Mending Hearts

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Mia

I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this nervous. It might have been when I was fourteen and executives from Shooting Star Records knocked on Mom’s door to offer me a recording contract. Or it might have been when I was nominated for a Grammy Award at sixteen. That was the year I knew, without a doubt, that my life was no longer my own. Picking out clothes, styling my hair, choosing my meals—it was all controlled, examined. Every time I turned around, my mother was hiring someone else to make life easier. Was it working? Neither of us were capable of slowing down enough to be sure.

From the rental car, I stared at the well-kept secondhand shop on the edge of Little Falls, NY, and bit down on the tip of my nail. The acrylics I’d gotten at fifteen forced me to stop biting them. Even now, five years later, I hadn’t broken the habit of putting my nail between my teeth, desperate for the rip and tear. I was so used to someone else making decisions that coming to this store without being instructed to, felt like anarchy.

No one knew I was here.

Out of the corner of my eye, my bodyguard, Pasha, stared ahead, expressionless. I didn’t think he spoke much English, which was why I plucked him from the pack. He also seemed to be the only one my mother didn’t have under her thumb. Laura Malone could never know what I was about to do.

“You’ll wait here?” I asked.

“Yes.”

A small smile played at the edges of my lips despite my nerves. Some nights I stared at the ceiling of the tour bus as it rumbled through another city and practiced speaking like him. Trying out his thick Russian accent was an opportunity to slip into another skin, another life.

God, that tour bus. I was so done with that bus.

Tomorrow afternoon I had to be in the right city at the right time to meet Mom and the tour. Only three more months. It was my mantra. Three more months on that bus. I didn’t want to think about all the commitments flooding my calendar beyond the last tour date. People beyond me planned my life eighteen months to two years in advance.

Whenever I felt frustrated or despondent, I tried to remember I was lucky. Lots of people wished for this kind of success. My right to complain was voided.

“You sure person here, Ms. Malone?” He raised one pale eyebrow and scanned the sidewalk outside the shop. “Not busy.”

“It’s a secondhand shop and a costume place. Other than Halloween parties and being poor, why would anyone go in there?” I rolled my eyes and threw open the passenger door before I talked myself out of this.

My best friend, Sarah, was the only person who knew my secret. As one of the judges on the talent show Center Stage , it was Sarah who suggested Grady Castillo as a songwriter for my album. He’d been a winning contestant who produced a single hit album and settled into anonymity writing songs for other people. At first, I was wary. Men who avoided the spotlight usually had things to hide; behaviors, interests, habits that made a twenty-year-old girl like me a prime target. That sort of man gave me a vicious lesson at the start of my career, one that still echoed.

Grady turned out to be the opposite—funny, smart, creative as hell, and genuinely enjoyed the songwriting process, even when I called him a thousand times to discuss changes or ideas. I liked him. So, when he slipped in the clause to our songwriting contract about performing at a benefit of his choosing, I hadn’t given the request a second glance. My mother and agent thought a benefit concert was good PR. What could go wrong?

They underestimated my ability to turn something so altruistic and mundane into a catastrophe. It was fine, though. I was handling the screw-up. Or I would as soon as I remembered this guy’s name.

His store was the last one in the shopping plaza butted up against a pizza place. If there’d been more than one secondhand shop in Little Falls, I might have been in trouble. We exchanged very few details in my hotel room, but at least this one stuck. A costume designer confined to a costume shop seemed a little sad. Who’d choose this life?

The bell above the door tinkled when I entered. I kept my sunglasses on even though it was January, and the sun was hidden behind a swath of clouds. My black winter coat was from last season and the most discreet one I owned. Odd to be here on my own. Normally, I was surrounded by people—handlers, dancers, fans, bodyguards. Shedding that insulation was more disorienting than I’d expected.

From the back of the store, a deep male voice called out, “I’ll be right there. Just helping another customer. ”

In the middle of the store, I stopped and took in the scene, a surge of panic running through rampant. Did he say he was helping someone else?

Shit.

There were other people here? We’d sat outside the building for fifteen minutes. What sort of service was he providing to whoever was back there? My Chucks were silent on the linoleum floor while I rushed to one of the clothing racks. My clothes were casual, non-designer on purpose. This was a secret mission. With feigned interest, I rifled through the racks, not seeing any of the clothes as they went by.

The bell above the door rang again, and I glanced up, half-afraid it would be another patron. I’d lose my nerve soon. Why did I come?

Another customer. A plethora of silent curse words reverberated in my head.

