Even so, shock must be written all over my face. When Jake steps back out in an unbuttoned black dress shirt over a white tee and black skinny jeans, he hurries toward me.
“Hey. What happened?”
I bite my bottom lip guiltily. “I read the comments.”
“Oh, Lex.” He sinks into the couch, pulling me into his lap. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Shrugging, I toss my phone back into my purse. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll set my profile to private. Or delete it.” I’ve just opened the app to do so when the screen goes black, and I realize I completely forgot to charge my phone earlier. “Seriously, it’s fine,” I reassure him, lacing my fingers through his. “I’ll take care of it later. Let’s drop it, okay? Tonight is about you.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but offers a half smile as he pulls me closer. His lips brush against mine gently, just as Kenneth, the makeup artist, sidles up beside us.
“All right, that’s enough, lovebirds. It’s time to get Pretty Boy into the makeup chair.”
ANOTHER HOUR PASSES BEFOREJake is scheduled to take the stage, and he’s growing more restless by the second. He paces back and forth across the small dressing room, mumbling to himself, yanking his hands through his hair, circulating through the entire catalog of Jake Taylor Twitches I’ve come to know so well. Finally, he wanders over to the couch, plopping down with a heavy sigh. He picks up an orange from the fruit bowl on the coffee table, staring at it intently as if the peel holds the answer to the meaning of life. Then he sighs heavily and puts it back.
“What is it?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he’s thinking.
He collapses against the back of the sofa and drags his palms over his face. From the corner, Kenneth cringes.
“I’m worried they’re going to hate the album,” he finally confesses. “What if I really am a one-hit wonder? What if this album bombs and I have to listen to my dad gloat about how he was right all along? I’m telling you, Lex, I don’t think I have it in me.”
I reach across his lap, taking both of his trembling hands in mine.
“You are not a failure,” I say firmly. “You are the most talented person I know, and this new album is going to be great. Everyone is going to love it just as much as I do. Just as much as I…” Words begin to rise in my throat, words too scary to say out loud. I bite my bottom lip before they can escape. Fortunately, Jake seems too preoccupied to notice, and I quickly recalibrate.
“You know what my dad used to say?”
Jake drags his hands off his face to look at me.
“What?”
I lower my voice and do my best impression of dad’s heavy New York accent.
“Never let the bastards get you down.”
A beat passes, and then Jake bursts into laughter. He collapses against the back of the couch, clutching his stomach as he gasps for breath. I lean in, relieved to see him smile. But I also feel a twinge of guilt at the thought of my dad. Things have been so busy lately that I’ve missed our last two Friday calls.
Jake fixes his gaze on me again. Those penetrating brown eyes are looking right through me.
“You’re the best,” he says. “Seriously. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
I squeeze his hand. “You’re not too bad yourself.” Which is an understatement, to say the least. It’s crazy how quickly my feelings for him have deepened over the past two months. How he’s gone from being a charming weekend fling to the center of my entire world.
“Now come on,” I say. “Let’s go give the people what they came for.”
THE AFTER PARTY IScrowded and loud, the venue filled to the brim with all the usual suspects. Music execs. Influencers. Bravolebrities with tummy tea brands. Magenta lights flash over the dizzying chevron-print floor. Music floods the speakers. I’m scanning the room for Jake, whom I haven’t seen since his performance ended an hour ago. Just then, a tuxedoed waiter materializes in front of me, holding out a silver hors d’ oeuvres tray.
“Moroccan beef spring roll?”
“Absolutely.”
I pick one off the tray and pop it in my mouth, pausing to appreciate the explosion of flavor and parse out the ingredients. Paprika. Cumin. Ground beef. I’ll probably go with lamb if I try to recreate it.
I’ve just helped myself to a second one when I finally spot Jake across the room. He’s leaning against a pole, deep in conversation with Vinny. For a moment, I study him, admiring the way his arm muscles flex as he runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks up, catching my eye. His face melts into an expression so full of affection that my skin tingles. I cross the room toward him.
“There you are.”
He wraps an arm around my waist, leaning forward to kiss me. I press into him, nuzzling my nose against his neck. Vinny mumbles something about checking in with security about a Jared Kushner sighting, and excuses himself. Jake barely seems to notice.
