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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LENA

In the dim light, Decker looks like something I’d stumble upon in some historic art gallery.

He’s beautiful. And the way he’s looking at me…

I have millions of adoring fans, a list of exes the entire world seems to be keeping track of, but no one has ever looked at me the way he is now.

Decker’s gaze is a tangle of tenderness and something else.

My heart stutters for a moment. It’s desire.

He looks like he wants to kiss me. Again.

And after last night, I want nothing more than to pull him to me and press my lips against his until I can’t feel them anymore.

Until I can’t feel the uncertainty swirling inside me.

Everything with my mom, Callum, my career, this horribly confusing arrangement with Decker…

I want to push it all aside and go numb.

Before I do something I’ll regret, I hoist myself back into my chair and pull my guitar onto my lap.

Music is my escape. It’s the closest thing I can get to a distraction, to mute the world around me.

The sets for my shows may be carefully curated to appease the thousands who come to watch me, but outside of that stage, I get to choose what I play.

Music can exist as both a chore and an escape.

Some of the most worthwhile things in life seem to be that way.

I pluck a couple of notes, reminding myself that if I kiss Decker right now, that’s it.

I can’t go back from that. I’ll be putty in his strong hands, his to toy with however he pleases.

For a brief moment, I let myself meet his gentle eyes.

As much as I want to believe that Decker wouldn’t hurt me, that the adoration he’s gazing at me with now is real, I can’t deny his past. Bouncing from girl to girl used to be his norm, and there’s no doubt that at least a handful of those women thought they could be the one.

And he broke their hearts anyway. Why would he treat me any differently?

Something inside hisses that he won’t, despite his displays lately.

It’s painful to consider. What’s even more painful is the thought of my sweet Decker being the type of guy who hurts someone and moves on like it’s nothing.

Worse than that, I can’t quiet the tiny part of me whispering that my judgment in men is wrong yet again.

My sweet Decker.

Ugh. Who talks like that? Not me.

I strum my guitar a little louder, drowning out the fact that as much as I wish I wasn’t…

I think I’m falling for Decker Trace. Like really falling.

Which only complicates things further. If there’s anything I’ve learned about myself over this year’s disasters, it’s that I don’t know how to find balance.

I overwork myself. I throw myself too far into relationships and get hurt because of it.

However, if there’s one thing I now know for certain, it’s that with a little strategy, my career can be saved even when my relationships can’t.

And so my career must continue to come first. I’ve worked too hard to build what I have to throw it away for someone who could just as easily toss me aside.

I didn’t spend a decade busting my butt to be someone’s fling.

I’ve missed out on school dances, birthdays, and holidays, and smiled all the way through it when I felt like falling apart.

I’m stronger—more successful—because of it.

The thought hits me in the gut like a sucker punch.

This whole year, I’ve been playing with fire, letting myself take this job for granted when I’ve sacrificed so much to be here. I won’t do it anymore.

I dip my head, my fingers bounding over the strings, strumming faster.

The tune is something I’ve been working on for a while.

My intention was for it to mimic the pounding of my heart when falling in love, but I now realize that was silly.

Because from my experience with Decker, sometimes falling is slower, sweeter, calmer.

And mostly unexpected. Playing it now feels contrived.

When I look up, Decker isn’t watching me play, he’s staring into my eyes.

He wets his lips, and I watch them as they part. “You’re glad I’m here?”

My heart pounds, finally keeping up with the harsh rhythm of this dumb song as I play louder. “What?”

Slowly, he reaches out like I’m some wild dog that might nip and runs his hand down my arm, stilling my playing. “You said you’re glad I’m here.”

My teeth find my bottom lip, and I chew it as I watch his mouth curve into that megawatt smile of his.

For a split second, I waver, a million questions bursting through my brain.

What would it feel like to kiss him alone in this room, without an audience, on our own accord?

What if all the times I thought we could work, I was right?

What if Decker was the end of “Sad Girl Lena?” What if I could have my career and Decker too?

“I did say that,” I admit, dropping my guitar to the floor again.

“You also said your mom is the reason you’re famous.”

“That’s not really what I said?—”

Decker snorts.

My guard flies up at the sound. “What?”

His voice is soft when he finally speaks.

“I want you to listen to me.” His eyes search my face before he continues.

“Everyone fell in love with you , not your mom or your team or whatever. You don’t owe anyone anything—not even the fans.

You’ve worked hard for what you have. Don’t let anyone else take credit for that. ”

I press my lips into a tight line, willing them not to bend at his words.

“Never for a second think that your ideas, your songs, shouldn’t be heard.

Your opinions matter just as much— more —than any of theirs.

With them or without them, everything you’ve accomplished is yours .

” He veers across the small table between us, resting his elbow on it.

He wants to be closer to me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want the same thing.

“Forget everyone else. Just be you, Lena. That’s more than enough. ”

The sentiment feels like blasphemy. Forsake my fans? My team? But the lightness that replaces my question is answer enough, and I know he’s said exactly what I’ve been needing to hear.

For a split second, I give in and lean, soaking in what could be one of the last times I see him besides the gala.

Our arms touch, and I let my hand give into the urge, lacing my fingers through his amid the crumpled napkins and now-cold deli food atop the table.

Blood whooshes in my ears as he stares at our interlocked hands.

I suck in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it gush from my mouth in one rushed explosion. “I worry people only love me for what they can get from me. What I can offer them.”

He shakes his head, pinning me with a steadiness in his eyes I didn’t know I craved. “Lena, you’re easy to fall in love with. Trust me on that one.”

I lean closer from where I sit, wanting to fall to the floor again and launch myself back into his arms. I want to feel his heart beating in my ear as the rhythm of his breathing soothes me.

I want to bury my face into his shirt so I can smell nothing but that comforting scent of him .

My mouth is desperate for his, but still, despite the things he’s said, I fear that if I kiss him now, I may ruin everything we’ve worked for so far.

What if this fake relationship blows up in my face, too?

So I resist, bringing his warm hand to my lips and gently pressing them against his knuckles.

His free hand finds my cheek, and he cups it there, holding me together for a shadow of a moment.

My eyes sting, and all I can do is think about how desperately I want to reciprocate his sentiment, but I’ve been here before.

In my last relationship. Callum always knew what to say to talk me down, to get what he wanted.

Because words are words. As sweet as they may be, they’re empty until proven otherwise.

But there’s one thing Decker and I can both agree on.

I’ve worked too hard. I can’t let my heart keep pulling me back into my judgment patterns that take me—and my relationships—nowhere.

Falling too fast, too soon, is part of the problem. It isn’t romantic. It’s reckless.

“I think I should go home,” I whisper, releasing him. “I need to rest.”

Decker hesitates, his other hand falling from my face. “I’ll give you a ride.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. “Gustav is waiting around back with a driver.”

He won’t argue, but I know he doesn’t want to go. I wonder if he wants what I do, to tangle up on these chairs together and never leave.

Decker’s eyes are sad little green pools as he nods. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” It’s not a statement. It’s a question.

“We’ll make plans for the gala. Maybe squeeze in one last public appearance before it.”

“If that’s what you want,” he says.

I smooth my trembling lips into what I hope looks like a smile. “It is.”

His jaw tics as he stands and shows himself out without another word.