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I tip my driver, then sprint inside, thankful to be home at last. I don’t even make it past the living room. Instead, I throw myself onto the oversized gray sectional, pull a blanket over myself, and crash.

Chapter nine

The sound of my alarm wakes me up. Is it really ten a.m. already? The team has to be ready to roll by one o’clock. I turn off my phone alarm and roll over, ready to hold the pretty girl from last night for just a few more minutes. To my surprise, the bed is empty. Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes, and search for signs she’s really gone.

Clue number one: her clothes are missing from the floor. I make my way to the bathroom to pee, then head out to see if her bag is gone. The small purse from last night is no longer on the table, and the clothes I lent her are folded up neatly on the sofa. Vivienne is definitely long gone.

“Fuck!” I mutter to myself, irritated I slept right through her crawling out of bed.

I would have at least ordered her breakfast and a safe ride. Usually I can’t get rid of the girls I bring to bed. I don’t even know why I’m so upset. It was just one night. I do this all the time. I clench my jaw. Gone is my desire to find the prettiest girl in every city and claim her in my bed. All I want to do is track down Vivienne and bring her with me to the next city so, after my show, I can repeat last night.

Vivienne made me feel like myself for the first time in a long time. Nothing felt performative with her. She wasn’t some star-struck, obsessed fan. She was down to earth and real. One thing’s for sure: I need to track her down, because I need to see her again. I need more.

But how? I run my hands over my face in frustration and plop down on the sofa, clutching the folded-up clothes. I bring them to my nose, inhaling deeply, chasing her scent. Longing to stay in last night’s moment just a while longer. I’m a fucking wreck, smelling dirty clothes and hyperfixating on a girl who rocked my world.

My phone vibrates. Alerts keep lighting up. I probably caused a bunch of PR issues for my agent, and I’m willing to bet at least half of the notifications are from Patrick yelling at me for not warning him. As much as I don’t want to deal with my phone right now, there’s a real possibility it might be my only ticket to tracking Vivienne down.

When I swipe my phone open to social media, it’s just as I suspected—but I’m looking for something specific. The message from her tag. If I can track her down, then I can find her out in the wild.

Ignoring the thousands of likes and comments, I tap on the messages icon and scroll past the DMs in my requests. She’s gotta be in here somewhere. It takes a little while, but I finally locate the message with the tag from last night. Opening the story, I grab a quick screenshot, then repost the story from my account. What’s the worst that will happen? She messages me? I can only hope.

What if I message her? I press on her profile and am directed to her homepage. Wow! She has a lot of followers—over 55,000. I can’t believe she’s really a comic book artist. The art she’s sharing is impressive. I scroll and swipe, digging deeper and deeper into her life, until reactions and alerts for my repost start slamming in and blowing up my phone. It reminds me I was thinking about messaging her. What would I even say?

My thoughts trail off as I imagine a million different scenarios and reactions. There’s so many ways this could go wrong...but also right. I start to hum, a beat taking form. Pretty soon, I’m tapping on the coffee table. Not long after, I can hear the song in my brain. I don’t know how to explain it. This is just how my creative process works. I swipe over to leave myself a voice recording of the beats I’m imagining, then click to my notes app and start working on lyrics. The chorus takes form around the line:don’t be a one-night stand.

This is going to be a hit, but before I write a song on the road today, I need to message her. I can’t shake the need to see her again.

I tap out the message and erase it more times than I care to admit. After a few failed attempts, I erase everything one last time and type out:don’t be a one-night stand.Then press send before I can chicken out. Right as I hit send, the bubble indicating she’s online changes. I stare at the screen, waiting for her to open the message and reply, but nothing happens.

There’s a knock on the trailer door, then a familiar voice. “Hey Cas, we need to do a quick team check-in and then get moving for the day.”

“I’ll be right there,” I reply, forcing myself to get dressed. I check the time and realize I’ve been on my little side quest for over an hour. I toss my phone on the bed and forget all about the possible consequences for my actions.

Chapter ten

Vibrations tickle my face. At first, I think it’s part of my dream, but then I groggily begin to wake up. Sun streams into my living room, dancing across the tidy space as if beckoning for me to join the rest of the world. Smooshed into my face, the phone vibrates some more. What on earth is seriously this important? I was having a nice, relaxing dream. This is so unfair. I just want to hide under the blankets and pretend I didn’t hook up with a rockstar last night. But my crotch is sore as hell and will require icing, which Roxy will never let me live down. I guess I don’t foresee pretending it didn’t happen being an option for me after all. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I peek at my phone, instantly regretting it. I don’t think I’ve ever had this many notifications before. There are thousands on my home screen—from likes, comments, and reposts, to messages and message requests. Above them all, the time glows: ten-thirty in the morning. It’s shocking Roxy hasn’t barged over here yet with her key to wake me up. I wonder if any of these messages are from her.

One minute I’m casually scrolling through tons of notifications, and the next I’m staring at a message from Jackson. In all the chaos of last night, I never blocked him, partially because I wanted him to see that story, and it looks like my wish came true. The preview text on the notification reads:What the fuck. Do you—

It cuts off, and against my better judgment, I open it.

Jackson: What the fuck. Do you think you’re cute, little slut? Trying to one-up my announcement? Your photo is clearly AI. There’s no way a rockstar would ever date you.

Rolling my eyes as far back into my head as possible, I swipe it to appear unread and back away from the messages. This particular message seems like a problem for future me.

Unfortunately, I have to see what kind of damage the post from last night has done. I’m not sure I want to face this, but I force myself to scroll through everything. Overall, it’s not terrible. There are a ton of my fans who are very happy for me. Some of his fans are happy for him. And both are defending me in thecomments from the crazies who are madly, deeply in love with Cas.

As I’m minding my business, clearing all these notifications, a new one flashes on my screen. Cas Wilder pops up and…holy shit! He just reposted the story. What the hell is he thinking? Is the existing chaos not enough for him?

Shit! What if he’s actually into me? I start to panic, then quickly remind myself it was only one meaningless night. Nothing else will come of this, and things will blow over. I take a deep breath, searching for calm.

My phone rings. I look at it, appalled anyone would call me. But Roxy’s name pops up, and the calm I was just searching for settles.

I pick up on the second ring, laughing, “What the hell? You haven’t even checked to make sure I’m alive.”

“I could say the same for you,” Roxy teases.