though it was the most natural thing in the world, Eric reaches for my hand as we walk side-by-side. He looks both ways across the busy street, waiting for a break in the traffic before dashing across with me clutched close to his side, his laughter like music in the air.

His strong fingers remain locked tightly around mine, making me feel more secure and safe than I think I have in my entire life. Just the feeling of holding his hand is enough to make my breath lodge in my lungs.

I can’t help the wide smile that spreads slowly across my face or the pink flush of my cheeks. I can’t believe I still feel this way after two weeks with him. The newness hasn’t worn off and I have a feeling it won’t. I smile at him and he kisses the back of my hand. The gesture floods me with nostalgia. It’s something my mother used to do.

When I was a little girl and I missed my mom, I used to hide in the attic of our house in Kansas and dream of my future. I dreamt of being a model in some exotic place—glamorous and carefree, just like the gorgeous girls who graced the magazines we used to look at. I kept them stashed in the attic so I could flip through the pages and feel closer to my mom. I dreamt of how proud she’d be if my face one day was on the covers of those same magazines. And I dreamt of the handsome man who would be at my side through it all.

Even though my modeling aspirations haven’t quite met what I thought they would, the man by my side is even more perfect than I ever could have envisioned, and I wouldn’t trade him for all the success in the world.

Being with Eric is like being on the most thrilling roller coaster of my life. That feeling of my stomach in my throat is constant, making me dizzy in the most delightful ways. I only wish my mom could meet him and see how happy he makes me.

In the warm sunlight, his dark eyes are dappled with silver flecks that make me lose my breath. He pulls me against his waist so his arms can slide around my hips, his fingertips lightly brushing over my curves. It’s another beautiful afternoon just like the first day he brought me here.

I can’t believe our first date was weeks ago already. We’d been so eager to make up for lost time that we went out the day we found each other at Donovan’s. Without time to plan anything, Eric took me to his favorite restaurant, Syd’s—which happens to be a greasy burger joint that has become our spot.

One bite of that juicy burger and I was hooked. When Eric first took me to Syd’s I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a burger. But those days are far behind me now. I’m working on rebuilding my image. I still want to pursue my dream of modeling, but I plan to do it with a much healthier and more confident image.

Today, as we walk toward the tiny burger shack nestled between two towering brick buildings, a strange sense of surety grips me. The scent of fried food is thick in the air and a long line of people trail ahead of us toward Syd’s, where I know a lone man is flipping burgers and serving up piping hot fries.

“You sure you wanna eat here again?” Eric asks. “It’s our two-week anniversary. We can go somewhere nicer.”

“This is perfect,” I answer honestly, beaming up at Eric.

His face reflects my own smile. I don’t think either of us have stopped glowing since we found our way back to each other.

He gives my hand a squeeze. “A model who eats burgers . . . how did I get so lucky?”

I laugh. “Lucky for you I’m the kind of model who quits agencies and eats what she wants.”

“You doing okay with all of that?”

Eric knows it hasn’t been easy. I told him all about my past with Hanson and the direction I want to take my career. Incredibly, Eric has been nothing but supportive.

“Actually, I’m even better than okay. I’m with you,” I say planting a kiss on his lips. “Plus, I hadn't even realized how much that agency was bringing me down until I left. I was depressed when I was there, but now I feel like I can breathe again. I feel rejuvenated and ready to take on the world.”

“That makes me so happy,” he answers sincerely.

I think that’s part of what I enjoy most about being with Eric. He can be so funny and almost childlike in the most entertaining way, but he can also be sincere and genuine. I’ve never met anyone who can both make me laugh until I cry and also make me feel so very heard and seen.

He and I have lightly broached the events of the last few weeks that left his hand wounded, but I hadn't wanted to push him into discussing things that perhaps he didn’t want to with someone he’d only just met. I knew enough to see that he’s trying his best to give up drinking and become a better person, which is something that I admire with the utmost respect.

Eric may not see it yet, but I see how much he wants to change, and I’m willing to support him in any way I can. And, to be fair, I probably drank a bit too much as well. I’d made a fool of myself at La Folie, after all. That’s why I made a pack to quit with him. It was good for both of us.

“Are you worried about the performance at Lancaster Stadium?” I ask as we edge closer to the burger shack.

He’d called me earlier before our date to say that the doctor cleared him to play with his injured hand as long as he wore a brace.

“Nah,” he says slinging an arm over my shoulder. “As long as I’ve got you by my side, I know everything’s gonna be perfect.”

I grin as we fall into step with the long line. It may take us an hour just to order our food, but it’s an hour that he and I can spend together. I’ve got no complaints about that. Plus, the fragrance of the food here is addicting.

Even though I enjoy decadent food from time to time, in my heart I’m a homegrown kind of girl who enjoys the simple things in life. Being a model is fun because I can dress up in glamorous gowns and play a part for a little while. But what I really love is stripping it all off to climb into a pair of Eric’s oversized sweats and cozy up on the couch with him. That seems to be just his speed as well, which makes me even happier.

All I’ve ever wanted is to spend time with the one I love.

