The Rock Star’s Fake Fiancee - Kenzie Reed Page 0,15
booked to play on opening night, but they had to cancel because the singer’s in rehab. Another band that had committed just broke up, and now all the members are suing each other, so that’s a no-go. We’ve been reaching out to other headliners for months, and we were getting desperate, and I thought you might say yes for old times’ sake if I could only get close enough to you.”
He arches an eyebrow. “So you put on a blue wig, and…”
“Well, I emailed you, I called and left messages… I didn’t know whether you were ignoring me on purpose. So this was Plan B. In retrospect, it was pretty crazy.”
“You think?”
I scowl at him. “I hoped I could convince you to do me this one favor because, frankly, you owe me. But I couldn’t tell my family that I was coming here, because then I’d have had to tell them about what happened between us ten years ago, which would have meant revisiting a painful and humiliating time in my life. Also, I’d have had to tell Mama I lied to her back then.”
He opens his mouth to answer, but I don’t want to hear it. Whatever he has to say—apologies, excuses—it would just pile on more hurt.
I rush ahead before he can speak. “So I came up with a cover story about visiting an old friend to help with her new babies, and I made my cousin show me how to disguise my looks, and I came here thinking I would get close to you and you’d recognize me. And you didn’t. And then I chickened out. Happy?”
Before he can say anything, I throw back the covers and slide out of bed—and realize I’m wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt.
“What the heck?” I shriek. “You pervert! I was unconscious!”
“Hey! Settle down!” He jumps to his feet, backing away from me and holding his hands up in defense. “Nothing happened between us!”
My heart pounds wildly against my ribcage. I want so much to believe that he didn’t molest me when I was in a drunken stupor, but… “I’m wearing your T-shirt and nothing else.”
“You’re also wearing your underwear. And last night you got sick. On your clothes.”
“Ewww. Uh…sorry.”
The bus goes over a bump, making me stagger. My knees go weak and I sink back down, sitting on the edge of the bed. I’m swearing off alcohol for life.
Also, I’m going to dedicate my remaining years to inventing a time machine so I can go back to yesterday and make this never have happened. Failing that, I will find out if the French foreign legion accepts female volunteers.
Sebastian yawns enormously.
“Is my humiliation boring to you?”
“Sorry. I sat up for hours watching you sleep.” He yawns again, covering his mouth.
I look at him in alarm. “You what?”
“That came out way creepier than I meant it to. You were so drunk I was afraid you might be sick again, in your sleep.”
That was actually very decent of him. “Oh. Thank you for keeping an eye on me.” I look down at my T-shirt. “What am I going to do for clothes?”
“We threw them in the washing machine.”
“A washing machine? Dang, this is one fancy tour bus.” I glance around the small room. There’s a bookshelf, a half-open door, leading to a bathroom. “Does that bathroom have a shower?”
“It does indeed. Help yourself.”
I stand up and hand him the empty coffee cup. “Thanks for the coffee, and everything else. I can’t tell—are you shouting now?”
“No. Normal volume.” His eyes twinkle with more amusement than is strictly necessary.
“Right. Of course.” I’d nod, but I’m afraid my head might fall off my neck and roll across the floor. I’ve learned a new thing from this whole experience. Long Island Iced Tea is the Devil’s nectar.
Gingerly, I run my fingers through my hair to see if I maybe have a skull fracture. Nope. It’s just the hangover.
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “There’s aspirin in the bathroom cabinet.”
My purse is sitting on a nightstand. I grab it and stumble into the bathroom, gulp down three aspirin, and wash them down with a cup of water. I scrub down in a glorious hot shower, and the heat and the steam clear some of the cotton from my head.
When I’m done with the shower, I dig in my purse and find the special makeup remover that my cousin Naomi sent with me, meant to remove the industrial-strength theatrical makeup she taught me to apply. I scrub it off