Page 13 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

evangeline

W e’re going to be late.

Since Clay is never late unless he intends to be, it’s a power play. He wants Wilder to have to sit alone and wait for us. I have no idea what advantage he thinks it will bring, but either way it’s asinine.

Not that I’m in a hurry. But I also want to get this over with.

“You didn’t come to bed last night.”

They’re the first words he’s spoken to me since we left the house and the third sentence today. No concern evident in the tone, just reproach. Like I’m a defiant child who intentionally stayed up past bedtime.

I’m not the only one who picks up on the immediate tension in the car. Our driver, Phillip, glances at us in the rearview before turning on the radio to give us an illusion of privacy. The Escalade is spacious but not that spacious.

With an internal sigh, I turn from the window to face Clay. He doesn’t look at me, continuing to scroll through sports statistics on his phone. But he’s waiting.

“I lost track of time in my studio and crashed in the bedroom downstairs.”

I don’t care whether or not he believes me. It’s his fault I couldn’t sleep in the first place, since he agreed to this insanity on my behalf. There was no way I was going to be able to turn my head off last night, so I didn’t even try.

I ended up watching mindless television for hours to avoid thinking about this ridiculous PR stunt. About Wilder. About the flood of messages and voicemails on my phone since the article came out. From Lily and Rye, Martin, my parents, my brother. From my publicist, manager, and my PA, Sandra.

Most of all, though, I needed distraction from the disquiet I’ve felt since opening that box in my studio—the eerie feeling that maybe my insomnia isn’t actually an inability to sleep, but sleep of a different kind.

One I can’t wake up from. One that has slowly taken me so far from myself I no longer know who I am .

Clay tilts his head at my answer but otherwise doesn’t respond. If I wasn’t adept at reading his micro-expressions, I’d believe he was relaxed right now. Ambivalent about going to lunch with Wilder. But there’s strain around his eyes and his left pinkie twitches intermittently against his phone.

He’s just as anxious as I am.

“This is pointless,” I mutter, tugging on the hem of my too-short dress. “I’m honestly shocked Anita suggested this.”

I’m likewise shocked Wilder agreed to it. Six years ago, he wasn’t a fan of Clay’s. I don’t quite remember why, only that he told me he didn’t like him on the night of Glow’s first showcase. Maybe something to do with his ex, Kendra, and the fact Clay is her stepbrother?

That whole evening is a blur in my memory. Mostly because it was so intense for Lily and me, but partly because it exists in a padlocked mental closet along with the majority of that month of my life.

Maybe Wilder doesn’t care one way or the other about Clay these days, but I know for a fact Clay despises him. I also know why.

Despite their seven-year age difference, Clay and his stepsister were extremely close growing up.

They remained that way until Kendra met Wilder.

She fell in love with him. He got her hooked on painkillers before dumping her…

for me. Not long after, Kendra left Seattle.

She hasn’t spoken to anyone in the family for years.

All Clay knows is that she’s been in and out of rehabs since and is living back East somewhere.

If there’s anyone who has a reason to hate Wilder, it’s Clay. Which means he isn’t doing this for himself. He’s sacrificing his peace because he thinks it’s best for me, for my reputation.

My irritation softens and fades. I reach across the back seat and touch his thigh. He finally lowers his phone, shifting cold eyes to my face. I ignore the instinct to retract my hand.

“We don’t have to do this, Clay.”

“Yes, we do,” he says, his voice low and rigid.

I make myself smile. “This will blow over soon enough. Tomorrow there will be a new story, a different drama.”

He scoffs. “I won’t be cuckolded by the media, Eva, and definitely not by the waste of oxygen that is Wilder Ashburn. So put a smile on your face and play the part. Consider it your due for landing us in this situation to begin with.”

Dumbstruck, I recoil to my side of the back seat. He returns his attention to his phone. I study his profile, searching for something , but he’s wearing his courtroom expression. Perfectly composed and aloof .

Another one of my mental walls crumbles. More awareness floods in.

I swim through tangled, murky thoughts until Phillip pulls up to the entrance of Café Doux. Then I shove the mess in my head behind a mental door and slam it closed.

By the time I exit the car and walk inside with my arm wrapped around Clay’s, I’ve become who I need to be. The transition is surprisingly easy, fueled by the adrenaline pouring through my veins. The incessant butterflies in my stomach are just a side effect.

It doesn’t mean anything that those butterflies multiply exponentially when the hostess leads us to a private, shaded patio and I see the man sprawled in apparent ease at a corner table. A man who turns his head as we approach. Who rises gracefully to his feet, a welcoming smile on his face.

Wilder’s smile never falters as he shakes Clay’s hand. They exchange pleasantries, and several people stationed discreetly around the otherwise empty patio take photos. The men laugh. Camera shutters click rapidly.

This can’t be real.

Wilder turns to me with an easy grin. It looks so effortless, so unlike him , that for a moment I’m convinced I’m asleep. The feeling intensifies when I blink and see a flash of light—an instant sunrise behind my eyes—and hear leaves rustling in an imaginary wind.

“Great to see you, Eva.”

His hands cup my shoulders, twin flashpoints of heat. His kiss to my cheek is there and gone, the flutter of passing wings after a midnight rainstorm .

Still not convinced this isn’t a nightmare, I smile at him with counterfeit joy. “You, too. I’m so glad we could squeeze in a lunch while you’re in town.”

There’s a flash of wry amusement in his eyes, so fast I wonder if I imagined it, then he’s sitting back down. We’re all sitting. Ordering iced teas and appetizers. Chatting about the weather and traffic, about the city’s ongoing efforts to rebuild after the devastating fires a few years ago.

Clay holds my hand. Touches my back. Strokes my thigh.

I ignore the way my skin hums with discomfort.

When he nuzzles my ear and kisses my cheek in the same spot Wilder did, I smile like his casual affection is normal and welcome.

Like it doesn’t rub against the emotional bruise left by our conversation in the car.

Wilder tells a story about remodeling his house and a family of ducks that put construction back months.

We laugh.

Clickclickclick go the cameras .

Over our meals—steaks for the men, a dressing-free salad for me—Clay brings up the Grammys next month, congratulating Wilder on Night Theory’s nomination for Best Rock Performance for their song, “Gray Matter.” Then he asks if he thinks they’ll win.

Wilder’s eyes sharpen; Clay’s smile widens. I stiffen, my gaze flickering to the nearest cameraman and the phone sitting on the table beside him. We all know our conversation is being recorded, that whatever Wilder says could very well end up in print.

I hold my breath until Wilder says offhandedly, “We’re up against some of my favorite songs and artists from last year, so I’ll be happy no matter the outcome.” Forest-toned eyes slide to me and soften. “Glow’s up for three, right? Ready to add another shelf?”

My heart cartwheels in my ribcage, elevating my pulse and sending a wave of warmth up my neck. In my head, a locked door rattles ominously.

As I suck in a breath, I finally accept that I’m undeniably and unfortunately awake.

Clay’s fingers tighten on my thigh to the point of pain, eliciting another gasp. Wilder’s eyes narrow. He opens his mouth, but Clay interjects brightly, “You’ll be thrilled for whoever wins, won’t you, my love?”

“Absolutely,” I intone, then place my napkin beside my plate. “If you’ll both excuse me? Too much iced tea.”

I push my chair back, forcing Clay to release me or risk an awkward struggle. He flashes me a sharp grin. “Hurry back.”

I nod.

Smile.

My thigh throbs as I walk away.