“In a few weeks,” Hillary said, picking up her glass again. “We’ll figure it out.”
But when Sydney sighed and admitted, “I’m still worried about Grandma’s health,” Hillary didn’t answer. She just squeezed her sister’s hand and passed her the last slice of pizza.
The next morning, Hillary made her way to the arena. When she arrived, it was still half-asleep, the echo of her heels sharp against the concrete floors. Staff bustled here and there, hauling equipment and setting up barricades, but the hush of early morning still lingered. She tightened her grip on her bag and squared her shoulders. Today was going to be intense. There was no room for error.
She met Northern Star’s manager in the VIP lounge, the man already flipping through a clipboard with schedules and production notes.
“Hillary,” he greeted warmly, shaking her hand. “We’re all set for the day, but I did add one thing.”
Her brows lifted as he slid the page toward her. At the bottom of the evening rundown was a new note:VIP section: players visible during concert.
“They’ll be shown on screen a few times,” he explained. “Helps tie the collaboration together. The band loves giving crossover moments to the audience.”
Hillary made a neat checkmark beside it, her professional smile practiced and easy. “That’s fine. I’ll coordinate their seating.”
As she tucked the page back into her folder, an unbidden thought surfaced. Murphy. The image of his face lighting up at the concert, his joy so open it filled every space around him. Her lips twitched before she could stop them. He’d be pumped.
She exhaled and turned toward the empty arena floor, forcing her focus back to the task ahead. Sasha and the players would arrive soon, and she needed to be ready.
Still, the quiet gave her too much room to think.
Murphy had been surface-level ever since she’d told him he needed to be. Nothing but smiling, polite, and professional. Only what their roles required.
She should be relieved. That was what she’d asked for, wasn’t it?
But all she felt was the ache of absence. The warmth of his attention, the way he’d once lavished it on her so easily, was gone. And God help her, she missed it.
The echo of voices grew louder as the players filed in with Sasha at the lead. Hillary braced herself, slipping her professional mask firmly in place. Today had to run smoothly. No distractions.
Her resolve cracked the second Murphy stepped through the door. He was carrying a cup of coffee. Without hesitation, he walked right up to her.
“I thought you could use this,” he said, handing her a warm cup of coffee.
Her heart gave a treacherous squeeze. She tried—tried—to bite back her smile, but it curved her lips anyway. Sasha noticed, of course. Hillary could feel her watching, though she mercifully said nothing.
Before she could scold herself for being too obvious, the doors swung open again, and the members of Northern Star entered, flanked by their team. The room shifted instantly. The staff leaned in, players straightened, the whole energy buzzed with star power.
Hillary smoothed her skirt, spine straight. She shook hands with their manager, then the band members, reminding herself not to be starstruck. This was just another job. Another partnership to manage.
But when she caught Murphy’s face. His eyes were wide, practically glowing with excitement. She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. He looked like Christmas had come early.
The other guys played it cool. Wes and Ethan cracked jokes, already at ease. Conner and Cash shook hands like the leadersthey were, practiced and steady. And Murphy . . . Murphy looked like he could wag his tail.
“Let’s get started,” the band’s choreographer said, ushering them onto the stage. Sasha and her assistant positioned themselves with cameras, already rolling.
The first run-through was chaos, but fun. Wes and Ethan fell into the rhythm like they’d been born for it, goofy but natural. Conner and Cash struggled, stiff at first, but managed to look effortlessly cool even while missing steps.
And then there was Murphy.
Hillary’s pen nearly slipped from her hand. He was good. Like, really good. The guys had teased him about being a bad dancer, but he was keeping up, working the moves, down to a hip roll that had her cheeks heating instantly.
She remembered all too well what those hips could do.
A flush crept up her neck, and she ducked her head quickly, scribbling nonsense in her notes.
“You okay?” Sasha’s voice was close, pitched low. “You look hot.”
Hillary’s eyes widened. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, clearing her throat. “Just thinking about . . . camera angles.”
