Page 28 of Last Chorus

My irritation softens and fades. I reach across the back seat and touch his thigh. He finally lowers his phone, shifting cold eyes to my face. I ignore the instinct to retract my hand.

“We don’t have to do this, Clay.”

“Yes, we do,” he says, his voice low and rigid.

I make myself smile. “This will blow over soon enough. Tomorrow there will be a new story, a different drama.”

He scoffs. “I won’t be cuckolded by the media, Eva, and definitely not by the waste of oxygen that is Wilder Ashburn. So put a smile on your face and play the part. Consider it your due for landing us in this situation to begin with.”

Dumbstruck, I recoil to my side of the back seat. He returns his attention to his phone. I study his profile, searching forsomething, but he’s wearing his courtroom expression. Perfectly composed and aloof.

Another one of my mental walls crumbles. More awareness floods in.

I swim through tangled, murky thoughts until Phillip pulls up to the entrance of Café Doux. Then I shove the mess in my head behind a mental door and slam it closed.

By the time I exit the car and walk inside with my arm wrapped around Clay’s, I’ve become who I need to be. The transition is surprisingly easy, fueled by the adrenaline pouring through my veins. The incessant butterflies in my stomach are just a side effect.

It doesn’t mean anything that those butterflies multiply exponentially when the hostess leads us to a private, shaded patio and I see the man sprawled in apparent ease at a corner table. A man who turns his head as we approach. Who rises gracefully to his feet, a welcoming smile on his face.

Wilder’s smile never falters as he shakes Clay’s hand. They exchange pleasantries, and several people stationed discreetly around the otherwise empty patio take photos. The men laugh. Camera shutters click rapidly.

This can’t be real.

Wilder turns to me with an easy grin. It looks so effortless, sounlike him, that for a moment I’m convinced I’m asleep. The feeling intensifies when I blink and see aflash of light—an instant sunrise behind my eyes—and hear leaves rustling in an imaginary wind.

“Great to see you, Eva.”

His hands cup my shoulders, twin flashpoints of heat. His kiss to my cheek is there and gone, the flutter of passing wings after a midnight rainstorm.

Still not convinced this isn’t a nightmare, I smile at him with counterfeit joy. “You, too. I’m so glad we could squeeze in a lunch while you’re in town.”

There’s a flash of wry amusement in his eyes, so fast I wonder if I imagined it, then he’s sitting back down. We’re all sitting. Ordering iced teas and appetizers. Chatting about the weather and traffic, about the city’s ongoing efforts to rebuild after the devastating fires a few years ago.

Clay holds my hand. Touches my back. Strokes my thigh. I ignore the way my skin hums with discomfort. When he nuzzles my ear and kisses my cheek in the same spot Wilder did, I smile like his casual affection is normal and welcome. Like it doesn’t rub against the emotional bruise left by our conversation in the car.

Wilder tells a story about remodeling his house and a family of ducks that put construction back months.

We laugh.

Clickclickclickgo the cameras.

Over our meals—steaks for the men, a dressing-freesalad for me—Clay brings up the Grammys next month, congratulating Wilder on Night Theory’s nomination for Best Rock Performance for their song, “Gray Matter.” Then he asks if he thinks they’ll win.

Wilder’s eyes sharpen; Clay’s smile widens. I stiffen, my gaze flickering to the nearest cameraman and the phone sitting on the table beside him. We all know our conversation is being recorded, that whatever Wilder says could very well end up in print.

I hold my breath until Wilder says offhandedly, “We’re up against some of my favorite songs and artists from last year, so I’ll be happy no matter the outcome.” Forest-toned eyes slide to me and soften. “Glow’s up for three, right? Ready to add another shelf?”

My heart cartwheels in my ribcage, elevating my pulse and sending a wave of warmth up my neck. In my head, a locked door rattles ominously.

As I suck in a breath, I finally accept that I’m undeniably and unfortunately awake.

Clay’s fingers tighten on my thigh to the point of pain, eliciting another gasp. Wilder’s eyes narrow. He opens his mouth, but Clay interjects brightly, “You’ll be thrilled for whoever wins, won’t you, my love?”

“Absolutely,” I intone, then place my napkin beside my plate. “If you’ll both excuse me? Too much iced tea.”

I push my chair back, forcing Clay to release me orrisk an awkward struggle. He flashes me a sharp grin. “Hurry back.”

I nod.

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