#i’m interested in creighton and annika too

[se-hos]

glyndon has the personality of a wet paper bag i can’t stand this bitch lmao

[anavoliselenu]

Creighton chapter 21

“Hold your horses, you breaking-and-entering fool,” I yell back. I grab my makeup bag and use the concealer to cover the circles under my eyes, and then add a swipe of bronzer over my cheeks and another coat of mascara and lip gloss. That’ll have to be good enough. Logan’s idea of reintroducing me to my roots starts with food at Mr. Burger, the only fast-food joint in town since McDonald’s won’t bother setting up a franchise here. It’s surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, but that suits me just fine. We order and slip into a back booth to wait for the server to bring out our food. The joke around town is that Mr. Burger’s is so slow because they have to go kill the cow first. It’s twenty minutes before two loaded cheeseburgers, seasoned fries, and chocolate milkshakes are sitting in front of us. I haven’t consumed this many calories in one sitting . . . probably since the last time I ate here. This meal is miles away from the decadent steak that Justin ordered in our hotel room. The food is amazing. The company isn’t half bad either. I don’t have much to say, but Logan fills the silence, even though I get the feeling he’s not normally this chatty of a guy. He tells me about coming back to town after leaving the Marines. He won’t say exactly what it is he did in the Marines, so I suspect it was something interesting. He came back to town just days after I left for Nashville, and knew he couldn’t be idle, so he applied for a job at the garage he worked at all through high school. Apparently he spent a lot of his down time in the service restoring classic cars, so Chuck, the prior owner, hired him back on the spot. “When Chuck told me he planned to retire about three months later, I knew that I couldn’t let him sell it to someone else. Coming back to that damn garage was the best homecoming I had. He wasn’t surprised at all that I didn’t want him to sell it to anyone else, and was cool enough to help me buy it from him. I’ve almost got him paid off, so the bank loan for the renovations was a leap of faith. It’s turning out just fine, though.” I’m amazed that in six months he’s managed to buy the place, renovate the whole thing, and turn Chuck’s old garage into a sought-after place for classic car restoration and repairs. To say I’m impressed would be an understatement. It appears that I’m not the only one who’s capable of going after a dream. I’m also slightly stunned that we get out of Mr. Burger without being bothered. I guess I’m not such a big deal, even in my own town. Apparently only Miranda Lambert is famous in a small town. Act II of Operation Reintroduce-Selena-to-Her-Roots takes us right back to the place it all started—Brews and Balls. I should have figured, since it’s really the only place for people to go for entertainment in Gold Haven. The reception I get there is much different than at Mr. Burger. You’d think I’m the returning hero who has been away for years and years, which clearly, I’m not. “Hot damn, look what the cat dragged in,” Benny yells over the percussion of balls hitting the lane and striking pins. He shuffles over as fast as his cane can hold him, and yanks me into a hug. “Hey, Ben. How ya been?” It’s the same way my gran greeted him for years, and it rubbed off on me long ago. He pulls back, lowers the old wooden cane back to the floor to steady himself, and tilts his head to one side. “I think I’m more interested in how you’ve been, Mrs. Billionaire Country Star.” Heat burns in my cheeks. I don’t want to talk about the me that exists outside this town. That’s not why I’m here. “I’m fine. Just taking some time off.” He opens his mouth to ask something else, but shuts it just as quick. I glance sideways at Logan, and he’s giving Benny a hard look. Shielding me from questions? “How about some shoes and a lane, Ben?” Logan asks. The older man nods enthusiastically. “Of course. Anything for my girl here. Except, there’s a catch.” “Ben—” Logan starts, but I interrupt. I know exactly what Benny’s going to throw out as the catch. “I’ll sing one song. But not one of mine.” “Done. Go bowl a few games, and I’ll meet you in the bar later.” We bowl two games, and the easy camaraderie I feel with Logan surprises me. It’s not the heightened anticipation I seem to have every moment I spend around Justin, but it’s also a lot less stressful. It’s just . . . easy. It’s also impossible not to compare the men, one rough around the edges and the other smooth and cultured. Both dangerous in their own way.

