Oh, no.
“Sounded like a sweet girl, and it went on for quite a while. I felt really bad for her. I would like to think she had a good night, like, with some new friends and all. But why would someone who was happy get that sad?”
He turns to look at me. There’s no question. He totally knows.
“She wasn’t sad,” I whisper.
“Then what was wrong, I wonder?” He’s trying to look me in the eye, but now I’m the one staring across the room.
“She was too happy, I bet. She probably had a big night. Her new friends—one in particular—probably brought out a lot of passion and emotion in her. Plus, she probably gets extra emotional when she drinks.” I pause. “And, I bet she didn’t get to say a proper good-night to her friend, and she was worried she’d never see him again. That’s the one thing that made her sad. I bet.”
“So, you don’t think her new friend did anything wrong?”
“Not one thing.”
“That’s good to know. I’m sure he’d be really upset if he knew he somehow made her sad.”
I turn to him and tilt my head. God, what a sweetie.
“He should not worry about that,” I whisper, taking his hand. “Sometimes girls just need a good cry. She’s sorry, I’m sure, if she made her friend worry.”
“As long as she’s fine, he’s fine.”
“Good. Then everyone’s fine. And they all live happily ever after.”
“Sounds like a good ending for a story.”
“Or maybe a great beginning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Promises, Inspiration, and Sleepless Nights
“As much as I would love to, we can’t just go to a restaurant together. Especially around here. You’ll be recognized for sure.”
Niles pulls into the parking lot at his hotel and turns off my car. “But I waaaaant to,” he whines. He sticks out his bottom lip and my heart breaks a little right there.
“Believe me, I don’t want to leave you yet, either.”
My eyes bug out when I hear myself say this, because, yeah, I’ve been guarded—shy, as Niles said earlier—off and on all day. But now that it’s ten o’clock and our day together is wrapping up, I’m feeling bolder. And, hell, I don’t want to leave him yet.
“You don’t know anywhere quiet around here?” His voice is hopeful, but when I tell him I don’t know this area well at all, we both silently admit that it’s time to say our good-byes. I have the two-hour (for me) trip back home (in the dark! Ack!) and he needs to get a little bit of shut-eye since they’re loading up at 4:30 a.m. to get back on the road.
“Thank you for taking me home with you today. It was great to feel normal. And even better spending the day with you.” His phone buzzes, but he completely ignores it. He’s barely touched it all day.
“Please. It was my pleasure.”
Like, really my pleasure.
I suck in a breath and lean toward him, my forearms resting on the console between us, my hands dangling over his thigh. How I wish this console were not even a thing, not a barrier between us. How I wish Katherine Koch was not out running today and cursed with the worst timing in the history of ever. How I wish our lips would have met out on that trail, that they will now. How I wish I was bold enough to make a move. To lean in even further. To end this bizarre, amazing, unbelievable two days with the best ending I could think of.
Instead, I lean back and settle my hands back into my lap. “Thank you for indulging my fangirl crush, Niles.” I cast him a quick sideways glance. “It was very, very sweet of you, and you’re off the hook now. Tell your people you held up your end of the deal.” Because that’s what this was, right? A PR arrangement? I have to keep my head on straight and remember that.
Even though he just told me it was “even better” spending the day with me.
He turns to me, a serious look washing across his face. “I . . .” He looks out the window behind me, then pulls his eyes back toward me. “I honestly don’t know what this was at first. And especially now. But I know this new ‘friendship’ of ours is far from over.” My chest tightens.
“I am sincere about keeping you distracted this summer,” he says, his voice turning a little weird. “So, you better plan on it.”
He moves toward me, leans over that goddamn console, and rests his forehead against mine. “I’ll talk to you soon. Drive safe.” His lips are so close, mine instinctively pucker. But he pulls away, grabs his running bag and mini-cooler out of the back, and hops out. He waves at me through the window as I remain in the passenger seat, a muddled mess.
