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  And I smile at him, because it’s nearly impossible not to.

  “Thanks for your time,” he says. “You didn’t owe me anything. Really appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” I reply. “People say stupid things all the time.”

  “Is that a wrap?” Mackenzie asks, and I jump.

  I almost forgot she was there.

  “That’s a wrap,” Charlie says.

  Beck leans back, and I realize he was sitting here with his arm on the back of my chair practically the whole video.

  And now I feel weirdly cold.

  “As soon as I check my phone, we should have a draft from the lawyer for the agreement,” Charlie says. “I’ll send it over.”

  Poof.

  Magic all gone.

  Now we’re back to work.

  Which is what that video was.

  Work.

  Not me sharing my passion with someone who understood. Just work. With someone who has to pay people off enough that his team has a standard agreement that a lawyer just has to modify terms for. On a Saturday night when he should be out doing anything other than work.

  “Ohmygod, the game!” Mackenzie squeals.

  She darts for the living room with my phone, and a moment later, she’s whooping with joy. “We won! WE WON! Two in a row! WE WON!”

  “I’ll look over everything and get back to you in the morning,” I tell Charlie.

  Okay, yes, I’m calling my parents’ lawyer and swearing her to secrecy, even though I said I wasn’t. I’m pretty sure they’re not on social media, but their friends will be.

  And I’ll call them before I post the video too.

  I will.

  And then I’ll tell Mackenzie who I really am.

  I swear.

  She deserves to hear it from me.

  All of this is happening so suddenly though. I’m just not sure I’m ready.

  Twelve more hours. Twenty-four, tops.

  Beck squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks, Sarah. I really am sorry for dragging you into this.”

  I ignore the skitters fluttering in my belly and nod to him. “I just hope something good comes of it.”

  And that my life can go back to normal very, very soon.

  He and Charlie reclaim their electronics from my living room and head out, but not before Beck looks back at me one more time, studying me with gravely serious eyes that make my pulse kick up and my breasts tingle before his easy grin comes back. “Thank you. Again.”

  He looks like he wants to say something else, but Charlie nudges him, and they depart, leaving Mackenzie and me alone again to rewind my DVR and catch up on the game. Meda spies on us from her hidey-hole in the cat tower next to my bookshelves of Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic books, and I act like we didn’t just see an underwear model out the door while I try to figure out how to just toss out Hey, Mackenzie, funny story about my childhood and utterly fail.

  Yep.

  Life’s going back to normal.

  Seven

  Sarah

  The parking lot at the nature center is fuller than normal when I arrive for Sunday morning clean-up. Mackenzie and I volunteer here once a month to help pick up trash, repair trail signs, and do anything else the little preserve in the Belmont district of the city needs. I head toward the small cabin that serves as both ranger station and mini-museum for visitors to learn about the animals that live in the city, and someone calls my name.

  “Sarah! Sarah, right?”

  I nod at the perky woman approaching in a Belmont Nature Preserve T-shirt.

  “How much did Beck Ryder pay you to do that video?” she whispers.

  I open my mouth.

  Then shut it.

  Because I haven’t posted the video.

  I haven’t even opened Twitter since yesterday morning, mostly because Mackenzie talked me out of it during my three minutes of weakness when I wanted to.

  “Back up, Tricia,” Mackenzie says, sidestepping the woman to link her arm through mine. “Betcha I pick up the most trash.”

  “How did he post the video?” I whisper. “I just sent the contract back an hour ago, and I didn’t post it yet.”

  Her lips twitch, and she points a shaky finger at a tree, clearly trying to distract me. “Look! Do you think the baby robins have left the nest yet?”

  “What. Did. You. Do?”

  “You were going to edit the video,” she whispers.

  “Mackenzie!”

  “And you didn’t do it for the money,” she adds as I yank her off the main trail and into a small alcove that’s not nearly private enough.

  “Mackenzie.”

  My phone buzzes. I yank it out, and there’s a message from Ellie.

  Hey, Beck here, borrowing E’s phone. Thanks for the trust. I’m re-tweeting the video now. Will send receipts for the donations ASAP.

  My chest buzzes.

  My feet go lightheaded.

  Swear to god, they do.

  I was supposed to have another few hours to call my parents, who probably aren’t even up yet in California.

  “I have to tell you—” I start, but Adriana, the center’s manager, rushes from the cabin to hug me.

  “Sarah! Oh, Sarah, why didn’t you tell us you were dating Beck Ryder?”

  “I—we—we’re friends,” I babble.

  That’s what the contract said to say.

  Kind of.

  Both parties agree to refrain from speaking negatively of the other, or from starting rumors, blah blah blah.

  Okay, fine. We’re friends is the standard Hollywood code for we want you to wonder what we actually are.

  “So it was just a joke? That tweet about having babies but not with him?”

  “Sarah! Was that you?”

  “Sarah! @must_love_bees Sarah?”

  “Oh my god! Sarah! You two are adorable!”

  “I think your boyfriend owes you security,” Mackenzie whispers.

  I look at Adriana. “I have to—”

  “Tell me everything,” she says.

  “—make a phone call,” I finish.

