Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hilary
I wake up alone.
And for a second—just one tiny moment really—I don’t understand why.
The bed is still warm. The sheets are tangled around my legs.
My body aches in that deep, lingering way that says last night wasn’t a dream.
But he’s gone. David isn’t here.
No note.
No goodbye.
Did you really expect him to be?
Before misery can set in, a knock pounds on the door.
“Larry! Wake up! We’re gonna be late!”
Bella. Reality crashes back in hard and fast.
“I’m up!” I call, my voice rougher than I’d like.
I sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around me like it’s going to protect me from the obvious.
From the truth.
From the very familiar sting settling low in my chest.
Of course he left.
Of course he did.
This is what happens.
This is exactly what happens.
Rockstar.
Girl.
One night.
End scene.
I scrub a hand over my face and reach for my phone.
There it is.
A text.
David
Stay put. I’m sending some bodyguards and a driver to get you both here at ten. Don’t leave the room unless they’re with you.
There was an emergency at the studio. I’ll explain when you get here.
Perfunctory. Impersonal.
I stare at it.
Read it twice. Three times.
Nope. I’m not missing anything.
Nothing at all.
No softness.
No anything to suggest last night even happened.
Just logistics.
Efficient.
Clean.
Professional.
Like I imagined the way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he made me see stars and whispered my name like it meant something.
My throat tightens.
“Right,” I whisper to myself.
This is why, Larry. This is exactly why rockstar romances are not your thing.
Because this?
This right here?
Is the part they don’t put in the books.
The morning after.
The silence.
The reality check.
I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
Nope. Not doing that. Not today.
I don’t have the luxury to fall apart.
Bella needs me. And I promised Ad I would be there for her.
So I get up.
Shower.
Get dressed.
Pull myself together piece by piece until I look like someone who didn’t just give herself to a man who walked out before sunrise.
By the time I open the door, Bella is already bouncing on her toes.
“You ready?” she asks, eyes bright.
“Yep,” I say, forcing a smile.
And somehow—it works.
The car arrives.
Driver.
Bodyguards.
Silent, efficient.
Professional.
Just like David’s text said—because of course he follows through with the professional stuff.
We’re escorted back to the studio like nothing’s changed.
Like everything’s normal.
Like I didn’t leave a piece of myself in that hotel room.
I take my usual seat in the lounge.
Same leather sofa.
Same floor-to-ceiling windows.
Same view.
Nothing feels the same.
Jake comes in a few minutes later, balancing another cardboard box with food stuffs.
“Morning,” he says, setting down what looks like fresh bagels, a variety of cream cheese spreads, and coffee.
Thank fuck for caffeine.
Jake is different today.
Still polite. Still composed.
But there’s distance there.
A cool edge that wasn’t there when we first met.
I get it. David made sure of that when he dismissed him from the room yesterday.
But I guess superstars can be assholes too when they want to be.
“Thanks, Jake,” I say, offering him a small smile as he sets the tray down.
“Figured you two might need carbs,” he replies, handing me a coffee. “Studio rule. Bagels fix everything.”
“If only that were true,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup.
He studies me for a second—not invasive, just observant.
“So,” he says lightly, “You said you own a bookstore, right?”
“Yeah. The Book Shop. Small name for a small town, but we do have dangerously opinionated clientele and an excellent romance section,” I joke.
His mouth curves.
“I hear romance sells?”
“Oh, it flies,” I say. “People like their happy endings. Especially when the real world’s a dumpster fire.”
“Fair.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What’s big right now? I only ever see the same five titles on those bestseller lists.”
I snort softly.
“Yeah, that’s because those lists aren’t really what people think they are anymore.”
“Oh?” His brow lifts.
“They boxed indies out of the running years ago,” I explain, warming to the topic. “Most of the big lists are curated now. Editorial picks. Traditional pipelines. There are amazing indie authors moving insane numbers you’ll never see on a major list.”
“So it’s rigged?” he asks, amused.
“Let’s call it selectively curated,” I reply sweetly.
He laughs under his breath.
“Damn. I thought I was just behind the times.”
“Nope. You’re just being shown what they want you to see.” I shrug. “The real action’s online. Algorithms. Direct sales. Subscriptions. It’s the Wild West.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is,” I admit. “But it’s also kind of thrilling. Writers building empires from their laptops? That’s the good stuff.”
He watches me when I talk about it.
Actually listens.
“That’s pretty badass,” he says. “Running your own shop. Championing the underdogs.”
I shrug again, suddenly self-conscious. “Someone has to.”
There’s a small pause.
Not awkward.
Just aware.
He shifts his weight slightly, leaning a hip against the conference table.
“You know,” he says carefully, “you don’t strike me as someone who plays it safe.”
My heart does a small, stupid flip.
Because if only he knew.
If only he knew how not safe I feel right now.
“I mostly just sell the books,” I say lightly. “The drama stays on the page.”
He smiles at that.
And for a second—just a second—it’s easy.
Normal.
Jake is steady. Polished. Thoughtful.
The kind of guy who would text good morning. The kind who wouldn’t vanish before sunrise.
And the kind of guy who could never make me soar the way David did last night.
I probably shouldn’t even be here, chatting like this.
Not when I woke up alone.
Not when I’m still trying to swallow the ache of it.
But Jake is easy. Safe.
And after the morning after blues I’ve been feeling? Well, safe feels nice.
“Listen,” he says, a little hesitant now. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Mars.”
My stomach tightens.
“Yesterday was confusing. And I’m not good at picking up mixed messages,” he continues.
Yeah. Tell me about it.
“But if you’re not—that is, if you’re single, Hilary,” he starts.
He rubs the back of his neck, a little self-conscious now.
“I’d love to take you out sometime.”
It’s sweet.
It’s normal.
It’s exactly the kind of thing I should say yes to.
A nice guy.
A safe choice.
A man who wouldn’t disappear in the morning.
I open my mouth.
“Jake, I—”
A hand wraps around the back of my neck.
Warm.
Firm.
Familiar.
My breath catches.
I don’t even have time to turn before I’m pulled back—and David’s mouth is on mine.
Hard.
Possessive.
Not asking.
Not hesitating.
Taking.
The room tilts.
My heart slams. And for one dizzying second—I forget everything.
The text.
The awful feeling of waking up alone.
The hurt.
All of it disappears under the weight of him.
Then he pulls back just enough.
Not far.
Never far.
His hand still at my neck.
His eyes locked on mine.
Dark.
Certain.
“She ain’t single,” he says.
But he’s not looking at Jake.
He’s looking at me.
Like I’m the one who needed that answer.
And suddenly—everything I told myself this morning?
Everything I thought I understood?
It all shatters.
Because this?
This is not casual.
This is not clean.
This is not something I can walk away from without consequences.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I want to.