I know how to behave around a guy like Logan, and not just because I’ve spent a lot of time with Boone on tour. Logan’s upbringing wasn’t all that different from mine. I can throw sass at him and give as good as I get, all without feeling awkward or trashy. I give as good as I get with Justin too, but when I’m in his world, I lack confidence because I’m totally out of my element. On tour, things were better, but that was him playing in my world. Wasn’t there some old saying about a bird and a fish falling in love? Are we just too different? My thoughts are distracting enough to make me throw a gutter ball. Damn. There goes my three-hundred game, which I’m perfectly capable of bowling, thank you very much. And that’s just another skill a billionaire’s wife probably shouldn’t have on her résumé. I excel at bowling, deep-frying pickles, and singing songs about pickup trucks and broken hearts. I hate feeling like this, so inadequate, and I hate that I’m the one digging the slices in deeper. How can I ever truly be good enough for Justin if I never believe it myself? Annika’s words jab at me again and again. Logan throws a strike, thankfully distracting me yet again. He can also bowl a three hundred. I watched him on plenty of dates when I worked here in school. Just another difference between the two men. Brews and Balls is the kind of place a guy like Logan brings a date. I try to picture Justin here and find it utterly impossible. But I was so determined to shake this place off and never come back, so what does it matter if I can’t picture Justin here? I wanted a bigger life, and I got it. When am I going to get the guts to live it instead of just float along and let the tide pull me in and out? I grab my ball, line up . . . and throw another one into the gutter. Turning away from the lane, I drop into the molded blue plastic chair and rest my head into my hands. “Selena, what the hell?” Logan asks. “I can’t do this. I need to stop thinking. I don’t want to think any more tonight, and this isn’t working.” Logan sets his ball back into the ball return and lowers himself into the seat beside me. Underlying the woodsy scent of his aftershave or deodorant is that combination from the garage—oil, exhaust, rubber, and citrus. It’s not unpleasant. It’s real. But it’s not Justin. “What can I do? How do we get you to stop thinking?” he asks. I can only think of one solution. “Let’s get drunk.” Logan shakes his head. “I’m driving.” “Then I’ll get drunk.” He doesn’t speak for the space of a breath. Finally, he leans his elbows on his knees and looks sidelong at me. “You sure?” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” I may not know the answer to any other question I need to answer, but this one, I have handled. Like a boss. With a shake of his head, he says, “Pick your poison then. And maybe get that song in for Ben before you’re too lit to be able to sing it.” “I think tonight is a tequila kind of night. And I can never be too lit to sing.” I scrunch my brow. “I don’t think. I guess we’ll see.” “Fuck, I know this is a bad idea.” But go along with it, he does. Shots are lined up on the bar, and I forgo the salt and the lime, opting instead to take my shots straight and chase them with beer. This decision is probably one I’ll regret later. Almost certainly. But I’m already feeling the buzz and forgetting to care. Benny is already cuing up a song when I grab the microphone from the stand. I don’t even care what it is. I just want to get onstage, even if it’s a tiny stage in a Podunk bowling alley, because this is one place I feel completely confident. I’m going to sing my heart out tonight. These people may have come to bowl and drink, but they’re about to get one hell of a show. The music that comes from the speakers makes me laugh, a real, honest-to-God belly laugh. Something I haven’t done in longer than I can remember. Somehow Benny always knows where my head’s at. He’s cranked up Miranda Lambert’s “Famous in a Small Town.” I belt out the lyrics and find my happy place. Benny plays song after song, and the tequila keeps flowing. I don’t count the songs or the shots, or the number of people gathering in the small bar of the bowling alley. I don’t keep track of any of it. I don’t notice the whispers of the crowd, the flashing cameras, or later, the people stepping aside to let someone pass. My eyes are closed and tears are welling in them as I sing the last lines to Sara Evans’s “Born to Fly.” It’s the song that started it all on this very stage. A little overwhelmed, I slide the microphone back into the stand and lean over, hands on my thighs, trying to reel myself back in. “Another shot, Selena?” someone calls. I hold my arm out, making a thumbs-up sign. And that’s when I hear a familiar deep voice say, “I think you’ve had enough, my dear.”

You know what plays havoc with a man’s ego? Having a wife who has walked out on him twice. Luckily, my ego is big enough to handle it. But these detective missions to find out where my wife has run off to are getting a little old. Listening to her sing, however, will never get old. I stand at the back of the crowd in the karaoke bar of the bowling alley and get my first look at Selena on the stage where she found the courage to chase her dream. She’s fucking magnificent, and I’m far from the only person in the crowd to think so. These people, who she probably claims as her people, are in awe of her talent. Which they should be. When the last note fades away, I move through the crowd, making my way to the stage. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I don’t think it really matters. My being here should send a message all of its own. “Another shot, Selena?” someone yells over the now cheering crowd, but Selena is bent over at the waist, trying to catch her breath—something I’ve never seen her do onstage. It appears my wife has had plenty of shots tonight. Conscious of all the cameras flashing, I make an executive decision and step up to the stage. “I think you’ve had enough, my dear.” Her head jerks up and she meets my eyes. “That’s not your call,” she says, her words slurring. “It is tonight. We’re leaving.” “I’m not going back to New York. Not now.” I stiffen at her adamant statement. “I think we should save that discussion for when you’re sober.” “Fine. But I’m not done.” She grabs the microphone from the stand and calls out, “How about one more?” The crowd roars. “Let’s take it back to some classic Reba!” Selena yells. “I’ve got a craving for a little something ���Fancy.’” The crowd roars again, this time to a deafening volume. The music starts to play, and I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the song, but I’ve never really listened to the lyrics before. But when Selena sings them, they sink into me one line at a time. Everything she’s said about her mother and running off with men who have enough money to take care of her for a little while comes filtering back into my brain. This song is a message to me, and I think I’m hearing it loud and clear. What I don’t know is how the hell I’m going to get through to her that she isn’t just some kind of ornament in my life. She is my life. Selena isn’t a woman who will be swayed by words. I know that now. She needs me to show her. And guess what? That I can fucking do. Her clear, stunning voice carries the last note for what seems like forever, and the bar thunders with applause and cheering. This time I don’t wait. I step closer, swing her up into my arms, and jump down off the stage. “What are you—?” “I’m taking you home.” “I’m not going—” “To your home, Selena.” “Oh.” Her arms twine around my neck, and she holds on tight while I maneuver us through the crowd and out of the bar, into the lobby of the bowling alley. I feel a tap on my shoulder and glance back. It’s a guy. A big guy. “She’s done for tonight,” I tell him. “You can get her autograph another time, man.” “If I wanted her autograph, I would’ve gotten it when I picked her up tonight.” Everything in me stills. “Logan, it’s okay—” Selena starts. I don’t even wait for her to finish her sentence. I turn and walk for the doors. As soon as she said his name, a seething possessiveness shredded my better judgment. I have to get out of here before I put her down and take this guy on in a way that he’ll understand—with my fists, until one or both of us are bleeding. I’m hoping, if he has any sense, he’ll stay inside. But I hear the heavy booted footsteps behind me as I carry Selena outside to my rental. “You ain’t just coming in here and carrying her out without me hearing from Selena’s lips that she wants to go with you.” I left the car unlocked, figuring that no one was going to steal it. I grab the door handle and rip it open before depositing Selena inside and slamming it shut. She yells something, but I slide my hand into my pocket and hit the Lock button before she can open it. In her drunken state, it’ll take her a few moments to figure out how to unlock the fucking thing. Thank you, Cadillac. I turn and face Logan. “Apparently I’m at a disadvantage, because you know who I am, but I’m pretty sure Selena has never mentioned anyone named Logan.” He crosses his bulky arms over his chest. He might have thirty pounds on me, but I’m used to sparring with Cannon. And there’s the added factor of me being riled the fuck up and defending my claim to my woman. I’m not afraid to bleed to make a point. “I ain’t tryin’ to get between a husband and wife—” he starts. “Then turn around and head back inside.”

