Last night definitely didn’t go as planned—a visit to the ER, then sleeping in a chair next to Zane all night on the bus because the steroids he was given freaked him out wasn’t what I had expected. It’s noon and Amy and I are just arriving at Pelican Hill Resort. She invited me to join her at some party being thrown tonight by her band’s label. I would rather have skipped, but since we are here anyway, Ellie, the tour manager, insisted we all go for the good PR.
I’m exhausted and really need some sleep before dealing with the press and tomorrow night’s show. The paparazzi have been everywhere—by the bus as we exited to the waiting car in LA, outside the doctor’s office, at the gates of Zeak Perry, Zane’s father’s house, and now they’re here in Irvine at the hotel.
To avoid the chaos awaiting us in the lobby, I called Ellie and asked her to check me in and meet me at the pool bar with the room key. I drape my arm around Amy, and we head that way. I’ve been here a few times, so I know my way around. Cutting through the grotto and over to the pool and cabanas, I steer Amy to the right and stop in my tracks as all the air rushes from my lungs.
My body floods with adrenaline and my gut twists. I don’t even have to do a double take, since I’d know her anywhere. There’s no mistaking her. She’s just so beautiful—the elegant planes of her face, those high cheekbones, the red lipstick, and her platinum hair, which may be shorter than it used to be but is still tucked behind her ear like it always was. She looks the same. No, she looks better. Her skin glistens in the sun and my gaze automatically follows the shape of her long legs. They look smooth and tan against her white bathing suit. An ache forms in my chest as I think about running my fingers up them. She still looks like that eighteen-year-old girl I once knew, but now she has the body of a woman—lean and toned and full of curves. The sight of her is so familiar it doesn’t seem like a day has passed since I last saw her—and everything I ever felt for her, it’s all still inside me.
My pulse races at the mere memory of us. She’s reclining in the cushioned lounge chair, reading a magazine just outside a cabana. My heart slams harder in my chest when she sticks her earphones in her ears and it transports me back to the last time I saw her do the very same thing. We’d skipped school and were at my grandparents’ house—their pool. She was lying on the lounge chair listening to music and singing along—her voice so full of soul. I’d moved to sit with her under the guise of putting lotion on her back. She sat up and smiled that shy smile she didn’t need to have when she was with me. I squeezed the tube into my hands. And after rubbing them together, I slowly applied it to her back, kneading my way up and down, touching every inch of her that I could.
Suddenly she sits up and looks over at me. Her eyes pin me in place, bringing me back to the here and now. She looks at me as if she remembers me for who I was, what we were. Not what I did to her. With my chest pounding, memories of us keep flashing through my mind. Fighting a smile, I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—remembering what we were, what we shared, how we loved.
She quickly breaks our connection when she averts her eyes and turns toward the man handing her a drink. I suck in a deep breath, trying not to feel sick at the sight. He’s nearing fifty, wearing a terry-cloth robe. He’s about my height, dark brown hair, meticulously groomed facial hair, and not exactly ripped, but fit. I’ve never actually met him, but I hate him all the same. Damon Wolf. I’ve seen his picture on TV and in magazines. He’s her agent, her fiancé, and I’m sure he’s the reason she’s not singing anymore.
She looks up at him with that same forced smile she used to give people she just wanted to appease and mouths “thank you.” I have a sudden urge to go over and deck him, but then her gaze shifts back to mine. After a few moments, he pulls her chin back to make her look at him, and I can sense some discomfort between them. We could always sense each other’s feelings even when we weren’t near each other.
Amy’s hand slides down my arm and I have to blink a few times before I can hear what she’s saying. Glancing one last time at Ivy, I see that she’s staring at me again. Then suddenly her mouth forms a scowl and she flicks her attention away from me. Hooking her arm around Damon’s neck, she pulls him down for a kiss and I think I might throw up.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, not able to say a word.
“Isn’t that Ivy Taylor over there? The girl you used to date in high school?” Amy asks. There’s an irritated tone to her voice I’m not used to hearing, and it makes me agitated.
“Yeah, it is.” I try to sound casual. She’s not just a girl I used to date . . . she’s the only girl I ever really loved. She’s also the girl whose heart I broke. Seeing her now brings back all those feelings I blocked, ignored, cast away. So many times over the years I wanted to go after her and tell her the truth—but I never did. Why, I don’t know. Then one day it was too late—she had gotten engaged.