"That means Luna may have foreseen Tara's Prince Charming too," says Zaza, lifting her glass. “Let's drink to that."
I force myself to roll my eyes. But secretly, I'm intrigued by the idea of this man.
We toast.
"Thanks for taking me out, guys. You're the best friends I have in New York."
"We're the only friends you have in New York, California girl!” Zaza cackles, signaling for another bottle of Prosecco. "And we're totally bummed you're going away for two months."
"Working at the Patriot Hotel's going to be amazing, though," I say, trying to shift the focus from prophecies to reality. "Historic Nantucket landmark, celebrity hangout. The tips should be incredible."
"Just don't come home with some smelly fisherman," Keesha says, wrinkling her nose.
“That was the old days. Now, Nantucket is loaded with billionaires during the summer months,” Zaza says. "Be sure to bring a spare one home for me."
We all laugh.
"I'll do that, Zaza," I say, raising my glass.
But as the bubbles hit my tongue, I think of Cameron's cobalt eyes, the electricity when our hands touched, and the strange prophecy.
What if that fortune teller is right?
CHAPTER 3
CAMERON
"Hey man, we have to celebrate somewhere more upscale than this," my drummer says, waving a bottle of Jack Daniels above his head like a trophy.
"No." I adjust my guitar case against the cracked red vinyl booth. "Here is where it began. Here is where we stay."
The guys grumble but go back to their shots. I tune them out and scan Mickey's Deli—same peeling Broadway posters, same flickering neon, same smell of pastrami and late-night dreams.
Twenty years ago, at this very table, I signed my first contract with Maxwell Sterling. It was the night I traded freedom for fame.
These guys with me aren’t my original bandmates. Those brothers are gone—burned out, sold out, or worse. The men here tonight are pros for hire, and I don’t blame them. That’s the business.
Milo Holmes appears beside the table in a sleek Italian suit, camera already out. Maxwell Sterling’s golden boy. Always documenting, always watching.
"This is where history was made!" he declares, snapping a selfie with me before I can object. "To finishing our world tour and starting the next one in September!"
The toast is halfhearted. When the others drift into shop talk, Milo slides into the booth, his grin softening. "You doing okay, Cameron?"
"Yeah," I say, fingers tapping my guitar case.
He gives me a look. Milo’s been around too long not to notice. "Come on. Spill."
I glance at my so-called bandmates. They’ll never understand. But Milo might.
"It’s not the money," I tell him quietly. "It’s the music. I need to get back to something real. Something raw. The kind of songs I started with."
"Freedom," Milo says, like it’s a foreign word.
"Exactly."
"You feel trapped?"
I take a deep breath. "If I do, it's my own fault. I've played it too safe. But now that the tour’s done, it’s time for a new direction."