Love? Is that what’s blooming in my heart right now?

All I know for sure is that I can’t wait to find out. Every second I spend with Eric feels incredible. Our relationship is so new, but it feels strong, like the bud of a flower just beginning to spread its roots. Only time will reveal what kind of blossom will grow, but I have every hope that it will be everlasting.

I nuzzle my head against his strong shoulder, feeling the warm weight of his cheek against my forehead. Silence falls over us, but it isn’t heavy or awkward. It’s comfortable. For the first time in my life, I feel like I don’t have to ramble on just to fill gaping holes in the conversation.

“What’ll it be?” the man behind the counter asks as we finally approach. His cheeks are ruddy from the heat of his grill but he looks to be thoroughly enjoying himself back there.

“Two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, please. Oh, and lots of cheese sauce!” Eric says eagerly, glancing toward me. “Anything else?”

“Make mine a double! And do you have bacon back there?” I ask, sniffing the air, my mouth watering.

Eric laughs and then gives an inspired nod, hugging me closer against him. “You better make both of those bacon-doubles.”

He pays even though I try to fish out my wallet and then we step aside to wait for our order. While waiting, Eric spins me around to the music playing in the background. I laugh and snuggle against his chest, swaying to the song as his arms settle around my waist, his forehead resting against mine.

“I’m so damn excited about this,” he whispers softly, as though he were sharing a secret.

“About the burger?” I tease. “Me too.”

He chuckles heartily, hugging me tight before his lips descend on mine. The kiss instantly deepens, his fingers delving under my blouse to stroke my back and crush me against his powerful body, leaving me gasping by the time we part for air.

“No,” he says simply. I can see in his eyes that his heart is on his sleeve and for the first time, so is mine. “I’m so damn excited to be falling in love with you.”

My heart throbs against my chest as I take in his statement. I feel the same way too, but I’m terrified to admit it.

But not Eric. He’s not afraid to say what he wants. “I can’t wait to see what the future holds for us, Morgan.”

For once, someone is on the same page as me. He wants what I want, to cherish one another for as long as we can.

Tears in my eyes, I simply lean up to demand one more kiss, the first of forever.

I’ve never dated someone like Eric. He’s so fearless with his emotions. I wonder if he’s always been this way. All my past relationships taught me to hide my true feelings, never get attached. I love that he’s breaking me of that, because what I feel for him is beautiful and I want him to know. So, I show him, the only way I know how—pressing my lips to his.

Chapter 23

Eric

Every kiss with this woman makes me feel like I’m floating higher and higher. As I soar, there is no fear of crashing back down. There is no hesitation at being so buoyant. Loving her comes as naturally to me as breathing.

There’s something about being next to Morgan that makes me feel strong and weak all at once. I’m certain she makes me the best version of myself, but the thought of losing her cripples me. She’s my everything.

I’ve already memorized every curve of her delicate lips and how they fit against mine, but I still bask in each kiss like it’s the first time. Like now, when our kiss ends, I savor it as she hides her face against my chest while she waits for her heart to recover. I can feel it beating against mine as we sway together, the sun warming our shoulders and the fragrance of burgers tingling our noses.

I can only hope I didn't just make a mistake in saying what I did, but I’d made a promise to myself once I got out of the hospital. I was no longer hiding my feelings. Whatever I felt, I shared, and whatever I needed to say, I said. Life was too short to live any other way.

Contemplating, I try to decide whether I should apologize for being so forward, but then Morgan’s feet shift just slightly and the angel in my arms tips her head up. I hold my breath, searching her expression for a hint of what she’s feeling. Though her eyes are shimmering with tears, she has the happiest smile I’ve ever seen on her lips.

Relief washes over me in an instantaneous wave. I should’ve known she would understand where I was coming from. If there’s anyone who completely gets me, it’s her. I have no idea how this connection of ours has been established so effortlessly and so quickly, but it has. I’m already beginning to wonder how I managed to survive without Morgan in my life.

“I’m excited about this too,” she answers shyly, blushing in that gorgeous way she does.

Softly, I kiss her forehead and stroke her cheek just as the man behind the counter grunts my name and pushes a tray toward us.

I grab our meal and usher her to a nearby table underneath a faded rainbow umbrella on the back patio. Our knees brush as we sit, making sparks dance across my thigh. I’ve never felt anything like this before. I’m so enraptured by her presence that I can hardly eat.

I’d never been one to believe in magic, but it’s impossible not to feel that it’s real while I’m sitting next to Morgan. Every pore on my body is tingling and every hair stands on electric edge. She, at her very essence, is my own personal angel, sent to save my soul.

I smirk with deep satisfaction watching her wolf down her burger, then lick her fingertips. When she catches me staring, she goes bright red.

“Sorry. I didn't realize how hungry I was,” she explains bashfully.

I shake my head and kiss her cheek. “Watching you eat is the only thing better than experiencing this piece of heaven on a bun for myself,” I answer, finally taking a bite of my burger and sighing deeply.

We finish our meal as the sun is slowly going down, a cool wind rippling between the city.