He continues as if I didn’t speak. “But I also don’t believe in letting a woman I brought somewhere leave with another man.” I flex my hands and curl them into fists. “Well, you sure as fuck aren’t leaving with her tonight. So you’re going to have to put that belief on ice.” Even in the dimly lit parking lot, I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “If you’re looking to stake a claim on a woman, I suggest you pick one who’s available.” He smirks. “The only reason you had a shot at her is because I didn’t stake a claim.” “Then you missed your shot. The next time we’re in town, I’ll buy you a beer to thank you. Right now, I’d like to get my wife home before she pukes in my rental car.” I say the word wife with undeniable emphasis and satisfaction. “Seems to me a man with a wife like that should learn how to keep a hold on her a little better.” The words aren’t that far off from what Boone said when he ripped me a new asshole several hours ago in Nashville. “You better not keep doing shit that sends her running, or you’re gonna fuckin’ lose her for good,” was Boone’s redneck wisdom. He made his point when he eyed the shotgun hanging above the front door, and when he delivered his final warning. “That girl is one of the good ones. Don’t make her cry, or I’ll be forced to step in and take action. I consider her family.” My explanations placated him enough for him to tell me exactly where she went. Back to the small town she came from is about the last place I would have thought to look, so I owe Thrasher. But I don’t owe this asshole anything. Logan narrows his eyes on me. “This conversation ain’t done.” He jerks his head toward the car door. “But it can wait.” I look at the car as well, and see Selena passed out against the window. Shit. “You know how to get to her gran’s place?” he asks, clearly deducing the problem I’m facing as soon as I do. It’s with annoyance I admit that I don’t have a clue. He’s in the middle of giving me directions when Selena rouses and knocks on the window. Fuck. I recognize that look. I unlock the door and pull it open just in time for Selena to lean her head out and puke on the gravel. I step around the door and gather her hair into a messy ponytail behind her head. A car door opens and shuts nearby, but I’m not paying attention to anything but Selena. Logan reappears, crouching just out of range of the vomit as he holds a bottle of water to her lips. Given the caveman tendencies that spring to life every time I’m around Selena, I should be pissed to see another man helping take care of her, but I’m not. I’m grateful because taking care of her is the only thing that matters right now, not the pissing contest I was engaging in. It’s amazing how simple things become when priorities are highlighted so brilliantly. When she’s finished drinking and puking and drinking again, I smooth Selena’s hair away from her face and tuck it behind her shoulder. She sits back in the seat of the Cadillac and looks from me to Logan. “I’m confused. And drunk.” Her gaze swings back to me. “How the hell are you here? Why?” “I think that conversation is best saved for when you’ll actually remember what I say.” “Good. I don’t know what to say yet . . .” Her words trail off as her eyes slide shut. Fuck. I snap my attention to Logan. “What the fuck did you do to her? I’ve never seen her like this.” “She was trying to forget about you.” His words are like a jab to my gut. I exhale sharply, physically feeling the effects of the verbal sucker punch. “Well, that isn’t fucking happening because I’m not going anywhere.” “Your choice, man, but if a woman asks me for space, I tend to give it to her if the alternative is pushing her away by refusing to give her what she needs.” “What is it with rednecks and their fucking need to dispense backwoods wisdom today?” “I’d resent that if you hadn’t just acknowledged that they’re wise words.” I didn’t mean to imply that, but this Logan guy is apparently smarter than he looks. Selena slumps sideways, on the verge of falling out of the seat, and we both reach out a hand to steady her. He snatches his back when I shoot him a sharp look. Carefully, I sit Selena upright in the seat and close the door. Once she’s situated, I turn to him. That thought about my inner caveman calming down? Total bullshit. I need to make something clear to him before I drive out of here. And considering Selena needs to be in bed five minutes ago, I’ll make it clear without wasting any time. “You see that ring on her finger? That means she’s not fair game, unless that’s the kind of guy you are.” Logan’s head jerks back, and his eyes narrow. “I ain’t lookin’ to poach. I respect that you took vows, but I also know that you don’t have a good track record of keeping ’em.”

