She held my gaze for another beat and slowly nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I have a hard time saying no to you apparently.”
Something in my chest eased. “Okay. It’s settled, but can I still come to your show tomorrow?”
“Of course. You're already on the VIP list.” She winced. “Fair warning—my parents will be there. They don't make every show, but they try to come when they can. Hopefully, that won’t make it weird.”
“Not weird at all.”
She gave me a look. “Even though we're not actually dating and they think we are? You realize they're going to have questions, right?”
I couldn't help but laugh. “I think I can survive pretending to be your adoring fake boyfriend for one night. I've been practicing.”
She snorted. “Yeah, but this time, you'll be under full parental interrogation.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout's honor.”
She cocked her head, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Were you actually a Boy Scout?”
“Absolutely not.” I held up three fingers anyway. “But I look trustworthy when I do this, right? Plus, I'm great with parents. Moms adore me. Dads usually ask for fantasy football tips and try to act intimidating. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”
She shook her head, laughing. “You’re something else.”
“And yet you're still agreeing to spend Christmas with me.” I leaned back, too pleased with myself. “So really, who's winning here?”
She shook her head. “Don't make me regret this.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
EIGHTEEN
Ellie
“Okay,don’t forget: we changed the order of the first few songs, and the outfit change halfway through is happening later now. Oh, and?—”
“Fireworks are going off right before the last song,” I said. “I know, Rach.”
She gave a big, dramatic sigh. “I know you do. That’s why you’re the superstar. You’ll do great.”
I smiled faintly, settling into the vanity chair as the low hum of the opening act came through the walls.
Rachel hovered for a second longer. “I’ll go check on things out there. Sawyer’s out in the tent, all heart-eyed, waiting for you. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The door clicked shut behind her. My fingers found the familiar weight of silver at my earlobes, adjusting what didn't need adjusting. The woman in the mirror wore my face but someone else's composure—steady gaze, shoulders squared, the practiced stillness of repetition. Someone who had done this a hundred times before.
The door opened again. At first, I thought Rachel had come back, but no. Instead, it was the last person I ever wanted to see.
Harold.
He stepped inside with that same cocky stride I'd once mistaken for confidence and that too-familiar face that now made my skin crawl.
I shot to my feet. “How the hell did you get back here?”
He dangled a lanyard between his fingers, displaying his tour badge.