And just like that, he’s gone.
***
When I finally arrive home, it’s after midnight and I am exhausted, but energized at the same time. I want to sit and think about every single thing that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours, but I am very inspired to put some ideas on paper for Book Two (and maybe even come up with a title so I can stop calling it Book Two). I remind myself that Niles did not win three Grammys by sitting around thinking about it, so I grab my laptop and prepare to settle in. If I commit to an hour of focused work, I’ll reward myself with some daydreaming. Then, I’ll head to bed and what? Carry on like none of this ever happened? What does tomorrow hold for me? After a whirlwind like this, where do I go from here? Back to normal? Has my life changed? Have I changed?
I ponder these questions as my email gears up. I open my inbox and am completely elated when the name at the tippy top is none other than Niles Russell. When I open up the message, there is a picture of us—the Tongue picture—staring back at me.
“Here’s to a great summer ahead!” the email says. “xo, Niles.”
I respond with a simple “<3” and press send.
I ignore every single one of my forty-seven other emails and get to work. After two hours, my butt hurts and my eyes are droopy, but I’m still typing. Two hours after that, the clock on my computer tells me it’s just about time for Niles to be packing up to head back on the road. I grab my phone and take a picture of my laptop screen.
I text Niles the picture with the message: “Almost 5,500 words in. Thanks, muse! #amwriting” and he immediately responds with, “Atta girl. You’re amazing. #amimpressed”
Eek!
“Get some sleep now,” he types. “One of us should.”
“No sleep last night for you either?”
“I didn’t have my napping partner.” Winking emoticon.
“Baby, I’ll nap with you anytime.” Double winking emoticons.
“That’s what I’m hoping.” Even more winking emoticons. I squee right out loud, my heart bursting. “P.S. Why weren’t you this flirty earlier today? lol”
As I consider this question, Niles answers it for me.
“Oh yeah. You’re a word girl. But remember, no need to hide behind them. Not with me. Capeesh? (How the hell do you spell capeesh?)”
I laugh because, really, I have no idea how to spell it. But I make a note to find out and use it in Book Two.
“When will I see you again?” I type. “Because it won’t be soon enough.”
Shit, thirty seconds from now would not be soon enough.
“Hang tight. I’m figuring that out as we speak. Any days you’re totally off the grid?”
Ha. Even if there were, I’d move mountains to change my plans. I miss my girls like crazy, but they’re gone and other than working on Book Two and a couple freelance copywriting projects, I have no specific obligations all summer.
“Sounds pathetic, but I’m wide open. Not a single plan.”
“Good. Then be flexible and be ready. Hope you’re not as scared of flying as you are of driving.”
“If I could have flown instead of driven yesterday, I would have. Believe me.”
“I do. I was hoping you’d text to tell me you made it home safe.”
He was?
“Glad all is well. Now get some rest. I mean it.”
I promise him I will, but hey, I’m not the one wh
o will be performing in front of thousands of people tonight. I can sleep all I want when I’m dead. For now, I have a book to write . . . and a rock star to fantasize over.
A rock star who wants to know my summer plans so he can figure out when we’ll see each other next.
Holy. Freaking. Bleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hits and Misses
“You know, it would be swell if you picked up your damn calls once in a while, Kallie.”
A guy’s voice is in my ear, but it’s not the guy I want it to be . . . and I have no idea how it happened. I lift my head off the back of my couch and realize I had fallen asleep while writing. I’m sure when I heard my phone ring, I snatched it without thinking. I’m impressed I was coherent enough to at least say hello, but I’m crushed that it’s Brad’s voice I’m hearing instead of Niles’s.
“Hi, Brad,” I say, sitting up. “Great to hear from you.” If “sarcastic” was an animate object, it’d be sitting on the couch next to me right now.
