Page 9 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

evangeline

N ew Year’s Day dawns bright and clear. Not unexpected. What is unexpected is the fact I missed dawn for the first time in months. I’d blame champagne for knocking me out, but I didn’t even finish my first glass.

For the last half hour, I’ve been sitting at the glass-top table on our terrace, nursing my second cup of coffee and picking at half of a tart grapefruit. Neither has dented my grogginess.

The kidney-shaped pool we never use glitters in the sunlight, smaller reflections dancing off damp blades of grass beyond. For once, there’s an actual bite in the air. Occasional currents of cold slide beneath my robe and coil around my bare legs.

I’m still too hot .

Fuzzy-headed and floaty.

A bird lifts from a nearby palm, its passage bringing a flash of memory. Inked wings moving on golden skin. A rough shake of my head sends the errant thought away.

Focusing on the pool, I fantasize about jumping in. The water can’t be more than fifty degrees, and my Pilates instructor is always talking about cold plunging and how beneficial it is. Would it feel invigorating or terrible? More importantly, would it wake me up?

My musings are derailed by the crisp, measured clicks of designer men’s shoes on tile.

Smoothing my expression, I turn my head toward the house.

Clay approaches me, his attention on the tablet in his hands.

While I have yet to change out of my pajamas and robe, he’s dressed in his typical winter casual wear: pressed slacks and a lightweight cashmere sweater.

A greeting dies on my tongue when he lifts his head, revealing the scowl on his face.

I should have jumped in the pool.

“I’ll get dressed in a minute. Just finishing breakfast.”

Without saying a word, he sets the tablet on the table beside my plate with its listing grapefruit husk. I blink down at the screen, my pulse jumping when I see the side-by-side photographs at the top of an article from a popular magazine .

Suddenly, I’m more awake than I’ve been in months.

The photos are red carpet shots from the Billboard Music Awards a few months ago. One photo is of me. The other is of Wilder.

In reality, we didn’t cross paths that night, and I made sure to be using the restroom when Night Theory was onstage.

But whoever picked and aligned these particular photos did a masterful job at manipulating perception.

We look like a couple, both in all black, similar faux-serious expressions on our faces.

Even our bodies are angled toward each other, giving a subtle impression of togetherness.

My already erratic heartbeat rattles as I read the headline.

Music’s Favorite Star-Crossed Lovers Spotted Together New Year’s Eve

I read the opening paragraphs, my stomach dropping further with every word.

Multiple people apparently saw me go into a bedroom and Wilder slip inside after me.

There’s no mention of Martin, who was in the room with me far longer than Wilder was, or the fact Clay found me just minutes after he left and we shared a public kiss at midnight.

Because facts have no place in clickbait .

I open my mouth to say as much, but Clay snaps, “Keep reading.”

The back of my scalp tingling in trepidation, I continue scrolling and realize this isn’t some short fluff piece with no purpose but to generate website traffic to ads. The article is long, dense, and annoyingly well written.

First is the expected regurgitation of history: our fathers being best friends and founding members of Breaking Giants, how we grew up together and formed Night Theory in our teens.

The moderate success of our first album and tour.

Our electric stage chemistry and how I shocked fans when I suddenly left the band.

That I didn’t leave because of creative differences like our label said but because of rising conflict with Wilder.

How after a three-year estrangement, we had a brief, intense affair followed by an explosive breakup.

Wilder went to treatment for drug abuse. I cut him out of my life.

The accuracy of it all is jarring but not really surprising. For better or worse, we’re both autobiographical songwriters and public figures. Anyone with access to the internet and time to kill could piece the same story together.

But then the article takes an unexpected turn, going from annoying to a fuckmylife level of alarming .

According to the author—someone named Angie Irving, though it’s likely a pseudonym—Wilder and I are still in love with each other.

How does she know? Well, apparently every album we’ve written and released since our breakup is part of an ongoing love letter between us.

Her theory is backed up with a shockingly thorough analysis of our individual discographies over the last six years.

It’s both complete bullshit and perfectly crafted to be convincing as hell.

Fuck. This is really bad.

I lower the tablet to the table, making sure it connects silently with the glass.

My senses return slowly. I become aware of my cold fingers and toes.

An itch on the back of my neck. Gusting breezes whispering through bushes and trees.

Birdsong and the neighbor’s sprinklers. Water gurgling through the pool’s filtering system.