“My place or yours?” I ask, standing up and clearing our plates.

“Mine.”

She sinks against my side, my arm looping around her waist. Together we stroll down the sidewalk, taking our time even though her apartment is only a few blocks away. We circle around the building, once, twice, before finally coming to a stop in front of her apartment. I’m not sure why we do this every time. Maybe it’s that it’s hard to be alone in her bedroom together and not tear each other’s clothes off.

Morgan and I haven't spent a night apart since we officially started dating, but we also haven’t had sex again. We talked about it and both want to take it slow—which is easier said than done.

I still feel awful about how wasted I was the first time we were together. She deserves the best of me and that night had been anything but.

I know waiting is the right choice for now because I want it to be special this time, but damn is it hard. This is the first time that I can remember that I haven’t instantly jumped into bed with a woman I’m into—even though we’d already technically slept together.

We’re not holding off for any particular moment. We’re just waiting until it feels right.

Morgan gazes at me, the corners of her lips twitched into the most beautiful little smile and I can’t resist her for a moment longer. I scoop her into my arms, claiming her mouth with a decisive kiss that she eagerly returns. Her fingers run through my hair, a faint moan of pleasure rising through her throat.

I kiss her until I can’t breathe and then I kiss her some more, unwilling to sacrifice anything that would part me from her delicious lips.

“Will you stay again tonight?” she asks breathlessly when we finally part, her eyes glittering with uncontained excitement.

I nod. “And the day after that, and the day after that, as long you’ll have me,” I shoot back playfully, earning a giggle of delight as she hugs me tightly.

Even though this date has been simple, it’s perfect, and it’s the single best date I’ve ever gone on—though I think that about all the days we spent together.

There’s no possible way for life to get any better than it already is.

Sometimes, I suppose, things fall apart so better things can fall together.

Fate is such a curious thing. It brought us together and then ripped us apart only to reunite us again. I owe fate from the bottom of my heart for bringing Morgan into my life.

Notes begin to quietly play in the back of my mind as I ponder this, strings of words slowly coming together.

Fate would make an excellent song title. If I work hard, I could probably finish it before the big stadium show . . .

Epilogue

Morgan

Lancaster Stadium is filled to the brim with people. I’ve never seen so many cheering rock groupies in my entire life.

“Thank God Eric got us these VIP seats!” Stacy says with a laugh. “We’d be smooshed like a tin of anchovies down there.”

I nod in agreement, too excited to speak as I stare down over the heads of the crowd. We have a perfect view of the stage where Eric is going to be performing any minute. Eric was insistent that we have these special seats close to the stage. He didn't say as much, but I think it’s because he wanted to finally have his turn at providing for me and our friends in a way similar to Donovan. He doesn’t have as much money as Chloe’s boyfriend, but he has just as much heart.

Almost five weeks have passed since Eric and I officially started dating, and we have been inseparable since. We split time between his home and mine, but we are together day and night. The intimacy that we share is unexplainable. He already seems to have such a solid grasp of my heart, I feel at times like I don’t even have to say how I’m feeling, he just knows.

Chloe and Donovan stand nearby, lost in the world of each other. Though I’d been envious of them before, now I understand exactly how they must feel when they look into each other’s eyes and everything else fades to black.

“They’re so cute,” Stacy mumbles with a pout. “When will it be my turn to have something like that? Both you and Chloe have found love.”

I laugh and give her a little hug. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your time will come. You’re too amazing not to score a catch!”

She slowly smiles, hugs me back before the booth door swings open and Eric walks in, followed by his two band members. He walks directly to me as though no one else is there. Looping an arm around me, he bends me backward, planting a deep kiss on my lips.

“I needed that for good luck,” he whispers against my lips with a smirk, making me want to swoon.

“Can you guys believe how crowded it is out there?” James asks, shouting despite the fact that we can hear him just fine.

“Logan and Reggie have been promoting the show,” Eric explains. “They wanted to give us a packed house.”

“Well, it worked!” I say with a laugh.

Eric nods, his face overjoyed. Even though he told me that the agents bailed on the show, he’s still determined to play his heart out up there. He hasn’t told his band yet, but I have a feeling it won’t keep them down for long. Even without agents scouting the show, the band is sure to get some good exposure with a crowd like this.

“This is the first time I’m playing without a buzz,” Alex says nervously as the men get ready to head back to the stage.

It was incredible how supportive the band was. They decided to quit drinking when Eric admitted he had a problem.

Eric cuffs Alex playfully on the shoulder, smiling at his bandmate. “Then that means we’re gonna be able to rock all the harder.” He turns back toward me for one more kiss, which I relish. “Besides, you’re the only drug I need, baby,” he whispers with a wink before his band pulls him away.

I blush and watch him leave, my heart thundering against my ribs as it always does when he’s near.

Alex and James had apologized for destroying my note. Had they realized how good we would be for one another, they’d said they never would’ve done such a thing. I accepted their apology immediately. There was no reason to be upset with them, not when Eric and I were finally together.

