“Here you go.” Martin pops up and hands out room keys. “Where’s G?”
“Bar, of course,” Jon says, and he snatches a second key. “I’ll go fetch.”
“Listen, Martin,” I step closer and grab his elbow. I pull him away from Jakob, who mouths a Swedish curse at me. “I hear Evergreene is in town and that you might know where they’re staying.”
Martin’s eyes dart around us, presumably for prying eyes or ears. “I might.”
“I need to know where they’re staying,” I say. “Or specifically, where Cassie Everard is staying. Her room number.”
A series of emotions flicker over Martin’s face: shock, confusion, and then tentative understanding.
“I might know,” he says. “But Pia, you have to promise me?—”
“Best behaviour,” I say, placing a hand on my chest. “I promise.”
“They’re at the Astoria. All the penthouse suites.”
“Fucking hell, Martin,” I say and gesture around at the admittedly nice, but certainly not Astoria-level opulence of our surroundings.
“You sell out a tour, get a number one album and then we’ll talk,” he says, and then he’s grabbing his luggage and walking towards the elevators.
I don’t mean to fall asleep, I really don’t. But I barely slept last night, and our flight was an early departure, and apparently, lying on a bed, strumming love songs about a people-pleasing, blonde English rose is some kind of sedative for me, so when I wake, the only light in the room is the city lights outside. It takes me many minutes to realise where I am, to establish what time it is –5:40am – and to realise that I’ve slept for more than twelve hours.
Parched and with a growling stomach, I go to the bathroom and drink three glasses of awful-tasting water – it’s one of the few things I miss about Sweden – and then quickly brush my teeth. As I do, I walk to the hotel room’s door and see a piece of paper has been pushed under.
I pick it up, open the door and look around. There’s nobody there, but a stack of the day’s newspapers is piled up on the mustard-yellow carpet. I gather them up and then return to my room. Once inside, I dump the papers on the bed and open up the folded piece of hotel notepad paper.
1622
That’s all it says, but that’s all I need. I smile and make a mental note to not be a total bitch to Martin for the next five months.
After rinsing out my mouth and drinking another glass of water, I call room service and order everything they’ve got for breakfast. I’m told it won’t be ready for another hour, so I ask for coffee in the meantime. I strip, put on the hotel dressing gown and then get back in bed, with my cigarettes and the newspapers.
I flick through the headlines half-heartedly. The Iranian Revolution continues. Hurricane David has claimed more lives in Dominica and the Dominican Republic. Björn Borg is still pissed off about being knocked out of the US Open, which maybe I could call my brother about, but I don’t, telling myself that it’s because it’s already working hours in Stockholm and he won’t be home.
I’m lighting my second cigarette when I turn a page in theNew York Timesand see five figures that stop me in my tracks. No, that’s a lie. Only one of the people in the black-and-white image halts my breathing and has the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
It’s Cassie. Wearing the smock-style dress she’s famous for, the way the wind blows leaves no part of her body to the imagination. The material clings to her curves like they’re shelter in a storm. Her hair is also blown back by the breeze, making the heart-shape of her face more noticeable than usual, pronouncing the lines of her jaw and the set of her brow. She’s standing in the middle of the five men, hands on her hips, stance wide, looking strong and proud and defiant. But it’s not her pose or her stance that makes me freeze in place.
She’s not standing alone. There are arms wrapped around her waist, and a man’s head towers above her halo of blonde hair.
Stephan Greene has Cassie Everard in his arms.
The other Evergreene men fade into the background of both the photo and my focus. I can’t take my eyes off the way Stephan Greene has his hands on Cassie.
The article’s headline says it all: “Evergreene Back on Tour … and Back in Love?”
CHAPTER 18
CASSIE
For once in my life, I understand why the lads have smashed up more than a few hotel rooms.
I am absolutely furious.
“My God, Stephan!” I throw the newspaper at him as he lies on my hotel bed like he belongs there, which he absolutely does not.
“Jesus.” He gathers the newspaper, finds the reason for my outrage and shows it to me, very unnecessarily. The image is burned into my retina, unfortunately.