“Yeah, well, your girls wanted to talk to their mother, but since she doesn’t answer her phone, that’s proving impossible. I told them I’d try one more time, then they’ll have to wait until we get back to my mom’s. So thanks for finally picking up. Now I don’t have to repair their broken little hearts.”
“Gee, Brad, dramatic much?” I sigh. “I’ve had my phone nearby all weekend.” “Then maybe you should answer it. Check your call records. See how many times we’ve tried. Five, at least. Since Friday night. It’s now Sunday. So, in my book, that’s pretty shitty phone monitoring.”
I think back to my calls and, sure, I ignored a few (Katherine Koch’s, for example), but none of them were from Brad’s phone.
“I would never not pick up a call from the girls, Brad. Your phone number never once showed up all weekend. So ease up, all right?” My voice rises, despite my best attempts otherwise.
“I called from my mom’s phone.”
And there it is. That trap where he does something stupid, inexplicable, or otherwise nonsensical, but somehow pins it back on me to make me look like the bad parent. It’s my favorite of his how-dare-you-leave-us, now-I’ll-make-you-pay tactics. Not.
I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I hate how riled up I get every time I talk to him these days. It’s so strange to me how we’ve gone from barely talking at all when we lived in the same house to talking often, and rarely in a controlled state.
“Okay. That’s why I didn’t pick up. It was a number I didn’t recognize.” I want to tell him to quit being a baby and cut me some slack and use his own damn phone for crying out loud, or at least leave a message, but instead I say, “I’m sorry. I miss the girls terribly and if I knew it was them trying to call, I’d have picked up.”
“Yeah. Well, here they are.” He ignores my apology and, of course, offers none of his own.
Alana gets on first and The Black Cloud of Brad instantly dissipates. It’s so good to hear my baby girl’s voice. We talk about everything they’ve done in the mountains since Friday and all they hope to accomplish yet today. She tells me she’s turning nice and tan but that Jilly’s sunburned and I curse Brad out in my head for not SPFing them up enough. We talk about how much we miss each other and I tear up thinking we still have eight weeks before we’ll see each other again. I must have been crazy to agree to this setup, but at the time, it seemed like a good idea to let them enjoy a summer without flopping back and forth between Brad’s house and mine. Now I’m not so sure.
I’ve considered flying down there midsummer for a few days, and now more than ever, I feel like that might be an excellent plan. After I talk to Jillian, I can hardly regroup. What mother allows her children to go away for ten weeks at a time without it being a necessity? I consider telling Brad to bring them back early, but I don’t want to start a fight. I need to create a nice, solid case for why and when before I broach the subject with him, otherwise the battle will be lost before it begins. I hold in my emotions as I tell the girls to have fun, be safe, and call me on Monday night. They agree and we hang up. Free from upsetting their little ears, I let the tears flow.
I allow myself my second good cry of the last thirty-six hours, then haul my gross self off the couch and into the shower. When I emerge, I hear a knock at my door, which I am tempted to ignore but find way too intriguing not to check out. It’s Sunday, early afternoon. Who could it possibly be? Thankfully, my apartment door has a peephole, and I am quiet enough on my feet to slink over and peer out without being detected.
When I look out, I do a double take. There is a handsome young man standing outside my door with a gigantic bouquet of flowers and a large envelope. I fling the door open, scaring the life out of the poor guy.
“Ms. Reagan?” He blinks.
“Yes?”
“These are for you.” He holds them out and I try to grab the vase, but it’s awkward and heavy and we do a really weird fumble dance.
“Here, I got it.” He laughs. “Where would you like them?”
I lead him over to my table, where he sets them down with a thunk. He smiles and holds out the envelope. “This is for you, too. Came by courier. Today is Sunday, so someone went through a lot of trouble to get this stuff to you.” He winks.
Someone?
Oh, someone.
I peel open the envelope and find a travel itinerary, a concert ticket, and a VIP pass. A smile worthy of the Cheshire Cat spreads across my face. Yep, it’s from that someone, all right.
