I didn’t do anything wrong. But it doesn’t matter. The photo exists. And Delilah saw it.
By the time I land tomorrow, she might already be gone.
I spend the rest of the night calling her, texting her, leaving voicemails that probably sound desperate because I am desperate.
She doesn’t answer any of them.
TWENTY-ONE
DELILAH
Penelope Waters is standing in my flower shop like she owns the place.
Which, technically, she doesn’t. But she’s the Mayor’s wife, and she’s got the posture of a woman who’s never been told no in her life.
“I was hoping we could chat,” she says again, when I don’t respond.
Ruffy is still growling, low and steady. I put my hand on his head, more to steady myself than to calm him.
“The shop’s about to close.”
“This won’t take long.” She walks toward the counter, heels clicking on the hardwood. “I wanted to talk to you about Levi.”
My stomach tightens. “What about him?”
“I’ve been thinking about our little conversation at the gym. About what you told me ten years ago, the night before you left town.” She pauses, lets her gaze drift over the flower arrangements like she’s evaluating them. Finding them lacking. “Do you remember?”
I remember. I remember crying in her kitchen, spilling everything, telling her why I had to go. I was young and stupid and she seemed sympathetic.
I didn’t realize she was collecting ammunition.
“That was a long time ago,” I say.
“Was it? Because it seems like nothing’s changed.” She sets her phone on my counter. “You’re still running. And Levi’s still going to get hurt.”
“Penelope...”
“I’m not here to lecture you.” Her smile is warm. Almost maternal. It makes my skin crawl. “I’m here because I think you deserve to know what you’re getting into.”
She pulls out her phone slowly, deliberately, like she’s savoring the moment.
And there it is.
A photo. Levi and Mia Monroe, the pop star with the perfect face and the kind of polish that comes from professional stylists and expensive skincare. She’s got her arms wrapped around him, herface tilted toward his like she’s about to kiss him. His hand is on her back. His expression is…I don’t know what his expression is. Surprised? Guilty? Happy?
The headline reads:Levi Cole’s New Romance? Rock Star Gets Cozy with Pop Princess Mia Monroe.
My chest goes cold.
“This was taken during his last trip to LA,” Penelope says. Her voice is soft. Sympathetic. “I thought you should know.”
I can’t stop staring at the photo, at his hand on her back and the way she’s pressed against him, at the way he’s not pushing her away.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s all over the internet, honey. Has been since this afternoon.” She tilts her head, and the light catches the pearls at her throat. “He didn’t tell you?”
No. He didn’t tell me. He texted me about clouds shaped like ducks and Lucky Susan and how much he missed me. He didn’t mention anything about a pop star with her arms around him.