“Have you told Eric yet that you’ve gotten a few auditions for modeling?” Stacy asks when I take my seat beside her again.

I shake my head. “I wanted to wait until after his big show. Besides, they’re just small auditions.”

“But they’re something, and you’re doing this all on your own. You should be proud of that,” Stacy says firmly.

I smile at her and nod. I’d heard through the grapevine that Hanson went under shortly after I quit, which was a good thing, as the remaining models in his agency including Charlotte, had all gotten blacklisted due to his shady business practices. I, on the other hand, remained free and clear.

Though I hadn't gotten my big break yet, I could sense it coming. I’d never been good at being patient, but this time I had a positive path in my life to keep me focused on forging ahead instead of worrying constantly.

That familiar, amazing voice of Eric’s drifts across the stadium as he and the band take center stage, making the crowd go absolutely wild. They chant Eric’s name, making his entire face gleam with raw delight. I’d never seen someone so happy, nor had I ever felt so entirely happy for someone else. Watching his dreams come true right in front of me fills me with more joy than I ever thought possible.

“That’s your man!” Stacy cries as Eric and the band rock out, belting out their songs with so much heart that all of us end up on our feet, dancing and screaming along with the songs. By the time the concert is winding down, my throat is raw and my legs are tired but I’ve had so much fun I don’t even care.

“Encore, encore, encore!” the crowd chants.

Eric laughs, glancing toward his band, then to the VIP area where we’re all standing. “Alright,” he says coolly. “I’ll play an encore, but it’s not gonna be anything you’ve heard yet. I’ve met someone special, and I wrote her a song. Would you guys like to hear it?”

I turn bright red, my hands flying to my cheeks as the crowd again goes crazy, clapping loudly. A few people grasp at their hearts, their faces elated for me and the sweet gesture. I feel like I’m dreaming. I can’t believe Eric wrote me a song.

Alex leads in, his drumsticks peppering a beat that James joins.

Still gazing over at me, Eric winks and then grins before starting to sing. “Fate, baby, it can be a cruel thing . . . saw you dancing in the crowd and needed to bring you closer.”

Eric lets go of his guitar and reaches toward me, his grin going even wider as he gestures for me to join him on stage.

Is he crazy?

“Come on, Morgan!” he calls, “Get up here with me!”

All too eagerly, my friends push me forward over the small wall separating us from the stage. Before I know it, I’m grabbing Eric’s hand as he pulls me up on stage. The crowd starts to scream, calling both our names and oohing and awing at the sight of us dancing together just like we did at the dive bar.

The jumbotron overhead lights up with our faces as we dance together. Eric takes me in his arms, continuing to sing.

“But fate is what brought you back to me and now I’m not ever saying goodbye. You’re my one and only, my whole life.”

Every word is a Cupid’s arrow right to my heart.

When it’s over, the crowd again goes wild and starts demanding another encore.

“Sorry, everybody, but I’ve got more important things to do right now.” He winks at me and pulls me in for a kiss. “I’m sure you understand,” he says playfully into the mic.

With that, we all head offstage. He scoops me into his arms as soon as we’re behind the curtain, spinning me and kissing me deeply.

“Did you like the song?” he asks.

“It was amazing!” I gush, still high on adrenaline. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard!”

“And I believe it’s going to be a hit,” says a voice from nearby.

We turn to see a woman with a slick black ponytail and a business suit. She grins at us with red painted lips. Behind us, Chloe, Donovan, and Stacy rush backstage to congratulate the band on their amazing show.

Though I have no idea who the woman is, Eric suddenly drags in a shuddering breath. “You’re Melinda McCreery! You’re with one of the top record labels in the country!”

The woman grins. “Reggie Smith gave me a call. He said if I missed this then I’d be missing the opportunity of a lifetime. He was right. I want to sign you and your band.” Melinda pauses and gives me a good look over. “And you, have you ever considered modeling?”

I almost laugh but her face is so serious that I choke on it. “Yes! I’ve got a portfolio and headshots and everything—”

Melinda cuts me off with a shake of her head. “I won’t need any of that, I just need you. You’re going to be the face for the album and advertising campaign I want to put together for the band.”

Eric’s hand suddenly finds my waist as I stumble, almost blacking out from pure elation.

Is this real life?

“I run an advertising group in town if you need help with the campaign, Mrs. McCreery!” Donovan interjects. “I’ll volunteer my services, anything to support my incredibly talented buddy, here,” he says grinning at Eric.

Melinda smirks and nods, handing out her card to each of us and promising to call in the morning. “I have a feeling with this team; we’re going to make billions.”

As she leaves, I turn toward Eric and we wrap each other in a tight embrace while sharing kiss after kiss. This is it, I realize. This is our dreams coming true. Chloe and Stacy had been right. All I needed to do was keep the faith.

Delighted tears streak my cheeks as Eric and I grin at each other.

“Dreams do come true,” he whispers in his own state of shock. “We have each other and now we have this opportunity.”

“It’s all thanks to a little faith and fate,” I reply softly.