Rage boils through me, and I fight the urge to plant my fist in his face. Age-old instinct has me stepping toward him until an old man comes shuffling through the parking lot and inserts his cane between us. “All right now, boys. Time to get ’em out and measure, or get on home.” “I think I’ll take the latter,” I say. I’m pretty sure I hear Logan mumble something about me losing in a dick-measuring contest, but the old man is already speaking again and holding up a purse I recognize as Selena’s. “You know where her gran’s house is?” the old man asks me. “Mostly.” Logan’s instructions were cut off midway through. The old man nods. “You just need to take a right, go a half mile, and it’s the first house on the left after the power lines. If you hit the railroad tracks, you’ve gone too far.” His decidedly country directions are easy enough. He holds the purse up higher. “This is hers.” “Thank you,” I say, reaching out to grab it, but the old man jerks it back before I can. “You take care of that girl, or I’ll have your balls in a sling.” Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s the third threat I’ve received today. Snatching the purse out of his hand, I nod. “Duly noted.” I turn for the car, but Logan isn’t quite done yet. “Her bedroom is the one at the top of the stairs. You can’t miss it.” His words are tinged with triumph, and once again I want to put him on his ass in this gravel parking lot. “I don’t want to know why you fucking know that.” My voice comes out rough and deep, and I almost don’t recognize it. Logan smirks and tucks one thumb into the pocket of his jeans. “Calm down, rich boy. It ain’t like I popped her cherry.” Why he’s choosing to bait me now, I don’t know, and I don’t fucking care. I also don’t want to drag my lawyer out to Bumfuck, Egypt, to bail me out of jail, even if the charges are justifiable homicide. So I take the high road; I threaten him. “You do know I can afford to make you disappear, right?” I round the car and reach for the driver’s side handle, pausing in anticipation of his response. Logan leans against a black truck parked next to the Cadillac, and I’d bet my jet it’s his. “Out here, a man does his own killin’ and buryin’. I know miles of mine shaft where you’d never be found,” he drawls. I straighten and take his measure. “I get that you’re a cocky son of a bitch, but what’s your angle here?” He meets my gaze without hesitation. “I didn’t like the way Selena looked when she rolled into town, and you’re the most likely cause.” I imagine her looking tired and stressed to the max, the way she did before everything went to shit last night at the MoMA event, and I want to get her back to her grandmother’s house to take care of her properly. Last night left a lot to be desired on both our parts, but I’m here to fix whatever broke between us. I keep my words steady, even as my temper flares hotter. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Logan shifts his shoulders back, and his hands tighten into fists at his sides. “I’m making it my business.” I glance at Selena, passed out in the passenger seat, before looking back to Logan. “I don’t have time for this right now, but if you’ve still got a death wish in the morning, you know where I’ll be.” He shoves off the truck and steps toward me, and this time it’s my hands balling into fists. “Some of us have to work in the morning. Like me, on your wife’s piece-of-shit car that broke down the second she pulled into town.” I curse under my breath. “Don’t bother fixing it. I’ll buy her something when we get home.” I don’t know what she was driving, but I’m guessing it wasn’t the Maserati I’d pick for her. “You sure she’s leaving with you?” Logan says smugly. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” I won’t allow for any alterative outcome. “That’s the same answer your wife gave when I asked her if she wanted to get drunk tonight.” I grit my teeth as I yank the door open. Logan is still leaning against his truck as I pull out of the parking lot of the bowling alley, gravel flying. I swear his smug smile grows bigger, and I hope the stones chipped the paint of his truck. Fucker. We make it to Selena’s gran’s front porch before she starts puking again, and I know it’s going to be a long night. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, Selena and I need to have our own come-to-Jesus talk. My head pounds and the light cutting across the room hurts my eyes, even though they’re still closed. I make a sound that I think qualifies as a moan, but it’s guttural enough to be an animal noise. Rolling my head to the side, I see a glass on the nightstand, and pills beside it. “Thank you, Logan,” I mumble. I almost fall out of bed when a deep voice answers, “It wasn’t Logan.” I shoot up in bed and regret it instantly as nausea roils in my gut. “Justin?” He’s seated in the tiny chair that belongs to my vanity. He looks ridiculous because he’s big enough to crush it.

[anavoliselenu]

Creighton chapter 19

I wait for the guy to take a breath, and squeeze Justin’s arm. His attention shifts to me immediately, his dark eyes soft and . . . affectionate?