“I’ve already talked to Anita,” Clay says in a monotone. “A retraction isn’t likely, but I might slap the magazine with a suit anyway just to make their life miserable.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, I know it’s my cue to explain myself. But right now the only coherent thought in my head is that I hope Angie Irving and her so-called credible sources from last night are stricken with incurable rashes on their assholes.

I take a few sips of cold coffee, ignoring its bitterness, and try to come up with something to distract Clay. I need to buy myself some time to get my thoughts in order.

“I really loved that dress,” I finally say. “The one from the BBMAs.”

I wore the long, edgy black number against his wishes. He was pissed for days and has yet to overlook an opportunity to remind me of how ugly he thinks it was.

Sadly, he doesn’t take the bait.

“Don’t make me ask, Eva.”

As I set down my mug, I remind myself to stick to general facts and avoid sounding defensive.

“He walked in uninvited. We had a brief conversation about Emma before I questioned his motives for speaking to me. He reassured me that he has no romantic interest in me and was merely taking a break from the party. He left. You came in a few minutes later.”

There’s a weighted pause. “Look at me.”

Forcing myself to remain relaxed, I shift my gaze to his face. Even expecting the coldness in his eyes, it still shocks me. They used to be warm all the time.

“Is that all?” he asks .

“Yes.”

He frowns at me for another moment, then looks across the backyard.

“Maybe that’s the spin. Childhood friends catching up.

” Nodding to himself, he adds decisively, “If I can’t figure out a faster fix, at least we have The Golden Globes next weekend.

I’ll ask Anita to find out who’s working the carpet and prep some questions for them. We’ll rehearse your responses.”

I have zero interest in attending The Golden Globes, in being photographed and dissected for consumption by the masses, but there’s no point trying to get out of it.

Clay’s social standing, cultivated meticulously over a decade, means he’s invited absolutely everywhere.

Last week, he was invited to a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a butcher shop.

So I guess I should be grateful he’s selective about our appearances.

I make a noncommittal noise and fiddle with my robe, pulling the fabric over my knees.

Another heavy sigh floats over me. “You should have told me last night.” His voice is soft now, thick with hurt that makes my blood instantly boil.

Before I can stomp the impulse, I retort, “I was distracted by the taste of someone else’s lip gloss during our New Year’s Eve kiss.”

We both go preternaturally still.

I can’t believe I said that .

Fingers grip my chin, lifting and turning my face. His eyes scan mine. “It was a forgettable mistake.”

His version of an apology, as well as a reminder of how discreet he is normally. Like the fact he doesn’t routinely wave his infidelities in my face means I don’t have a right to be offended.

To him, our dynamic is normal. He’s merely repeating patterns he witnessed between his parents when he was a child and again between his father and stepmother during his teens. Even among his colleagues and friends, I don’t know of a single relationship that’s monogamous.

There have been times recently that I’ve even wondered if what I saw growing up, what I’ve always wanted for myself, is nothing more than a fantasy. An aberration of modern love.

Clay’s grip on my chin tightens. “Maybe if you actually enjoyed sex, I wouldn’t need to find relief elsewhere. Have you considered that?”

The fire inside me burns brighter. The flame is black, though. Toxic. Biting my tongue so hard I taste copper, I roughly pull my chin from his hold and scoot my chair back. I stand and gather my plate and mug.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say as I move past him .

“Do we need to discuss this further?” he asks sharply.

What I hear instead is what he really means: do I need to be reminded of how well he takes care of me?

I shake my head, my shoulder blades squeezing together as he follows me inside. I set my dishes beside the sink, knowing that if I rinse them and put them in the dishwasher, it will set him off. There’s no way I can handle one of his rants right now.

As I walk toward the hallway, he asks, “Did you take a sleeping pill last night?”

Caught equally off guard by the question and the lack of animosity in his voice, I look over my shoulder. “No.”

Familiar and seductive warmth sparkles in his eyes. The sight of it ruptures my psyche, half of me relaxing while the other half remains hyper alert.

A smile curves his lips. “That’s great news. How do you feel?”

Like the blade of a serrated knife, thanks.

“Good,” I lie.

He tilts his head. The smile stays, but the warmth in his eyes disappears. “I hope that means you’re feeling up to calling Lily today.”

My stomach turns to lead even as I smile back. “Maybe.”

Turning on my heel, I walk from the room.