Eric’s eyes are tender as he presses another long kiss to my lips. “I love you, Morgan May. I’m beyond grateful for everything that’s happened recently, but the only thing that really matters is having you in my life.”

The happy tears in my eyes swell with warmth. “I love you too!” I cry out, eagerly stealing one more kiss.

No matter what tomorrow may bring, I have faith that the love between Eric and I will last. We’ve got fate on our side, after all.

— E — N — D —

Do you want to know what happens between Eric & Morgan behind closed doors?

Download The Exclusive Content Here

Also by Christina Benjamin

THE BILLIONAIRE BOYFRIEND SERIES

Sebastian: A Clean Billionaire Romance (Book 1)

Cooper: A Clean Billionaire Romance (Book 2)

Donovan: A Clean Billionaire Romance (Book 3)

Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance (Book 4)

Jacob: A Clean Billionaire Romance (Book 5)

YOUNG ADULT CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

(All Boyfriend Books are Stand-Alone Novels and can be read in Any Order)

The Practice Boyfriend (Book 1)

The Almost Boyfriend (Book 2)

The Goodbye Boyfriend (Book 3)

The Holiday Boyfriend (Book 4)

The Stand-In Boyfriend (Book 5)

The Maybe Boyfriend (Book 6)

The Accidental Boyfriend (Book 7)

The Summer Boyfriend (Book 8)

The Wedding Boyfriend (Book 9)

The Winter Boyfriend (Book 10)

The Lost Boyfriend (Book 11)

About the Author

Author, Christina Benjamin, lives in Florida with her husband, and character inspiring pets, where she spends her free time working on her books, eating chocolate and drinking wine.

Christina is best known for her bestselling Young Adult romance novels, The Boyfriend Series, which proves that book boyfriends are like chocolate... you can never have enough. Check out the Boyfriend Series for fast, fun, YA romance reads. These destination novels let you fall in love in a new city with new characters, every time. 

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For more information visit:

www.crownatlanticpublishing.com

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Jacob: A Clean Billionaire Romance

Chapter 1

Jake

Rain showers down overhead as I dive through the fogged glass of the apartment building’s double doors. The lobby of the luxe uptown flat has plush but currently sodden crimson rugs lining the long hall with ornate golden baseboards. It’s a bit garish for my taste, but the security team the building offers to its select occupants makes up for it.

I trot over the soggy rugs to pristine marble, two fingers pressing against the base of my neck to make sure my pulse is still high enough. My lungs burn in the best way, a satisfied grin tugging at my cheeks.

Feet squeaking across the slick tile, I plunge a silver key into the mailbox labeled Jacob Eckhart and hastily rip a short stack of envelopes from within, thrusting them under my arm.

I don’t look at them right away, focusing on counting my footsteps instead. I’d jogged all the way back to the apartment once football practice ended, opting to cram a bit more conditioning in despite the rain.

Working out is my escape.

In the midst of sweat, a pounding heart and burning muscles, I can forget everything—and there’s a lot I want to forget.

Football and the raw dedication I put toward it is what keeps my mind from creeping down into those dark alleys I want to avoid. Plus, my entire livelihood hinges on my body being in a state of peak physical perfection at all times.

Whenever I have a free second, I drop into a quick set of crunches or stretches or sit-ups. Even during the offseason when some of my teammates take vacations or some time off to relax and soften up around the middle, I only train harder.

I have to keep fit if I'm going to stay the most valuable tight end in NFL history.

There’s a certain amount of pride I have in my football rankings every year, not to mention that there’s always someone younger and more energetic than I am nipping at my heels and trying to displace me.

Unfortunately for them, they don’t have the drive or the internal longing to succeed that I do.

Those rookies haven’t experienced the harsh realities of this cold world like I have. They also don’t have someone depending on them like I do.

I have to succeed.

There’s no notion inside my mind of simply trying to do my best. I don’t subscribe to the c’est la vie attitude. I have to come out on top so that I can maintain a stable career. There’s just no other option. Ryan needs me too much.

A pang of sudden grief stabs through my heart as I stare down at the letter on top of the stack in my hands. I suck in a deep breath, feet slowing to a halt underneath me. I blink hard, willing the addressee on the envelope to vanish, but the stamped name remains clear as day.

Instead of jogging up the six flights of stairs to my apartment—our apartment—I push a hard finger against the elevator’s button and wait.

I don’t remember the last time I took the lift to my penthouse suite, but my feet feel like they’re frozen in concrete blocks. I can’t move. I don’t need this today. I need to keep moving, keep pressing forward, but my chest feels like it’s caving in as I try to catch my breath.

The letter is addressed to Jenny Eckhart. A red stamp across the front of the envelope reads, you’ve been selected for a one of a kind deal!

My fingers ache to crush the spam letter into a crumpled ball, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not while staring at my older sister’s name embossed on the front.

Junk mail. It’s always the random grocery store coupons or unsolicited credit cards that still come for her. I canceled everything else when I forwarded Jenny’s mailing address to my own after her abrupt passing last year.

Has it really already been a year since our lives were turned upside down?

