Page 33 of With Stars in Her Eyes

Thea

“Morning, sunshine.” Marshall’s voice rattled against my skull.

“I hate you. Go away.”

“I wish my head wasn’t attached to my body. Why did you let me drink that much during a book club?”

“I was a little distracted, truth be told.”

“By?”

“Trying not to run away every time my dad’s oldest friend—a woman I’ve known since I was in diapers—gave in-depth thoughts on the practicality and mechanics of bedroom scenes.”

“Come on now. They didn’t all happen in a bedroom.”

Marshall groaned.

“You’re the one making strategy notes in the margins of your copy.” I regretted laughing immediately because of what it did to my stomach. “I love Ms. Jeannie.”

“Me too. But I didn’t need to know all her thoughts about missionary.” He shuddered.

“Prude.” My yawn tasted foul. “I think I need a shower.”

“You do. You smell worse than when that ferret tried to mark you as its territory.”

I threw a pillow at him. But with his stupid NFL tight end reflexes, the bastard caught it before it hit his face.

“Did Courtney call?” He glanced at my phone, which was sticking out of the neck of my shirt like I had fallen asleep with it.

“She… Whoa .”

“You okay?”

“I think she did call.” I swiped to the call log. Sure enough, there was a forty-five-minute call, but I only remembered snippets… some of which were fairly mortifying. “I think at one point I told her I wanted to cuddle her. Oh my god.”

“Well, that’s kinda swee—”

“And also fuck her senseless.”

“Well then, by golly, Miss Thea, sounds like you finally voiced your intentions?” He cleared his throat. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“She might have said. Everything’s fuzzy. I remember her saying something about someone threatening to sue her if she didn’t fly out?”

He rubbed his beard. “Samantha said she’s in some kind of band situation that’s not great. I wonder if it’s a contract dispute. If music stuff is anything like football, that shit gets serious. I might have some friends who have lawyers if she needs one.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll ask her when she gets back. She must play for one of those big orchestras or something. Maybe another cellist dropped out of a performance at the last minute.”

A message popped up on her phone from a number without a name.

Check your email.

Courtney had sent an email. A long one. I grinned as I skimmed the text. The woman was still respecting my boundaries. Even the dumb ones.

“She says she’ll be back next Thursday.” My shoulders slumped. “Perfect. I leave that day for the stupid shower.”

“That sucks. But seems like she’s making her intentions pretty clear too.

Which means I think I would’ve won the over-under pool if Samantha hadn’t refused to bet.

” Marshall’s face was both amused and satisfied.

It was sweet. But also pretty annoying. Basically Marshall’s personality since he was three years old.

“Hey so, did you call your dad yet?” My head waggled in a gotcha kind of way.

“It’s only eight o’clock. Christ , Thea. You too?”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with your dad that everyone else seems to know about, but you haven’t told me about, which says you’re probably embarrassed or ashamed of your behavior in some way?”

“Everyone here needs to mind their own damn business, and let a man hold a very short-term grudge against his dad if he wants to. Especially if the old rascal deserves it.”

“All right.” I folded my hands together. “Won’t ask about it again.”

“Now you’re making me feel even worse.”

“I’m just sitting here.” I gave my most innocent angelic expression—the one Courtney had once called scary—although it probably looked utterly ridiculous given my disgusting hangover.

“Take a shower.”

He bent to grab the books I’d knocked to the floor. “For someone who was being such a pain in the ass about these books, not really taking great care of them.” He stacked them back in a pile and then handed me a purple flyer I didn’t recognize. “That yours?”

“No. Must be Courtney’s. It was stuck in one of her books. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. ”

“What? You’re not going to puke again, are you?”

“No. I just—the flyer.”

“What about it?”

“I knew she would like them, and she already does.”

“Huh?”

“The Violet Trikes.” I brandished the flyer closer to his face.

He stared blankly.

“It’s a band.”

He moved his head from side to side. “I guess it rings a bell?”

“I swear I’ve mentioned them a bunch.” I opened their website on my phone. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“They still haven’t announced the dates of their US tour yet.

It’s supposed to start at the end of the summer.

They were supposed to play this big festival in New Orleans with Kestrel back in February but then they backed out at the last minute after I had already bought tickets to go.

The rumors were that they’re going to tour with Kestrel as the official opener instead of just playing with the band in the back like she’s been doing for a while, but she apparently went on some kind of crazy bender or had a psychotic break or something.

Was it Chicago? Too hungover to remember. ”

“I know you’re speaking English, but I have literally no idea what you’re talking about or why you’re info-dumping about this right now.”

“All this romance book literary criticism rabbit hole is really going to your head, isn’t it?”

Marshall nearly preened. “Maybe. But seriously, what the hell are you talking about?”

“ Kestrel . She’s incredible. I was really into her covers in college back in the golden age of YouTube musicians, but then she disappeared for a while.”

“And this relates to the flyer—”

“Because it’s a Violet Trikes flyer. Their last album was just nominated for like six Grammys. They keep getting nominated and losing and last time they were robbed . How have you never heard of them? They’re British folk pop but with the coolest blend of music styles from all over.”

“So…”

“ So… I can surprise Courtney with tickets if I can find cheap ones once they announce the tour. She already likes them if she’s got a flyer. They have some really pretty electric cello bits, which is probably how she got into them.”

“I’m still stuck on the Violet Trikes being an actual real band name. You’re shitting me.”

“They’re one hundred percent a real band.

Lead singer is a dreamboat. My bisexuality is basically defined as women, nonbinary people, and Demetrius Adeyemi.

His singing voice is like Hozier mixed with Marcus Mumford and Bill Withers all rolled into one.

Don’t even get me started on his accent.

It’s sex in speech form. Interviews should come with a surgeon general’s warning.

But the band’s incredible. Really blew up after being featured in a few key scenes of some HBO show, but I was a fan first—”

“Oh wow. On a soundtrack ?”

“Oh lord.” I groaned. “I forgot about your thing with soundtracks.”

“All the best songs are on soundtracks, Thea.”

“Please stop.” My face wrinkled.

“C’mon now, Rudy ? And Field of Dreams . It’s not just a movie. It’s lifestyle.”

“I have no idea what that means. I need to set a reminder to keep checking for the tickets.”

“Do you need me to give you a reminder right now to shower because don’t you have an appointment in…?”

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” I set an alert for the tickets and then hopped out of bed.