A wave of warmth slides through me, and for the first time since we climbed out of the limo, I’m not completely on edge and miserable. I need to learn to be comfortable by his side while he shines in his own spotlight. He’s a compelling man and I’m proud that he’s mine, but I have so much to learn before I’ll ever be confident in his world.

I clear my throat quietly to interrupt the close talker. “I’m going to excuse myself for a moment. I need to freshen up.”

Proud of myself, I mentally pat myself on the back for using a ladylike term rather than saying something like I’m going to take a piss. Considering the company I’ve been keeping for the past few weeks—like Boone and my band and the roadies—I probably deserve bonus points for that one.

I slip my hand from where it’s been clutching his arm—good Lord, I think I left a sweaty handprint on his tux—but Justin grabs it before I can withdraw it completely. He turns toward me, ignoring the now silent man, and uses my hand to pull me closer. He places his half-full drink on the tray of a passing waiter, and lifts his other hand to my face.

I watch the liquor as it’s carried away, unsure what the hell Justin is doing. PDA? I didn’t think he was the type, and I’m certainly not. My thoughts stall as he lowers his head to my ear.

“If I promise to stop talking about boring shit, will you promise to hurry back?”

I smile at his request. Leave it to Justin to say something to make me feel a little less out of place.

“If I don’t get lost.”

“Good enough.” His lips graze the very spot his breath just touched.

I step back, my eyes darting up to his. The warmth and affection are still burning in them.

As I walk away from the safety of his presence, a feeling of unease fills my chest.

Once I leave the ladies’ room, I take my time making my way back to Justin. It’s not intentional, I just keep getting distracted by all the cool exhibits. Who wouldn’t? It’s not like I’ve been here before, but I definitely plan to come back.

I pause in front of a piece of artwork on the wall that’s all wire and metal music notes. It sings to me. Given that music is my life, I can’t help but be drawn to it—and it’s not crazy ugly like some of the things I’ve seen tonight.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

I turn to see a gorgeous woman with white-blond hair and a striking Kelly-green silk dress clinging to her every curve. Her boobs may be fake, but if they are, they’re the expensive kind of fake that makes it hard to tell. I feel like a guy checking out her rack and drag my eyes up to hers. Vivid green, just like the dress.

She doesn’t seem to notice my minor detour because she’s studying me in turn. Her eyes don’t catch on my chest, but on the necklace.

“Well, Justin’s certainly gotten more generous. That Harry Winston is to die for.”

I can’t read her tone. She doesn’t sound catty, but . . . something else.

“Thank you.”

She holds out a hand, and I can’t help but notice her perfect manicure. “I’m Annika Frederickson.”

We shake hands, and I open my mouth to say my name, but she beats me to it. “And you’re Selena Wix Karas.”

I think it’s interesting that she tacks the Karas part on, but I’m not going to dispute it. It’s just that most people who recognize me wouldn’t think to do that. But something tells me that she doesn’t recognize me from CMT, because I can’t picture her watching that channel, and on top of that, she already mentioned Justin. She’s obviously part of his circle.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I release her hand and turn halfway toward the door. “I should probably be getting back.”

She nods politely, and I’m a dozen feet away when she says, “I hope the third time’s truly a charm for Justin. Does that three-strikes rule apply to marriages? I suppose not, considering how many men and women I know are on husband or wife number four or five.”

My body freezes, but my brain races, repeating her words over and over. The blood rushing in my ears drowns out the noise from the crowded event only a hundred feet away.

Third time’s a charm? Three strikes?

What. The. Hell. We had the ex-wife discussion, and Justin told me about Shaw.

I smooth over my shock and turn back toward Annika. Her head is tilted toward me, as if she’s waiting for some kind of reaction.

I’m doing everything I can to keep from giving her one beyond saying, “I don’t know who you think you are—”

She smiles, condescension practically radiating brighter than her perfectly white teeth. “Because I suppose I didn’t introduce myself properly.” She holds out her hand again. This time her perfect nails look like claws.

“Annika Mitchell Karas Frederickson. I believe you could call me the original Mrs. Karas.”

I don’t shake her hand this time. I just stand there dumbly, in who-knows-how many hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of diamonds, and stare at this woman. Now I see the calculating gleam in her eyes, and I have no idea how I missed it before.

“Oh, I take it he didn’t tell you about me. Not surprising. It must still be painful for him to talk about. I was the one who left him, after all.”

I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take in what she’s saying. “When? When were you married?”

“Years ago. But there are some wounds that never heal. I can’t say that I don’t regret my rashness to end it. We were both so young, so in love.”

I snort. “You couldn’t have been that in love if you left him.”

Her sly smile fades a degree. “Sometimes you have to let go of the one you love, even if it’s not what you truly want.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you should know what kind of man you’re married to. From what I can tell, and from what wife number two has shared with me, he hasn’t changed a bit.”

“What? You’re going to tell me he’s kinky?” I smirk. “Sorry, honey. Too late. I already figured that one out.”

“No. But I’m glad to see you enjoy being treated like a plaything. Because that’s all you’ll ever truly be. A toy. Something to be enjoyed and displayed when he needs you, and then tucked away or bought off when he’s done with you.”

