Page 64 of Puck Love

Afterward,we lie in frontof the fire as the evening bleeds away into a dark, snow-covered night. I lean up on my elbow and trace my fingertips across the tattoos on his broadchest.

“Sing me something,country.”

“Now?” I shake my head. “No. I’ll sound likecrap.”

“I don’t think that’spossible.”

“I thought you hated countrymusic.”

“I have a newfound appreciation forit.”

I laugh. “What do you want tohear?

“Anything. Something that screams Stella Hart. Not the one your record label promotes, but the realStella.”

“I’m not sure there’s any such thing,” I whisper. I hesitate over my next words, but I decide he should know. “My real name isn’tStella.”

He scrunches up his gorgeous features and makes a face as if he doesn’t believe me. “What?”

“It’s Emma Riddle, but Emma doesn’t sellrecords.”

“Wow. I can’t imagine how weird that must have been, to have to change your name likethat.”

“You get used to it.” I shrug and give him a wistful smile. “There’s no biz like show biz, right? Emma is just a memory of a different lifenow.”

“Then sing me something Emmawould.”

I close my eyes on the flashes of my mother holding me, telling me I could be anything I wanted to be. She’d sing songs by Loretta, Patsy, and Dolly. Sometimes she’d even sing Johnny Cash, but her favorite was always Miss Lynn. Sometimes when I asked her to, she’d sing something more modern. I’d always beg her to sing Brad Paisley’s “Whiskey Lullaby”because she sounded just like an angel when shedid.

I open my eyes and stare down at him. “I don’t know if Ican.”

“Sure, you can. Justsing.”

“Just sing,” I repeat, as if it were that easy. I hum the first few bars of the song, and when I sing the first line, Van closes his eyes and smiles. My voice cracks over the bridge, and I’m reminded of how out of practice I am. Like athletes, vocalists have to train every day. You’re born with a natural talent, but that only goes sofar.

If Van notices my slip-up, he’s kind enough not to draw attention to it, and when I finish, he opens his eyes and leans up and kisses me, pulling me down on top of him. I continue to hum, and he drifts offagain.

When there’s a knock on the door, I figure it’s just his mom and brother come back, so rather than wake the sleeping beast, I throw on my hoodie because I can’t find my pants, but it covers my lady parts and then some. I pad over to the frontdoor.

I pull it wide, and I’m met with flashing bulbs. Hundreds of them, all going off in my face as the paparazzi call my name. I’m frozen. I’m sure my hair has that freshly fucked look about it, and I’m dressed only in a hoodie. No bra. No makeup.Nothing.

I stare in mock horror as people shout my name, and then Van wraps his hand around my wrist and tugs me back inside. He’s wearing only a blanket wrapped around his waist as he steps onto the snowy porch and grabs the closest pap’s camera. He throws it to the ground and the lensshatters.

“Van!”

“Are you and Stella sleepingtogether?”

“Did you run out on your concert to shack up with VanRoss?”

“Stella, does Van live up to the rumors? And what do you have to say to the thousands of disappointedfans?”

“Get the fuck off my property!” Vanroars.

“Van, how does it feel to pop the cherry of country’s sweetestvirgin?”

My mouth drops open. Van grabs that pap’s parka and slams his fist into his face. The man crumples like a piece of paper. Van grabs the man’s camera and throws it at the side of thehouse.

“All of you, get the fuck off my property before I have you allarrested.”