The owner, and I knew he was the owner because he’d told me that night, headed for the cash register. God, why couldn’t I remember his name? ‘ Hey, you ’ wasn’t going to cut it in this situation. He retrieved a package from underneath the register and passed it to the woman who was getting out her wallet. His gaze skimmed over me and the rest of the store, not taking me in as he rang in the purchase.

“If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know,” he called out, his tone somewhat dismissive.

I liked the timbre of his voice just as much as I had that night, deep and calming. The measured way he spoke had been appealing, as though he was used to dealing with complaints or conflict in a rational, reasonable way. His blond hair was tinged with red—not quite brown—and that fascinated me too. The shade was unusual, pretty, even .

A few months ago, he’d been in better shape. Not that his physical appearance mattered now. He’d been tall and fit, and his voice turned my insides to liquid. He’d been enough. Unlike so many people in my life, he let me take complete control, lead the way. Being with him had been a vacation from being Mia Malone, superstar singer.

An escape.

Now, I was trapped. But I understood where the exit was.

I focused on the clothes whizzing past while I flicked through them. Anything you can help me with? Oh, you know. Just a small thing. No big deal, really. Sweat pooled on my lower back. This coat was too thick for the warm store.

Maybe I didn’t need to tell him. Sarah had insisted he never needed to know. I’d be keeping the secret from everyone else—why not him? This was the first decision I could remember making in isolation. Not informing him was wrong. Wasn’t it?

The bells on the door rang again, and I glanced up. The woman was gone, but I couldn’t make myself look at him. This conversation would be easier if I pretended to be who everyone thought I was, the popstar who breezed through life without a care. When you’re Mia Malone, all the world’s a stage, and I was the most important player. Being here, talking to him, was just another role.

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend this conversation doesn’t matter.

I relaxed my shoulders and strolled over to the counter. He glanced up from whatever note he was making by the register. His brown eyes reminded me of cognac. That night they looked almost golden when they caught the light in the dressing room. Smooth voice, cognac eyes—everything about him screamed addiction .

His look was puzzled, and he grabbed a lollipop out of an open container on the desk. While he sized me up, clearly trying to place my face, he twirled the lollipop round and round. “Can I help you?”

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could?

“No.” A small smile danced at the edges of my lips. “I doubt it.” It was apparent he hadn’t managed to place my face. I was still wearing my sunglasses, and maybe that was the problem. Or maybe he slept with a lot of random women. We hadn’t discussed our sexual conquests that night. Once he’d come to my hotel room, there’d been little talking. A few shots of alcohol. Quick and hot had been what I’d been after. I’d ended up with a lot more.

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word.

I pushed the sunglasses onto the top of my head, my long dark hair swirling around my shoulders. When it was loose, my hair was a shield, part of my armor. The hair and makeup crew always pulled it off my face so people could see my eyes. Fans liked my vibrant blue-green eyes, the windows to the soul. The only protection I was allowed was whatever I could build inside. When my gaze met his, recognition dawned on his face like the rising sun.

“Mia Malone.” He grinned, but it didn’t unfurl properly. There was no joy or happiness in his expression. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

The words ever again hung between them unsaid. My stomach rocked as though I was at sea.

A garbage can. Where was a garbage can?

It had become second nature to look for a place to throw up when the rocking sensation hit. But I could weather this. Take a deep breath. Let my stomach even out, stabilize.

“What are you doing here?” He tore the wrapper off the lollipop, scrunched it up, and tossed it toward a can beside the desk. It hit the edge and tipped in.

At least I knew where to run now when the rocking sensation became more violent. Sighing, I tugged the sunglasses off my head and dangled them from my fingers. My insides were rioting, but I knew from watching myself on TV countless times what was happening inside wouldn’t show on my face. I was an excellent poker player.

“Have you been watching the news?” I asked.

“Uh, not really? Are you—is this about you?” He frowned and rubbed his brow.

“Yeah. And you, unfortunately.”

His furrow deepened.

“Class action suit against a condom manufacturer. ‘Cocksure Condoms Cocked Up.’ Ring any bells?”

“Do you have shares in that company? Are some of the people from the class action suit here in Little Falls?” With a shrug, he chuckled.

I gave him a bored look, so unimpressed I’d have to spell out the problem for him. In the back of my mind, I had a glimmer of hope he might make the leap without having to be pushed off the cliff. He was about to get a massive shove.

Right now, I wished I knew his first name, wished that had been the one detail stuck in my brain. I would have hinted at the gravity to come. Oh, well.

“I’m pregnant.”

And then another wave hit my stomach so hard, I wasn’t sure my sea legs would take me to the garbage can fast enough. By some miracle, I stared down at the lollipop wrapper as I lost the little bit of lunch I’d managed to eat.