Page 10 of Last Chorus

What I really want is to ask Clay if we can go home. Ring in the new year on the couch in our pajamas. But I know better. He isn’t a homebody like me—this is his happy place. Asking him to leave would not only ruin his night, it would worsen his growing concerns about my sleep. Or rather, my lack of it.

If I don’t get a handle on my insomnia soon, I’m afraid history will repeat itself. I’ll be given a choice between a stint at a private clinic or sleeping pills at home that give me nightmares and make me feel like a zombie all day.

Tension tightens my shoulders as I glance at Clay again. He’s still watching me, body language projecting an intent to excuse himself and come over. If he does, I’ll be stuck to his side the rest of the night, guided from group to group until my head spins.

I look around again, a bit more desperately, and sigh with relief when I spot a familiar man sitting on a couch on the other side of the patio. Maybe Idohave one friend in this city. Seizing the opportunity, I walk toward him. If it weren’t for the icepicks on my feet, I might even run.

Even surrounded by fashion-obsessed partygoers, Martin Page stands out. He wears a shimmery silver vest with no undershirt, the pale color highlighting his warm brown skin and trim physique. Snug, matching pants with fringe down the sides and white cowboy boots complete his ensemble. On anyone else, the look could easily be kitschy, but on Martin it’s effortless high fashion. I’m probably the only one here who knows he likely found the outfit at one of his favorite resale shops.

When he spies me approaching, a smile overtakeshis face. “Eva!” He shoves at the man next to him, who gives him an annoyed look but scoots down to make room for me.

After depositing my half-full glass of champagne on the table, I sit carefully, keeping my legs sealed so I don’t flash the party. Bending as much as the restrictive dress will allow, I rub at my ankle where a tiny strap has cut into my skin. When the sting only gets worse, I give up and lean against Martin’s shoulder.

I whisper, “You hate my dress, don’t you?”

“It’s hideous,” he whispers back.

I laugh over an abrupt urge to cry. “I miss you.”

He drops his head against mine. “Same.”

Martin was the up-and-coming stylist who took Lily and me under his wing six years ago. The instincts of our publicist, Anita, were right when she surmised we’d be perfect for each other. Over the following years, Martin became more than a friend. He was family.

My heart still aches at the memory of the day last year when he tearfully informed us he needed to part ways. Lily and I were blindsided, heartbroken, and confused. Friendship aside, our professional relationship had always been mutually beneficial. After dressing us for our first Grammys, Martin became one of the most sought-after stylists on the West Coast, and since then his name has been synonymous with edgyelegance. Until last year, his name was also synonymous with Glow.

But despite the lingering pain of his sudden departure and vague reasonings, there’s no world in which I wouldn’t be happy to see him.

“How are you?” he asks softly.

A lie sits on my tongue, but the truth leaps over it. “Tired.”

Martin drops a hand to my knee and squeezes gently. “Come down to my place in Baja for a week. We’ll drink margaritas and float in the pool all day. How about next month?”

I suck in a breath, my first instinct a resoundingyes.But then I picture Clay’s reaction and my chest deflates. There’s no way he’d be okay with it, not with so much up in the air.

Before I can think of a way to say no, the man seated on the other side of Martin asks, “Is that who I think it is?”

Martin straightens and looks around. “Who? Is it Miley? Because if it’s not Miley, I don’t care.”

“I can’t believe it,” someone else murmurs, while a woman on a nearby love seat slaps her friend’s arm and says, “I knew tonight was going to be epic. Where’s my phone?”

The energy of the party shifts fast, conversationsdying off or lowering to murmurs as more and more people turn to observe the newcomer. I still can’t see them, my line of sight blocked.

Whoever they are, I’m both grateful for the distraction and feel sorry for them. I’ve been in their shoes more times than I can count. While fame can be thrilling, especially at first, eventually it gets old being treated like a product instead of a person.

Lost in my thoughts, I jerk in surprise when Martin swivels toward me. His eyes are wide, lips pursed in distress.

“Honey, you’re not going to like this.”

“Huh?”

Frowning, I glance over his shoulder right as a small group disperses, revealing the man standing near the back door of the house.

A fiery, pins-and-needles sensation crawls over every inch of my skin.

“What’s he doing here?” I whisper.

Martin squeezes my burning fingers. “Not a clue.”

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