I want so badly to tell the delivery guy who exactly “went through all this trouble,” what it is, and how he just made my entire day. But Niles would probably want to keep this type of thing on the down low, and plus, I’m standing here in my robe with wet hair and no makeup. This harsh reality (bad hair! no makeup!) snaps me back and I reach for my purse.
“No, ma’am,” Delivery Guy says. “The sender tipped us handsomely for this. You’ve got quite an admirer it seems.” He winks again, and I’m thinking he’s taking notes in order to impress some lucky lassie of his own someday.
“These are unbelievable.” I motion toward the flowers. “The colors! The scent! They’re just gorgeous.”
Oh my God, why am I making small talk with this guy? I need to shoo him out so I can drool over this incredible moment in private.
“Uh, sorry to keep you. Thank you so much for coming on a Sunday.” I jerk my head toward the door.
“It’s my pleasure. I hope you enjoy your goodies.” After a third wink, I start to question if maybe he has a nervous condition, but it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. I just need him gone. I usher him out and as he wishes me well, I close the door in his face and make a beeline for my arrangement.
It doesn’t take long for me to make one very distinct realization: This is the exact arrangement—right down to the fillers—that Nash sent to Emily after their first date. And I know this is the exact arrangement because I spent a whole Saturday at a few different flower shops, creating my dream arrangement so I could accurately portray it in my book.
I dig between the blooms to unearth the card.
Who says dreams can’t become realities? -NR
I go weak.
When I finally collect myself, I paw through the envelope and see that Niles wasn’t kidding when he said to be flexible and be ready . . . because I am flying into Philadelphia tomorrow morning for a show that very same evening!
I honestly don’t know what to do next. Do I pack? Do I call Sara? Do I text Niles? Do I scream?
Yes. Yes, I scream!
This cannot be real. I cannot possibly have just received an enormous floral arrangement from my rock star crush, who is now my friend, who I almost kissed, who is flying me to one of his concerts, plunking me down in the front row, and giving me a VIP pass so I can see him after the show. This is the most surreal thing I’ve ever experienced.
This is my book coming to life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s Go Time!
“Quit texting and driving, Sar. I’d kind of like to actually get to the airport, you know?” I shoot her an annoyed look, to which she responds with an equally annoyed look.
“Dude, I’m using two hours of vacation time to haul your fangirl ass to the airport. You could be a little nicer.”
“Sorry. I’m just crazy nervous.” And I am. I barely slept one second last night. For whatever reason, the anticipation of seeing Niles tonight is even more chest-crushing than the first time. Maybe because this time I know what to expect. I know there will be sexual tension, I know we’ll flirt, I know—I hope—we’ll have a great time. It’s like a second date that’s not really a date. And I’ve always hated second dates. They invite a shit ton more pressure than a first date, by far.
“Kallie, you’ll be fine. Just keep your head together.”
“I don’t know if I can. I’m a mess.”
“Well, you look like a mess, too. You do plan to change and spruce up, right?”
Man, you gotta love honest best friends.
“Of course I do.” I sigh. “Give me a break, though, okay? I have seriously not slept since last Wednesday.”
“Well, get out your super-strength makeup and paint that shit on. You need it.” She throws me an apologetic smile. “Will you have time to nap at the hotel before the show?”
My stomach squeezes at the mention of hotel naps. Sara still doesn’t know about Niles’s and my slumber party. I smile inwardly at my juicy little secret.
“Probably not. I have to call Lucy. She emailed and asked me to call her today. ”
Sara waves her hand in dismissal. “Psh, agents. Such nuisances.”
I laugh because I know she is totally joking. Throughout my whole book publishing process, she has been most enthralled with Lucy and the agent/author relationship. She gets an absolute kick out of the fact that I have to “take a call from my agent” and says it sounds so Hollywood. I love that she loves it. Sara can be really hard to impress.
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