It feels like mere days and endless centuries all at once. I still can’t imagine life without her, but it feels like she’s been gone so long that she was never even here to begin with.

Sometimes I catch Ryan staring at her photo and I wonder how the little man is taking it. He was only five then, but now he’s six and reminds me so much of Jenny that it’s hard to look at him at times. He’s a good kid, nothing like myself when I was that age. He’s smarter than I was. Probably because he had Jenny as a mother, and she’s the smartest person I ever knew.

She was a lot of things to a lot of people, and all those things were good.

She was good—an angel in human form.

And now she’s gone and I'm the legal guardian of her son, my nephew.

Together, Ryan and I moved some of the things from their old apartment into my penthouse. At the time, I swore up and down it was only because I wanted Ryan to feel as comfortable in his new home as possible, but it was also because it’s nice to feel close to Jenny, like some part of her still lives on in her belongings.

Her framed photos are now tacked on my walls, pictures Ryan drew on the fridge, and Jenny’s favorite photo of me in my football gear as a sweaty ten-year-old beaming after practice on the desk.

Ryan moved his secondhand racing bed and soft as silk pillows into what used to be my office. I’ve done what I can to make it feel like a little boy’s room, but the walls are still white and boring. They don’t quite fit Ryan’s personality, but if he minds, he hasn’t mentioned it.

I’m sure he has more pressing things on his mind—like missing his mom.

While Jenny was alive she rarely let me help her with bills, even after I made it big in the world of professional football. She was always determined to make it on her own. The one thing she did allow me to pay was the tuition to some fancy school in Manhattan for Ryan. While she would never accept cash or expensive presents on her own behalf, nothing was too good for her little boy.

I was glad to do anything to help her and Ryan. It was the least I could do after everything she did for me when we were kids . . .

The ding of the approaching elevator disrupts my swirling thoughts.

I finally collect myself enough to move safely into the gold-plated lift. Once inside, I turn to press the button to my floor while absently thumbing through the rest of the stack of mail. The rain-streaked world floats by as the elevator climbs the glass channel to the penthouse. I gaze out the windows to the streets below as an eerie feeling settles over me.

The rain is still coming down in sheets, making the windows fog.

A shiver curls up my spine, just like it always does every time it pours like this.

The weather was just like this that day—the day that changed everything.

I remember it like it was yesterday . . . I was in the middle of running drills when we stopped for a water break. I don’t remember the specific conversations I’d been having, but I remember laughing with the guys and Coach. I remember being so proud of myself for how I was performing. It’d only just begun to rain, water and sweat soaking me through.

Then I saw I had over a dozen missed calls from numbers I didn't have saved. I was used to the odd fan calls or messages, but there was something about the sheer number that made my entire body go cold. My stomach was in knots before I even picked up the phone, Coach’s whistle fading into numb emptiness behind me. I didn't hear him shouting my name to get back on the field as I listened to voicemail after voicemail. At some point I sank down to my knees, all energy zapped from my body.

The unknown calls were all from reporters asking what I would do now that my sister was dead and my nephew was orphaned.

That’s how I found out my best friend, my sister, the woman who raised me, was gone forever.

Jerked back to reality by the memory, I wheeze slightly and grab hold of the elevator rail to keep myself standing.

It’s been almost a year and that wound is as fresh as the day it ripped through my heart.

I can tell Ryan is still struggling too. He’s just a little guy but he’s already been through so much.

The elevator finally rises high enough that the windows disappear, replaced with solid walls that block out the rain. I return my attention to the mail. I come to a stiff envelope within the small pile. It feels like it was starched at a laundry mat, but the swirling handwriting on the front is surprisingly delicate. I don’t realize it’s from Ryan’s hoity-toity school, where he’s recently started first grade, until I rip open the envelope and see the familiar St. James emblem embossed across the top of the letterhead.

Good afternoon, Mr. Eckhart, the letter begins in that same warm scrawl. I'm writing this because I’ve attempted to leave a message with you a few times, but your voice mailbox is full.

Fair point. I stopped allowing messages after the horrific day when I found out about Jenny.

I’ve also sent home a few notes with Ryan that were meant to be signed but I have a feeling you haven’t seen them.

That was also true. I didn't nag Ryan. I liked to let him feel like he had control over some things in his hectic life.

I urgently need to speak with you regarding Ryan. If you could call St. James Academy at your earliest convenience, I would deeply appreciate the chance to speak with you. Thank you, Miss Davis.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I finish reading the first-grade teacher’s letter.

No kid is perfect, especially a six-year-old who’s gone through what Ryan has, but I know I have to at least try to take this letter seriously. Jenny would want that.

She was the kind of person who would give anything and do everything to make sure the people she loved succeeded. That’s what made her such an amazing parent—something I am not.

It’s just that becoming a father was never something I’d even considered before now.

My focus was football, women, parties and my bachelor lifestyle. I loved and cherished Jenny and Ryan too, but that was a separate kind of love.

Now, I'm completely lost, adrift in a sea of parenthood I never could’ve seen coming.

