The Rock Star’s Fake Fiancee - Kenzie Reed Page 0,10

she’s been “Crazy Daisy” and “Daisaster” all her life. People expect that of her. As for me, my well-earned moniker is “Careful Callie”.

The bartender keeps a straight face. “Sure, sure. Neither does anyone else in here.”

Yes, this is just what I need at this point. More sarcasm. Like I’m not beating up on myself enough.

“What would you recommend?”

He shrugs. “How about a Long Island iced tea? The ladies like those.”

I brighten a little. We don’t serve them at our hotel’s bar, but it definitely sounds promising. I’m a good Southern girl, and I love iced tea. I’m guessing it’s a delicate girly drink with maybe a splash of alcohol.

As he goes to mix my drink, I review my epic failure at the Blue Blazes recording studio.

Here’s how I pictured it in my head:

Once I made my way past the bodyguards, I’d stride in leading the pack of reporters, and Sebastian would recognize me instantly. A look of devastation and remorse would spread across his handsome face, leaving the reporters baffled, but I’d know it was meant for me.

He’d point to me and, ignoring my fake press pass, say, “Callie Abernathy?”

And I’d say, “Why have you been ignoring my emails?” Because, after the Tricentennial Committee failed to get an answer from him, I swallowed my pride and started emailing him myself.

I imagined that he would look shocked and ashamed. “I never got a single email from you! I’d have jumped on a plane and flown to your side if only I thought there was the slightest chance you’d ever speak to me again!”

Okay, the dialogue in my fantasy may be a little over the top. Big deal. It’s my fantasy.

Next, he would say, “Callie, I made the biggest mistake of my life when I cruelly stood you up ten years ago.”

All the reporters would look at him with the contempt that he deserves…

“Hey, lady! Any time today.” The bartender’s bored drawl slices through my fantasy. He waves a drink directly under my nose. Eeek. How long has he been standing there?

“My goodness! Sorry. Thank you.” I grab the drink and take a sip. Yummy. I take another, longer sip.

Warmth flows through my veins, and some of the tension that’s been knotting my muscles melts away.

Another Heat Lightning song blares from the jukebox. Sebastian’s voice, singing about finding your one perfect love, booms through the air. “Do they have any other songs on that thing?” I mutter.

“Washat?” the drunk guy in the cowboy hat asks blearily.

“Nothing.” I drain half my drink in one long, very unladylike gulp.

I return to my fantasy.

All the reporters would be looking at me with sympathy, and at Sebastian with disgust. I’d ask him to play at our arena. Sebastian would eagerly agree, and he’d insist on the band playing every night for a week. No, all month long. And then he’d sweep me up in his arms and carry me away.

Oh, my. I look down at my glass. It’s empty. How did that happen?

Sebastian would rush me to his limo and we’d take up where he left off ten years ago, with a warm, melting kiss…

Of course, my fantasy never came to fruition. I was completely knocked for a loop when Sebastian didn’t recognize me, and I just couldn’t seem to make myself tell him who I was. I think I was afraid of being rejected all over again. Every time I opened my mouth to say something, my courage fizzled like a wet firecracker.

That’s why instead of being in a limo with Sebastian, riding off into the sunset, I’m in a germy, crowded bar, marinating in defeat and humiliation.

Cowboy hat-man reaches for a napkin and accidentally jostles me. “Shorry,” he slurs.

“Think nothing of it,” I say politely. I may be in a terrible funk, but that’s no reason to forget my raisin’, as mama would say.

I hold my glass up and look at it. I’m warm and loose in a way that never happens after I drink iced tea at home. What the heck is in this stuff?

Well, whatever it was, it went down very smoothly.

“May I please have another of these delicious libations?” I wave my empty glass at the bartender. He snatches it from my hand and mixes another one.

“It’s not a whatever you just called it.” He slams it down on the bar in front of me. “It’s a Long Island Iced Tea.”

I sip this one more slowly, wanting to make it last. Glancing around the room, my cleanliness fetish kicks in, pushing