  There are usually a dozen volunteers, and at least half of them change every month.

  But I swear there are almost fifty people here, and most of them are gathering around us.

  “Great message about the honeybees,” one of the regular volunteers tells me.

  “I looked it up, and you were right about the giraffes being endangered,” a guy says. “But not all giraffes. Just three species. The rest of the giraffes are only vulnerable. You should’ve—ow.”

  “Stop being an ass,” the woman next to him hisses. She rolls her eyes at me. “And you shouldn’t have let Ryder off that easy. He’s what’s wrong with the world.”

  “You guys. Give Sarah some breathing room.” Mackenzie leaps in front of me and holds her arms wide. “Are we here to be gossips, or are we here to help make the world a better place? Go on. You. Shoo. Get to work. You too. The trash isn’t going to pick itself up. And did a single one of you mention that the Fireballs won last night? What’s wrong with you?”

  The crowd breaks up, and of course, now I should’ve brought my sweatshirt, sunglasses, and hat.

  But no one’s talking about my parents.

  So apparently no one recognized me.

  I’m sagging with relief while I steal Mackenzie’s hat and sunglasses, because she owes me this much. “I’m going home,” I tell Adriana. “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m more of a hindrance than a help.”

  “Okay, but you have to tell me all the details next time.” She glances around with a smile. “And thanks for bringing out all the volunteers. I didn’t realize when I started getting questions about if you were coming, that it meant so many people would want to talk to you. But then someone showed me the video, and—”

  “Sarah? Sarah!”

  “Yeah. Gotta go,” I say. I dart back to my car, Mackenzie on my heels.

  “Are you mad?” she whispers.

  “No.”

/>   “You’re acting mad.”

  “I’m surprised. And I hate attention. And why do people think we’re dating? We’re not dating. And—”

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug that says she clearly knows.

  “Mackenzie…”

  She chews on her bottom lip and gives me the puppy dog look.

  I cross my arms and glare at her, which sends someone who was halfway through calling Sarah! to turn around and head the other way, and which also makes me feel like slime, because I hate glaring at Mackenzie. She’s my best friend. And I still owe her the truth, and I really hope she stays my best friend after I confess to her.

  “Okay, look. I read gossip pages,” my best friend whispers. “And it’s all about chemistry. Chemistry on set, chemistry walking down Sunset Boulevard, chemistry at a secret dinner in New York City, chemistry in interviews. You and Beck have chemistry. People eat that up. And if I let you edit that video, you would’ve taken out all the chemistry, and like, maybe a third of the people who care right now would’ve listened. I did it for the cause. Swear on the Fireballs’ winning streak, it was all for the cause. Saving the giraffes is so much more romantic when people think there’s a secret relationship behind the video.”

  “It’s not—listen, I have to tell you something.”

  “Sarah! Oh my gosh, Sarah,” yet one more person hollers, and dammit.

  “I have to get out of here,” I tell Mackenzie. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  I squeeze her in a hug, because she’s basically family, and I might be mad, but I still love her. “Do not comment at all on anything related to that video. Understand? And you have to promise you won’t be mad at me either.”

  “Sarah. Oh my god. Why would anyone be mad at you?”

  I wince, because she’s going to find out soon enough.

  It takes a little maneuvering, but I make it out of the parking lot around the volunteers arriving for clean-up day. Half a mile down the road, I spot a strip mall with a packed parking lot. I park near the back—employee cars, I assume, so little foot traffic here—and I pull out my phone and dial a number.

  The sun won’t be up yet in California, but my mother might be.

  An hour of yoga before the sun rises puts a beautiful day in your soul.

  She answers on the first ring. “Serendipity! You called! I thought you might.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “So. When do we get to meet your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Nonsense. Franklin already sent me the video. Sweetheart. Your hair. You’re not going to keep a man like Beck Ryder happy with hair like that for long.”

  “He likes picking the bugs out of it.”

  “Serendipity Astrid Darling, what a horrible thing to say. I know you wash your hair too often to get bugs. Although—what’s this about bees? I had no idea you loved bees. Have you been on beekeeper dating sites? Is that why you’re on the Twitters talking about bees?”

  “No, I—”

  “And the giraffes! Oh, sweetheart, I had no idea giraffes were endangered. Do you remember the giraffe that came to your seventh birthday? You were so afraid of it. But don’t worry, your father and I are making a very sizable donation to giraffe research. And I assume our dear Mr. Ryder has done the same?”

  “Yes, and he has four or five thousand a year,” I mutter to myself.

  “Mr. Ryder is no Mr. Darcy, young lady,” my mom informs me. “If I’d known you were interested in former musicians, I could have gotten in touch with my agent to see if we could arrange an introduction to Cash Rivers. Now there’s a Mr. Darcy for you.”

  “Mom—”

  “I know, I know, dear. It’s all for publicity’s sake to clear his name, and Cash Rivers does have that nose. Now, what can we do to help?”

  “Just—just please don’t say anything. To anyone. The attention will blow over. I don’t want—”

  “Our names involved,” she finishes, and I cringe at the hurt tone in her voice.

  I don’t want to hurt my mom. Or my dad.

  But Hollywood-level attention and I don’t get along well.