Jenny and I don’t have any other family. Growing up we only had each other to depend on, and with her being six years older than me, she raised me with a hand way more delicate than our mother’s ever was. While alive, our parents wanted little to do with us. When they died while I was still fairly young, I barely noticed the transition to my sister becoming my fulltime guardian.

It’s strange to think that I’m now following in her footsteps. Did she feel this ill prepared? She was younger than me when she had to step up and raise me, but someone I doubt she ever felt lost, like I do now. I close my eyes and Jenny’s fierce dark eyes sear my memory. Ryan has those same eyes.

God, Jenny, I don’t want to fail you, but I need some help here.

My sister always knew what to do. She was the one who pushed me to go to football practices even when I didn't want to and she was the one always at my games cheering me on. I owe my entire career and sense of passion for the sport to her.

So when it came down to Ryan either being forced into foster care or me stepping up to the parenting plate, I had no other choice.

I took him in, believing that I had enough money to make this whole ‘dad’ thing easy enough. I could buy nannies (who may just happen to be gorgeous) and that would be good enough. Right?

I stare down at the letter from Miss Davis.

Apparently not.

I’m finding out the hard way that to be a dad, you actually have to know a thing or two about kids. I’ve always believed money solves everything, but it hasn’t helped heal the holes in our hearts.

When the elevator doors glide open, I step out and nudge my cell from out of my pocket. Even after all this time I wince when I look at it, still seeing all those voicemails on my phone even though I’d replaced my old cell with some fancy new high-tech device that tells me where Ryan is at all times.

For Jenny, I’ll call Miss Davis and I’ll hear her out.

I dial the number printed on the school’s letterhead. The phone rings in my ear, the hollow sound knotting my stomach.

I'm amazing at football. That’s just the solid truth. But it’s only because I follow the playbook Coach lays out for me.

Why can’t being a father be that simple? Where’s my playbook now?

Chapter 2

Stacy

Even though my back is turned toward the flock of six to seven-year-olds while I scribble away on the white board, I can hear their giggles and the flick of paper notes being tossed from one corner to the other, whispers quietly rippling in their wake.

I bite back a laugh of my own, continuing to write simple math equations across the board. I remember what it was like to be that young; more interested in chatting with my friends than in what the teacher was trying to demonstrate. But I'm determined to connect with these young minds and help them learn a thing or two while they’re part of my class.

This is my life now. I can hardly believe my dream has finally come true.

I’ve spent many long hours studying and working as hard as I could to get here, and now I'm a teacher at one of the most exclusive private schools in the state of New York.

My family thought I was insane when I went back to school for my master’s in education, claiming that I could get a job that was ‘just fine’ with a regular bachelor’s degree.

But I knew I wanted more than just fine.

I wanted to go beyond public school. I wanted to be part of an education system like this one. Not to mention that the paycheck is better.

It’d better be, if I plan to ever pay off my endless student loans!

It’s not like the St. James job has me rolling in cash, but at least I can finally contribute my fair share toward rent for the apartment I share with my model roommate Morgan and her rockstar boyfriend, Eric.

Most days it feels more like I live alone since Morgan and Eric are constantly traveling across the country for his gigs and her modeling jobs. They’ve even had a few international tours, sending me photos of them in Ibiza or the beautiful Italian countryside.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little jealous of their success both in life and in love, but I'm also really happy for them, as well as our other roommate Chloe, who moved out a while ago to live with the billionaire love of her life.

I sigh as I write equations on the board that make me start to tally up how much I owe my roommates. It’s not like Eric cares about covering the rent for our apartment. He’s probably making as much as Chloe’s boyfriend does with how well his band is doing . . . but that’s not the point. I don’t want someone else to have to pay my way, even if it’s not a big deal to them.

Growing up as one of eight children to a set of very overworked and budget-conscious parents, I learned to provide for myself early on. I grew to love that self-reliance. I'm proud of it. And now that I finally have the means to do so, I intended to pay Eric back for all the months of my rent he covered over the last summer.

Setting down my marker, I turn back to the children. They all straighten in their seats as angelic smiles light most of their faces. They’re hardly innocent, but I’ve got to admit they’re pretty adorable and good at playing the part.

Most of them, anyway—except for Ryan Eckhart.

He sticks out like a sore thumb, his mop of dark hair turned toward the window, his chin in his palm. He noisily taps his pencil against the wood of his desk, the point already worn down. A few irritated glances are thrown his way by the other students. His school uniform, supposed to be pressed and clean, is wrinkled and smudged with dirt from where I saw him playing in the grass before school.

I watch his deep brown eyes follow the trail of raindrops slithering across the glass window panes.

“Ryan,” I say gently, waiting for him to blink and come back to reality, but he just keeps tapping his pencil and staring out the window.

The other kids watch my interactions with Ryan like a hawk, eager to see if there’s any sort of weakness in my methods of discipline. Growing up surrounded by nannies and pampering, the students at St. James Academy are used to manipulating those around them, but I refuse to let them see a chink in my armor. If I'm going to connect with them, they can’t see me as someone they can walk all over.