Annika looks around the museum and then back at me, her gaze landing on the necklace. “Isn’t that what he’s doing tonight? Playing dress-up with you and bringing you out to show you off? Have you done anything tonight beyond hanging on his arm? Made any scintillating contributions to his endless business discussions? Or have you just been a pretty accessory?”

Catfight levels of rage are rising within me, held only in check by the small part of me that whispers, You know there’s some truth to what she says. It’s like the woman poked around in my brain and latched onto my biggest fear.

Well, screw her. I can smell a shit stirrer . . . but in her case, what she’s stirring is the truth. Still, I don’t need to listen to this. Letting someone talk crap about Justin to my face ain’t gonna fly.

“You listen here—”

“No,” she says quickly. “You listen. If you think for one minute that he’s going to want you for longer than you serve as that pretty accessory, then you’re delusional. He’ll never love you. I had everything in common with him—same schools, same friends, same social status, same hobbies—and there was nothing I could do to draw him away from his first love. Winning.”

Her eyes gleaming, she says, “He needs the rush. He’s an adrenaline junkie, but instead of getting his kicks from jumping out of airplanes, he gets them by checking yet another goal off his list. That stunt with the missed connection? A rather unique ploy for him to find you after a one-night stand because you piqued his curiosity. But do you really think you’ll satisfy him for long? You have nothing in common. You’re not even from the same social stratosphere. He’s probably lucky you didn’t speak tonight because that hillbilly twang of yours would draw attention to just how backwoods you really are. It might be quaint when you’re doing an interview on country radio, but in Justin’s world, you’re nothing but a liability.”

The blood rushing through my ears is back full force. I have no idea what she has to gain by flinging these hateful words at me, but she must have some motive.

I pretend I’m onstage after I’ve just messed up a lyric, and I push through, smoothing a smile on my face so no one will notice that I’m cringing inside at my mistake.

“Why are you telling me this? What reason could you possibly have?”

Annika lifts her chin, and I don’t know if her nose can get any higher in the air. “Consider it my public service announcement. I left him because I refused to be marginalized. You’ve got a good thing going with that country music shtick. I can only imagine it’s exactly what you’ve wanted since you were a little girl sitting in the trailer park listening to the radio in some broken-down car propped up on blocks.”

I wince. I don’t know where she got that image, but she’s altogether too close to the truth for comfort.

“And?” I prompt. I’m not willing to let her see me cower.

“And I thought, as a woman who’s known Justin for twenty years, you’d want to know exactly what you’re getting in to. If you think it’s worth giving up your dreams, you might want to reassess. Because for girls like you,” she points her finger at me, as if I need to know who she’s talking about, “if you don’t jump on your once-in-a-lifetime chance, you may never get another one. If I were you, I’d do some serious thinking about whether it was my dream career or a man I should be chasing harder.”

My heart thuds in my chest when she lays it out so baldly. I have no idea why she thinks it’s her place to tell me this, but I’ve heard enough.

“Thanks for the warning. I think we’re done here.”

Annika smiles, all grace and elegance again. Not a single trace of malice to be found. “It was lovely to meet you, Selena. I hear you’ve got a great shot at the New Artist Award this year. Best of luck.” And with that, she turns, green dress swirling around her ankles, and makes the best exit I’ve ever seen outside of a movie.

I, on the other hand, want to sink into the exhibit chair, curl up into a ball, and lick the wounds she’s left me with.

She has to have a motive for her words; she would never bother with me if she didn’t. But do her motives really matter? Even if everything she said was bull, it’s nothing I haven’t thought myself.

It’s time for me to face facts. Fact number one, I’m falling for Justin. Skip falling, I’ve fallen. It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged how deep I’ve gotten into this, and I swallow back the gut-wrenching fear it produces. Because what if she’s right? What if he gets bored as soon as the lipstick on the pig that’s me rubs off?

Absently staring at the beautiful works of art surrounding me, I wonder if this is how my future with him will always be. Evening after evening where I’m seen and not heard, and the only talent required of me is hanging off his arm without making a scene.

Is that all I have to look forward to as part of his life? That isn’t what I signed up for. I need to think, somewhere I’m not second-guessing every single move I make.

The crushing weight of everything—the grief and guilt and confusion and pressure and stress—bears down on me until my breathing shallows and dizziness hits me. I’ve felt off all night after my earlier breakdown, and now my forehead goes clammy and I stumble backward until I hit the wall and slide down it, not caring about the dress or how ridiculous I must look. I drop my head back against the wall, trying to breathe, but I just can’t get enough air into my lungs.

“Whoa. Are you okay? Shit. You don’t look so good.”

I don’t recognize the voice, and I don’t care. All I care about is trying to get enough oxygen into my body so I don’t pass out on this fancy floor.

The man barks out Justin’s name. I don’t know how much time passes—it could be seconds or minutes or hours, but soon Justin is crouching beside me, pressing my head between my knees, and saying softly, “Breathe, Selena. Just breathe. Slow down.”

