I’m wide-eyed, barely breathing.
“You’re stuck with me for the next four months, whether you like it or not. Rehearsing, touring, traveling. Sharing your mic and your bus and your personal space. You can try to keep those walls up, baby, but you should know—” His head bows down and his voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna tear them down. One by one, brick by brick, with my bare hands if necessary. Might take me a week, might take me a month, might take me the rest of my damn life… but I’m not giving up. I’m not stopping. So, go ahead. Avoid eye contact, pretend I don’t exist in front of the guys, act like there’s nothing left between us… I’m not going anywhere. Get used to it.”
His hands drop to his sides and he steps back to let the doors slide closed, cutting off my view of him.
I swear I don’t let out the breath I’ve been holding until I’m safely upstairs, locked in the penthouse, out of his reach and away from the clutches of that magnetic, two-tone stare.
Chapter Nine
felicity
The next fewdays pass in a blur of rehearsals. Things have thawed slightly with the band since our frigid first day, and we’re sounding better each time we run through the set list — not quite up to our former snuff, but getting there. Even Francesca looked pleased when we called it quits last night.
I escaped into the elevator with her, rather than risk getting trapped with Ryder again. It’s impossible to avoid him entirely, but so far I’ve managed to make it back to my apartment at the end of each rehearsal without another heated confrontation. During the hours we’re together in the studio, I maintain a safe distance — never stepping too close or letting our conversations deepen past the shallowest smalltalk.
You were sharp on the third verse.
Let’s run through the lyrics one more time.
Can you hand me my water bottle?
For his part, Ryder doesn’t say much of anything. Not verbally, at least. But his eyes — on the rare occasions I allow our gazes to tangle together — say so much, it sends a shiver down my spine. I get the inexplicable sensation that he’s…waiting. Biding his time.
Forwhatremains a mystery to me.
Rather than drive myself crazy wondering, every day I put all my focus on the music, filling my head with notes and melodies until it’s brimming over, until there’s no room at all leftover for thoughts of the man singing by my side. Every night, when I can’t sleep, I scribble new snippets in my notebook, half-lyrics and song hooks. Anything to keep myself distracted.
So far, it’s been working quite nicely.
Today presents a new challenge, though — our interview with Eileen Dillan, queen of daytime television. It’s my first public interview since arriving back in LA. Heck, it’s practically my first time out of the Route 66 studio since I stepped foot on this coast. Francesca assures me the paparazzi are chomping at the bit for a photograph of me and will be eagerly documenting my every move.
Brassy blonde or not,she warned, with a pointed look at my hair.They’ll be swarming the studio in droves. Prepare yourself.
Thus, I’ve spent my morning at KLINE, a posh new salon on Rodeo Drive. The lavender-haired owner, Harper Kline, is one of the most in-demand stylists in Hollywood these days, with a client list of huge stars. Everyone from Katharine Firestone to Nicole Kidman has been spotted leaving the exclusive hair and makeup studio since she opened last year.
Usually, there’s a six month waiting list to even get a regular appointment, let alone retain her services for a full morning of private pampering. But Francesca wouldn’t be Francesca without her unfailing ability to pull strings — which is how I now find myself staring at my reflection in the upscale salon, admiring Harper’s handiwork with wide eyes. I must admit, she’s worth every exorbitant penny Route 66 is shelling out to cover her daily rate. With my trademark dark locks restored, I finally look like myself again.
Actually… an enhanced version of myself.
Felicity 2.0
Chic mahogany layers cascade around my shoulders in glossy waves. The long, piecey bangs across my forehead are undeniably sophisticated. And there’s something almostsultryabout the way she’s done my makeup. My golden eyes glow in the blue-toned overhead lighting.
“Pretty good, right?” Harper winks.
“Better than good.” I agree, still staring at myself.
“God, I wish all my clients had hair like yours. My life would be so much easier.” Harper runs her hands over my freshly-styled strands, smoothing any remaining flyaways. She smiles when our eyes meet in the mirror. “You could rock the right shade of blonde, don’t get me wrong, but the platinum shade you had when you came in this morning was too severe for your complexion — this deep brown-black flatters your features better. See?” She passes me a hand mirror and spins me around so I can examine my hair from the back. “I added a few lowlights for depth, plus some highlights to frame your face. The bangs are perfect — sleek, sexy. Much more grown up than your look two years ago, but still undeniablyyou.” She grins in triumph. “They’re going to eat you up, girl.”
“Thanks, Harper.”
She turns me back around to face the mirror. “I kept the makeup simple — dewy cheeks, glossy pink lips, glowing gold shadow to make your eyes pop. A fresh face to go with your fresh start.” Her eyes meet mine. “You like it?”
“It’s great. Really. I love the new hair color, and the makeup is perfect.”
She leans closer, her eyes narrowed. “Now, if you’d just smile…”
I make a half-hearted attempt, but it looks more like a grimace than a grin. “Sorry, I’m just…” I trail off.