The only flaw in my plan is the hat. Tucson’s hard water wreaks havoc on my hair, so when I saw a hat near the register, I made my second impulse purchase of the day. Between West’s novel and this hat, I’m collecting things I hate at a rapid pace. And now I’m committed to the bit.
My phone rings with a call from Daphne. “I saved us a table! Are you close?” I ask.
“I accidentally took a three-hour nap. The jet lag hit hard”—she yawns—“but I’m coming.” She’s been on the road doing events for three weeks; it’s no surprise that she’s exhausted.
“Where are you?” I glance at the street below the bar.
“In my room, but I’m coming, I promise.”
“Daph—”
“I’m putting my shoes on,” she mumbles in a sleepy voice.
I run a hand down my green dress and imagine how much easier it’d be to skip this evening than pretend I feel braver than I do. “Go back to bed.”
Tap water runs in the bathroom, and she makes a garbled sound. “Teeth brushed. Shoes on. What am I forgetting?”
“Go back to sleep, Daph. I’ll be fine.”
She hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“At this point, I’ll be mad if you show up,” I say, already planning my exit strategy. If I walk quickly, I can be watching Bravo from my hotel bed in thirteen minutes.
A sense of being watched tickles the back of my neck as I make my way from one side of the bar to the other. I duck into the bathroom and check for toilet paper on my shoe or tags that I forgot to bite off my dress, but nothing about my outfit strikes me as embarrassing (other than this cursed hat).
I swish my dress around my legs one last time in the mirror, check the pockets for my phone and hotel room key, and step back onto the rooftop. A pair of eyes cuts away from me, and paranoia creeps into my lungs.
I make eye contact with Sabrina Lowe, an author who debuted the same year as I did. When I smile, she nods before elbowing the man next to her. He looks at me curiously before turning to whisper something to Sabrina.
I’m not imagining it, then. People are talking.
My knees feel like jelly as I approach the bar. “Two shots of whatever will make me forget this night.” I pass my tickets to the bartender.
I hear a scoff over my shoulder, and when I turn, West’s eyes are cold. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, don’t they?” He tips his beer in my direction, and I see the exact moment his gaze catches on my bare thighs. He does a double take, his eyes tracing the line of my dress up to the low neckline that fits snugly against my chest. “Nice dress.”
He doesn’t sound insincere, but I shift under his heavy gaze, suspicious of the compliment. I cross my arms. “Get on with it.”
He pushes his tongue into his cheek, calculating his nextmove. “Not a day goes by that I regret leaving New York. I saw that there’s a freeze warning this weekend,” he says casually.
I narrow my eyes, waiting.
“Warm tonight, isn’t it?” he continues.
Not particularly. A chill has swept over me as the sun sets, and I’ve been regretting not bringing a jacket. West must feel differently, because he shrugs his off, revealing the T-shirt he’s wearing underneath. I pause, too stunned to react. He tilts his head, his eyes roving over my face like searchlights—hungry, eager for my reaction.
Finally, after several seconds in which I can only blink numbly at his chest, I snap out of shock and grab his forearm. I open my mouth to tell him off when I see the blank skin where his tattoo used to be. A second shock. I drop his arm like I’ve been burned.
“Take your shirt off,” I hiss, low and panicky.
“Now? You don’t want to go somewhere more private?” He lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a sliver of his flat stomach that nearly gives me vertigo. Blazoned on West’s T-shirt is a picture of the actor who plays Fox in theTorchedmovies. He’s wearing honest-to-godmerch. The wordsFox Caldwell Fae Kingare written across the shirt in bold type.
“Not here!” I grab his shirt and yank it down, mortified at my heady response to two inches of bare skin. My knuckles brush against the hard planes of his stomach, a sensation that steals all my focus until a gust of wind carries my hat and the last of my sanity off the rooftop. “You have to leave,” I demand as the bartender slides two shots my way. I shudder as the cinnamon whiskey hits my tongue.
“Have you met my friends?” West gestures to a loud group occupying a table at the edge of the bar. “I’ll introduce you.” Hishand presses on the small of my back, and if my stomach feels like hot coals have been dropped inside, it’s only because of the Fireball.
I lock my knees like a petulant teenager. “Everyone is looking.”
“We’re old news, Darling. No one gives a shit about us.”