I try to slow my breathing as he’s directed, trying to match him as he inhales and exhales. Eventually the clawing in my lungs subsides, and I raise my head slowly and stare into concerned brown eyes.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

His soothing tone evaporates. His questions are sharp and demanding. My breathing picks up speed again.

“Oh shit. Calm down, Selena. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . Let’s get you out of here.”

He reaches an arm behind my back, and I know he’s going to pick me up and carry me out of the museum. I’ll look like a complete idiot to everyone in attendance, and that’s not even including the pictures that will end up on the Internet. The next thing you know, TMZ will say I fainted because I’m pregnant, and I’ll be on baby-bump watch for the next six months.

I push his hand away. “I can walk.”

Justin’s gaze narrows, but he holds out a hand and helps me to my feet.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Let’s go.”

I’ve barely gotten out of my dress and into a comfy T-shirt and pajama pants before Justin knocks on the bedroom door.

The knocking throws me. He’s never done that before. The reason for it becomes apparent when the door swings open, and he walks in with a man I’ve never seen before.

I look sharply at Justin. “Um . . . what’s going on?”

“This is Dr. Wylie. He’s my personal physician. I asked him to come check you out.”

Of course he did, and without even bothering to ask me if I need a doctor. Too bad Dr. Wylie made an unnecessary trip.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Justin glances at the doctor and then back at me. “A moment, if you would.” Dr. Wylie nods and steps out of the room, and Justin closes the door. “He’s checking you out, and I don’t care what arguments you give me.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Justin shoves his hands through his dark hair. “You fucking collapsed in the middle of MoMA. Don’t tell me it’s not necessary.”

“I’m fine.”

“You obviously aren’t fine. And if you can’t tell me what the fuck happened, Dr. Wylie is checking you out.”

Tell him what happened? I don’t have a fucking clue what happened, so it’s not like I can give Justin the explanation he’s looking for. And I’m sure as hell not ready to tell him about my encounter with his other ex-wife. So I guess the doctor is checking me out.

“Fine. It’s not like anything I say is going to make a difference. You might as well send him in.”

I sit on the end of the bed, knowing I’m acting like a spoiled brat, but I want to get this over with so I can go to bed. I just need sleep and the dawn of a new day to see things clearly. I need to put some time and space between me and the things Annika said tonight. Her name burns on my tongue, and I’m dying to confront him.

Why didn’t he tell me about her? Was she the one who got away? I shake my head, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the thoughts.

“What is going on, Selena? This isn’t like you at all.”

My head snaps up. “All of a sudden you know me so well?” Too bad I can’t say the same about him.

His face twists into a frustrated, bemused expression. It’s like he’s looking at me and there’s a sign above my head that says Unbalanced woman. Treat with more caution than homemade dynamite.

Just when I think he’s going to let my jab pass without comment, he says quietly, as if to himself and not to me, “I thought I did. Maybe I was wrong.”

I feel a pang in my chest, but refuse to acknowledge it.

“Send him in then. I just want to go to bed.”

Justin’s dark gaze burns into me. “If that’s what you want. But don’t think that means this subject is closed for good. You scared the shit out of me.”

“And almost embarrassed you too,” I add.

He just shakes his head, brow furrowed. “I’ll send in Dr. Wylie. I’ve got some calls to make, so don’t wait up.”

Justin apparently lied, because Dr. Wylie just left, and he’s hovering in the doorway. I can’t read him. I don’t want to read him. I just want to close my eyes and forget about everything that happened tonight, but that’s not in the cards.

Justin crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. His suit jacket is gone, and his shirt is open at the collar, exposing his corded neck. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his hands grip his knees.

He studies me for long moments before asking, “You want to tell me what the hell happened tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I’ll rephrase. Tell me what the fuck happened tonight.”

He’s losing patience with me. I should care more, but I’m not the one with ex-wives popping out of the woodwork.

“Or what?” I counter.

He releases one knee and brings his arm up, his hand shoving through his hair.

“What the hell is going on with you? Something happened. Because all of a sudden you’re not . . . Selena.”

Fuck it. If he wants to push, I’ll tell him.

“I met someone tonight.”

His face is expressionless when he says, “Go on.”

I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, the same way I used to when I sat on Gran’s bed to tell her about school.

“Why didn’t you tell me I’m number three?” I ask, my voice completely devoid of emotion.

Justin goes very still. “Who told you about Annika?”

“What I want to know is why you didn’t.”

“Who told you?” he repeats, his tone hard.

I drop my arms and shove myself up the bed so I’m leaning against the headboard, arms crossed in front of me.

“Annika told me about Annika.”

Justin lifts his other hand and rubs the side of his face. “Fuck.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I agree with you. This conversation is best saved for tomorrow.”

Oh, hell no.

“I don’t think so. You’re the one who wanted to know. So now you know. Why didn’t you tell me? You told me about Shaw—why not Annika?”

He rises up from the bed and begins pacing the room. His back is to me when he says, “Because it wasn’t important.”

I blink, trying to comprehend what he just said. She was his wife. How is it possible that wasn’t important?

“It sounds pretty fucking important to me.”

He turns and paces back toward me. His mouth is pressed into a thin, tense line. “I was young and stupid. It doesn’t matter anymore. It has absolutely no bearing on our marriage.”

