What Comes With It

Chapter 9

I wake up with a killer headache. Whoops. Probably should have turned down that last Old Fashioned. But the gossip was so good and the company was even better. There's nothing like a girls' dinner, and there's nothing quite like a girls' dinner hangover.

I chug water from my tumbler and peer at my calendar. Another full day. I only (only!) have two shows this weekend, and I leave bright and early tomorrow morning. And then the cycle begins all over again.

Today, I need to focus on resting my voice and eating boring, healthy food to ensure I'm good to go for Friday night.

While I'm thumbing through the agenda for today's marketing strategy session (AKA Easter egg planning), a text from Ben pops up.

How ya feeling today, champ?

FUCK. Did we talk last night? Did I call him? I respond:

I've felt better, that's for sure.

Been there. Make sure to hydrate. 
U sounded like you had a great time last night.

...I did call him. I definitely did. What did I SAY?

omg I totally forgot I called you. I'm so, so sorry.

Don't worry. U were adorable.

I fret briefly. That's all the time I'm allowed before a 10-minute warning pops up that I need to head to the gym. I need to get my head in the game – there are 140,000 fans I have to perform for this weekend.

The morning flies by, like they always do, and it's not until 2 p.m. while I'm shoveling salad and salmon into my mouth that I find a moment to text Ben again.

Seriously, so sorry about last night. I don't usually get like that.

At least, not on show weeks.

I hope you can pretend it never happened!

Silence.

Huh, he must be at the gym or something. That seems to be something football guys do a lot. Right? RIGHT? I argue with myself.

I take a quick disco nap, because even though I don't plan on being out too late, I promised Leyna I'd help her celebrate a new role she won for a promising mystery-turned-comedy show. Schmoozing was the last thing I wanted to do, but for her, I'd show up for anything. I know she'd do the same for me.

When I wake up, I still hadn't heard from Ben. This was weird. I mean, had I known him longer than a few days? No. Should I be feeling this anxious tug right now? Also no. But it takes every ounce of willpower to not send another text.

I hear a sharp rapping at my door. The glam squad is here. I meet them in the living room, which has been transformed into a mobile salon. I am instantly pushed into a chair. A rack of outfit options, each one more expensive than the next, is wheeled out by my stylist. It's every girl's dream, I'm sure. For me, this is just Wednesday.

Ninety minutes later I emerge, hair coiffed, eyes lined, lips red. I picked an impossibly sexy (and impossibly expensive) mini dress, with a high neck and open back. If the paps get a good pic of it, I know it will sell out instantly. The Kingsley Effect has been documented at economic conferences.

I consider sending a pic to Ben to see if that gets him to respond, but I remind myself that I'm not playing these games anymore. Besides, I know better than to send anyone pictures of myself, even with the most iron-clad of NDAs. Even if I desperately want to get his attention when he's ignoring me.

After I've had a quick snack, I'm off to Zero Bond. It's an exclusive, members-only joint teeming with celebrities. I actually look forward to going there because it's nice not to have everyone staring at me all agog. It's very chill and comfortable, with couches, a library, and mouthwatering sushi. Discretion is their founding principle, so I'll happily meet Leyna there for a lowkey evening.

When I arrive through the back elevators, I see Leyna holding court with circle of people I don't know. I'll let her do her thing, so I grab a high top and wait for a drink to appear in front of me (no doubt someone started preparing it when I was en route). My security team is spaced out, blending in. They know the drill. Nick is in front of me along the wall, he gives me an assuring wink.

I pull out my phone. I give up. I'm texting him.

Everything ok?

I drop it in my clutch. Out of sight, out of mind.

Suddenly, the air is squeezed out of my body as I feel a hand effortlessly glide across my bare back. Every single pore on my body is a goosebump as I feel the lightest touch of a beard tickle my cheek.

"Everything is more than OK," a man whispers into my ear.

I turn around and find myself face to face with a wall of a chest. I tilt my head up, in shock.

I am in the (huge) arms of Ben Archer.

"Hi. I told you we'd figure it out."