  Changing my name, taking a gap year in Morocco, and then enrolling in a small technical university in Copper Valley—all the way across the country from my parents and their high-profile lifestyle—worked perfectly to give me the anonymity I desperately needed after high school.

  After my entire childhood, actually, but high school was the worst.

  “It’s not you,” I say quietly.

  “I know, Serendipity.” She sighs briefly again, which adds to the guilt cockleburs sticking to my socks and making my skin itch all over. “It’s just—never mind.”

  “What?”

  “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

  I drop my head to the steering wheel. I’m the world’s worst daughter. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “And comb your hair, sweetheart. It’ll make you feel so much better.”

  I ignore her last bit of advice, because I don’t need it. And I did comb my hair this morning.

  This thing with Beck Ryder will blow over.

  People just need a new distraction.

  And I need to make sure no one ever, ever figures out who my parents are.

  While still probably confessing to my best friend.

  Probably.

  I think.

  I mean, if people haven’t figured it out yet…will they ever?

  Eight

  Beck

  Leaving my penthouse isn’t an option Sunday morning. In fact, leaving the Copper Valley area isn’t an option for the foreseeable future. Every meeting I was supposed to have in New York, California, and everywhere in between has been canceled or will be covered by someone else on my team.

  My invitations to public appearances have all been revoked.

  All of them.

  I’m on the world’s shit list, waiting to see if that video Sarah posted will do anything to redeem even a fraction of the reputation I built on hard work, luck, and lots of hours hanging with kids at hospitals, schools, and in third world countries where another of my foundations helps provide clean food and water.

  Of everything I do, my favorite part is helping the kids. I loved my childhood, and I’ve always wanted kids. Hell, I am a kid. But since we made that decision to sign that contract for a record deal for Bro Code, my life’s been heading in a direction that convinces me more and more every year that it won’t happen.

  It’s been five years since the second—and last—woman told me I was going to be a father. In both cases, paternity tests proved them wrong, but that was enough for me. And I haven’t dated a woman since that I’ve been able to fully trust.

  So having everything on the verge of falling apart now, when I have a bank account big enough to buy a small country, and when my businesses could operate almost on auto-pilot to keep funding more charity work like the foundation with Vaughn?

  This sucks.

  It’s too early to call Vaughn again to grovel some more—do not get on a pro athlete’s shit list when he’s a reformed street kid who’s now basketball’s poster child for projects related to children, at least not if you want to form a joint foundation with him—so I’m hanging out in my small weight room, sparring with Davis.

  My old neighborhood buddy and former bandmate lives an hour or so outside the city, doing some real job with the nuclear power plant down there at the Virginia-North Carolina border that required him to go to college after the band split up, but he came up for Ellie and Wyatt’s engagement party last night.

  “That tweet could’ve been worse,” he says as he aims a right hook at my ribs. “You could’ve said it to an old dude.”

  I grunt and aim a right hook right back. “That would’ve actually been funny.”

  “Knock, knock, you got your clothes on?” Ellie calls from somewhere outside the weight room.

  “No, we’re both
naked, and your brother’s sucking my dick,” Davis calls.

  “In that case, I’m bringing a camera,” she replies.

  He blocks my sucker punch aimed at his gut, and he bounces back as Ellie appears in all the mirrors around the room. “Ew, put your shirts on,” she says with a grin.

  I use mine to wipe my face before heading toward her. “C’mere and give your favorite brother a hug.”

  “Touch me and die.”

  “Touch her and die,” Wyatt agrees behind her.

  Pretty sure he could take me—he’s mostly a rocket scientist for the Air Force, but he takes being in the military seriously, and in addition to being brilliant, he also flies jets to test them out, which makes him badass in my book—so I settle for bending over and holding out a fist to Tucker, who’s standing between them. “Hey, little man. You have fun at your party last night?”

  “The grown-ups talked too much,” he tells me.

  “Yeah, and that never ends,” I agree.

  “You know your phone’s blowing up on your kitchen counter?” Ellie says to me.

  “What phone? I don’t have a phone.” Shit. If I missed a call from Vaughn, I’m probably dead.

  She gives me an exasperated smile, then ruffles Tucker’s hair. “Uncle Beck has a Pac-Man game here.”

  “No way!”

  “Yep. Right through that door.”

  That’s all the invitation Tucker needs. He’s darting to my game room across the hall before I can tell him I also have Donkey Kong in there.

  “Don’t break it,” Davis mutters with a smirk under his beard and man-bun while he pulls on a black T-shirt that matches the ink up and down his arms.

  “He can’t break it,” I say.

  He, Ellie, and Wyatt all exchange glances, and Davis is the only one looking amused.

  “Dude. Shit. Did you guys break Pac-Man at my house in Shipwreck?” They were out at my favorite little getaway in the Blue Ridge Mountains this past week for the Pirate Festival. Yes. Pirate Festival in the mountains. It’s a thing.

  “Relax,” Wyatt says. “We didn’t break Pac-Man.”

  “Mom sent cinnamon rolls,” Ellie adds quickly, and dammit, they’re hiding something.

  But cinnamon rolls are the magic words.