I’m processing his words and not liking them one bit. How can a marriage not matter. You don’t marry someone who doesn’t matter . . . unless you’re marrying the woman you had a one-night stand with but can’t find again.

“Is that what you’re going to tell wife number four about me? That it was just some stupid stunt and was fun for a while, but it doesn’t matter anymore?”

“What are you talking about, Selena?”

“You just told me that you married a woman, presumably loved her, and now she’s not even worth a mention. I’m just trying to figure out how women rate in your life after they’ve outlived their usefulness to you.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” he growls. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t love her. It was a whim.”

I cluck my tongue. “Good to know she and I have more in common than I thought.”

His jaw is clenched so tight, I’m almost positive he’s going to start breaking teeth. Finally, he bites out, “You have nothing in common with Annika. Not one fucking thing.”

All the blood drains from my face, and I’m freezing, even though I’m surrounded by a warm pile of blankets.

“You’re right. She had everything in common with you, and she was kind enough to point out that I have nothing in common with you and am just a toy to be played with while I’m new and shiny. I’m surprised she didn’t sticker me with an expiration date. Although, I hear they’re taking odds on that in Vegas.”

Justin winces. “That’s not what I fucking meant. Don’t twist my words around.”

The words are flowing now, and I can’t stop them. “I’m just taking them at face value, Justin. Do you have any other ex-wives hiding in the wings I need to know about? Any secret children or mistresses you don’t think are important?”

His nostrils flare and the muscle ticks in his jaw. I can sense the moment when I’ve officially pushed him too far.

I’m staring at the woman I’m in love with—that’s right, fucking in love with—and in the space of a heartbeat, I realize she doesn’t feel the same way about me. Maybe she never will.

Pain claws through my chest, matching the fear that tore through me when someone came running to get me after she collapsed at MoMA. Her every breath matters to me more than my own, and she’s completely oblivious.

She’s also oblivious to the fact that she’s finding my breaking point. Years of trying to earn someone’s love and being met with contempt at every turn grips my throat like a stranglehold. I lost my parents to a horrific attack, and instead of being welcomed into a family that would love and accept and comfort me, I walked into completely the opposite, into the care of someone devoid of any feelings that would help a grieving boy deal with the loss of his parents.

Even after everything, Selena doesn’t trust me. Objectively I know I should have told her about Annika, but that is my own private failure, and compared to what I feel for Selena, Annika is completely inconsequential and meaningless. It’s like trying to compare a raindrop to a hurricane.

My words strike like lashes, and the driving force behind them is the knowledge that whatever I thought we were building is nothing but a figment of my imagination.

“If you’re looking for a reason to get out of this, Selena, I’m sure you can find one. I’m not going to beg you to stay.”

Her face hardens into a nearly unrecognizable mask, and I wait for the cracks to show at my words.

But I get nothing except silence.

I’m not going to beg for her affection. Selena’s made it clear that she can’t be bought, and apparently I’m not deserving of it through my actions.

I watch her face, eyes riveted, waiting for a single hint that there’s something to fight for, but right now, she might as well be a stranger to me.

My temper is yanking on its chain, and I know I need to leave before I say something I can never take back.

I turn on my heel and head for the door. My steps are measured, and all I want from her is a single word. Maybe two.

Don’t go, I want her to say.

But she says nothing.

And I’m gone.

Pride is a dangerous thing, but when it’s all you have left, how do you make yourself let go of it?

Hours later, I’m still curled up in the mammoth bed alone. I shift my face away from the wet spot on my pillow, refusing to acknowledge that I’ve soaked it with my tears.

When did my life get so complicated? Oh yeah, when I decided to marry a guy I only met once—and by met, I mean banged until I could barely walk.

I think about what Dr. Wylie told me. His diagnosis: panic attack, caused by stress. His prescription: take some time to relax and get away from the stress.

It’s thinking about that last part that caused the tears to start running.

I can’t stay in New York, but I don’t want to go back to Nashville.

There’s only one place I can think to go.

Home.

It echoes in my head as I finally fall asleep.

Justin never comes back. When I open my eyes at seven a.m., his side of the bed is empty and still neatly made, no impressions in the pillow. I wonder if he ever even came back to the penthouse. I pull on a sweatshirt and socks, and go investigate.

It’s still expensive, perfect, and completely unwelcoming.

I don’t belong here. The panic starts to rise again. It’s sharp and fast, stealing any rational thought. Words flash back through my brain like they’re lit with neon.

“It wasn’t important.”

“It was a whim.”

“You’re nothing like Annika.”

The slam of the door.

I don’t belong here.

Then a new phrase pierces through on a continuous loop.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here.

The words drown out every other thought until I find myself in my closet, tossing on the first thing I grab before shoving clothes into a bag. I stumble into the bathroom and grab random shit off the counter and from the drawers until my suitcase is full. I don’t know what I’ve packed. I don’t care.

I have to get out of here.

I rush through the living room and into the kitchen, spying the same damn notepad I used before.

Justin’s going to want to kill me when he gets home.

But I’ll already be gone.

I scrawl the same two words, but this time for an entirely different reason.

Good-bye, Justin.