I move around my desk to look at the young boy, hands finding my hips. “Ryan,” I repeat. “Ryan Eckhart. The rain cannot possibly be that entertaining.”

He stiffens as the sound of my voice pierces the haze of his daydream. His eyes shift to lock on me but his face stays slightly turned away.

“What do you want?” he asks irritably, leaving me dumbfounded.

The students snicker, heat pooling to my cheeks.

As a new teacher, I’ve had a tough time commanding the attention of the children this year and this is not going to help. If only Mr. Eckhart would actually answer his phone once in a blue moon so we could work out some sort of plan for the poor, distracted kid sitting in front of me now.

Even though I expected the transition from public schools to an elite prep school to be bumpy, it’s been rougher than I could’ve estimated. It’s like the kids can sense that I don't belong amongst the other teachers who’d once been students here and were social elites themselves. They seem to sniff out that I’m from a lesser social status than them. It’s probably a skill they picked up from their parents while they lounge in their mansions and order around their maids and butlers.

Okay, I know I’m being a little ridiculous . . . but the kids here, even the well-behaved ones, are spoiled. It’s obvious by their Louis Vuitton pencil bags and the way they gaze at me down their snooty button noses.

But I'm not here to be a pushover or to be treated with disrespect.

I'm here to help these kids not only learn a lesson or two about education, but about how to be decent young people who can make positive changes in the world. They’re going to leave my class with a new definition of humanity whether they like it or not.

Before I can rebuke the dark-haired young man who’s gone back to staring out the window, I hear the sound of a throat clearing behind me—an all too familiar sound that makes my skin crawl.

I don’t have to turn around to know who it is, but I do anyway after arranging a polite smile on my face. I'm glad I set down my marker, otherwise I’d be gripping it so tightly it may have snapped right in two.

Principal Eugene Walton, about as attractive as his name makes him sound, glowers at me from the doorway. A ruddy and round man, he has perpetual dollar signs in his eyes. He doesn’t care about these kids as much as he cares about the ridiculous paychecks he receives from their parents for tuition. It’s tiresome to work under a man who cares so little about the children, but I know not every boss is going to be flawless and good-intentioned.

Sometimes you just have to pick your battles and bite your tongue, and I’ve been doing an awful lot of that with Principal Walton.

He and I have already had a few ‘altercations’ regarding the way I like to teach my students, but I’ve done the best I can to follow his strict set of rules, within reason.

* * *

I have no idea what I’ve done this time to bring him and his quivering jowls to my room.

“Miss Davis,” he instructs snidely, jerking his chin toward my door.

“I’ll just be a moment, class,” I say with a smile, hoping they can’t sense how much I dislike the principal, but I know that kids are more perceptive than most would think.

I follow Principal Walton out into the hall and close the door behind me. The hardwood presses against my spine as a lean against the door. I can hear the familiar sound of chatter and giggles from behind it.

“Miss Davis,” he hisses again, dropping all presumptions of niceness as his ruddy face blooms bright crimson, “how many times must we discuss the illustrious reputation that many of our students’ parents have?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, baffled.

“I'm speaking, of course, about Jacob Eckhart. He called this afternoon saying that you . . .” Eugene gulps in a rasping breath of air and fanned his face as though whatever I’ve done is unthinkable, “. . . that you mailed him a letter regarding young Ryan’s performance?”

“Oh. Yes,” I answer simply, brows lifting when Principal Walton folds his arms like he’s waiting for an explanation. “I mean, you’re aware I’ve tried to send Ryan to detention multiple times.” Tried being the keyword because Principal Walton always sent Ryan back within seconds. “He speaks back to me in class and refuses to participate. I thought maybe a conference with Mr. Eckhart would clear things up.”

“Mr. Eckhart is a celebrity and a renowned football player with the NFL, Miss Davis,” spits the red-faced man as though I’m supposed to be impressed, “and you will treat him as such.”

I try to remind myself to keep calm, but irritation fizzes in my stomach like a shaken can of soda that’s already starting to spring loose. “A celebrity? Meaning that he can’t be held accountable for Ryan’s actions? Ryan needs a guiding hand—”

Principal Walton lifts a hand and cuts me off, his eyes turning to slits. “I'm only going to say this once. You are not to personally contact any of the parents from this moment on without my precise permission. If you continue to behave improperly, I will have no choice but to dismiss you from my staff without further references. Are we clear?”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. I can’t lose this job. It means too much to me. I’ve worked so hard to get here and I don’t want to fail.

Plus, I know what Principal Walton is saying. He’ll blacklist my name if I piss him off, something I'm sure he’s done to countless other teachers before me. Now we’re not only talking about my future here at St. James Academy, but my future as a teacher anywhere. If I get myself fired, I’ll probably have to move overseas to try and find another teaching job, and that’s assuming Eugene’s ire doesn’t follow me across continents.

When it came to Eugene Walton, you could never be too sure.

“Crystal clear,” I whisper back, sagging against the door when the principal finally turns and marches away.

I close my eyes and drag in a tired, shallow breath.

How am I supposed to make a difference with these kids if I'm constantly being held back?