Zara lifted a hand to my arm and squeezed gently. “Honey, he’s a rockstar. Every rockstar has a past, and a reputation?—”
“And well earned.”
I heard a voice call out from behind me and turned my head. The woman who spoke looked as disheveled as I felt—her dress askew, metal-hair bedhead, and her makeup doing a great raccoon impression. Her smug tone grated on me, as if she was trying to shatter my fragile hope.
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling defensive. I didn’t like this stranger butting into our conversation and especially didn’t like her talking about this man who’d been the star of a very special night for me.
The look she gave me was a mixture of confusion and pity. “Oh, honey … you don’t think fuckin’ one of these boys meant something, do you?”
My heart fell. Yes, actually—I had. Memories of the night before flew through my brain at light speed, followed by waking up alone this morning, searching the beach house tofind no one from the band, and not even a note left by the bed. The absence of any trace of Jake felt like a betrayal, and I hated how much it hurt. I felt foolish waking up hoping I’d find him next to me, wanting to spend more time with me.
“Hey, shut the fuck up. You don’t know what went down,” Zara said, standing up and getting into the woman’s face.
She threw her hands up in a motion of surrender and backed away. “Hey, I’m just saying. It’s not like a rockstar’s gonna bang a groupie and give her his phone number. Trust me.”
“Why? Because you make the rounds?” Zara’s voice was getting nasty. I had to do something.
Standing, I put an arm between Zara and the disheveled woman. “Hey! Stop it. We’re both suffering from morning-after syndrome. Don’t get your back up.”
The woman pressed her hand over her hair, trying to tame the mess. “It’s nothing personal. I just wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. Especially if he didn’t give you his phone number or ask for yours.”
It was true. There’d been no exchange of phone numbers, emails, or even snail mail addresses. No way to contact each other. He knew where I went to school, who my best friend was, and that’s it—none of that would aid him in contacting me. The realization hit like an icy wave, washing away any residual warmth from last night, making me shiver in the early morning heat.
“Just get out of here, bitch!” Zara snarled at the disheveled groupie. The woman straightened her dress strap, shrugged and walked off.
Taking Zara’s hand, I pulled her down to the chaise and sat next to her. For a minute, she didn’t meet my eyes, staring at the beach instead. When she looked at me, I could see her heart. Her empathy was a lifeline, but it didn’t erase the sting.
Had she liked Rowan, too?That didn’t seem like my BFF. She was usually more into the laissez-faire lifestyle.
“He left a few marks?” I meant on her heart, but the grin on her face said she was thinking differently.
“Oh, yeah. It’ll take a few weeks for those bruises to fade?—”
“Zara!”
“Oh, don’t act innocent now. You and Jake came back from the beach in the middle of the night looking like a couple of sand pancakes flipped too many times.”
She was right. I’d been flipped—a lot.
“Not anymore, I guess,” I said, feeling the sadness of his leaving like he did. “What do I do now?” I asked her, unsure of how to recover from this.
Zara squeezed my hand and smiled. “We go to our hotel, shower and change for the day. Then hit the beach, drink margaritas and readPride and Prejudice.” Her plan was a balm. A return to the comfort of the familiar.
I shot to my feet. “Yes!” Darcy would make this better. He madeeverythingbetter. But even as I agreed, I wondered if Darcy’s perfection could ever compare to Jake’s raw—and real—intensity.
eight
. . .
Al Roker’s Cousin
“Well-made pancakes are better than sex.”
~ Zara Quinn
Emily
“The hell are you doing in there?” Zara's voice boomed behind my bedroom door. She tried the knob only to find it locked. I’d been hiding from her demanding nature, wanting to sit in the corner and lick my wounds alone. The solitude was my only defense against the ache in my heart.
