“Sorry I’m late,” I say, slipping behind the front desk. “Car trouble.”

“No worries,” Danica says. She holds up a sealed FedEx envelope. “Pablo said this came for you today.”

I grab the envelope from Danica and examine it, my heart thudding in my ears. It’s been two weeks since I said goodbye to Lucas during that awful phone call and I haven’t heard from him since. Could this possibly be from him?

I inspect the envelope. It’s addressed to my attention at the hotel and marked “Personal and Confidential”—and the sender is identified “LDF Enterprises, LLC,” with a PO Box address in Los Angeles, California.

“Is Lucas Ford’s middle initial ‘D,’ by any chance?” Danica asks, her eyebrows raised.

I stuff the envelope into my bag, my stomach knotted. “I have no idea.”

“Only one way to find out,” Danica says.

“I’ll open it when I get home. If it’s from Lucas, it’s probably just a thank you note or thank you tickets to a concert. He said I inspired a whole bunch of songs when he stayed here.”

“You’re seriously not going to rip that sucker open?” Danica asks incredulously.

“When I get home.”

Danica scowls. “Come on, Abby. I’m dying to know what’s inside.”

“If I open it now, no matter what it is, I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else for the rest of my shift. I’ll open it later, when I’m home.”

Danica rolls her eyes. “You’ve got ice in your veins, Abigail Medford. I wouldn’t last thirty seconds with that thing in my hot little hand.”

“More like an emotional self-preservationist,” I mutter.

For the next three hours, Danica and I work pretty much nonstop, checking in guests and handling myriad tasks. And believe it or not, I hardly think of Lucas or the envelope at all—that’s a lie—and when The Dead Zone arrives, I continue not thinking about Lucas or the envelope, but instead focus excitedly on my textbook, eager to learn about the seminal Supreme Court case under American antitrust laws.

But when the unmistakable sound of Lucas Ford’s haunting voice singing “Shattered Hearts” fills the air, I simply can’t resist jerking my head up from my book to discover the source of the sound.

It’s Danica, of course. She’s staring at her phone at the other end of the check-in counter and Lucas’s beautiful voice is wafting out of her hand.

“What are you watching?” I ask.

“A clip of Lucas Ford at his concert in LA last week. It’s gone totally viral. He sang a stripped-down version of ‘Shattered Hearts.’ Just him sitting on a stool with his acoustic guitar, and it’s freaking amazing. All the comments say it’s even better than the original version with the full band.”

My knees wobble.

Damn.

Since my heartbreaking phone call with Lucas two weeks ago, I’ve promised myself I’m going to avoid hearing Lucas’s voice for a full year, just to give my poor shattered heart ample time to mend. But now that this junkie’s hearing her drug—and it sounds more gorgeous than ever—I simply can’t resist taking a quick hit.

“Play it from the beginning,” I say, scooting down to Danica’s end of the counter.

Danica squeals and resets the video and we both watch, clutching our chests and oohing and aahing the whole time, as Lucas performs his signature song in a whole new, passionate way.

Lucas finishes his song and the crowd goes absolutely ballistic.

“You liked that?” Lucas asks the large arena, a boyish smile on his face. The crowd responds with a roar of approval.

“Thanks, guys,” Lucas says, and he sounds incredibly earnest. A lock of his dark hair falls into his face and he pushes it back. “So, hey, can you guys do me a favor and keep those phones recording for a minute? I want to say something important to you here tonight, but also to everyone out there in Snapchat-opia.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to tell you I’m sorry. Lately, I’ve been a real dick about singing ‘Shattered Hearts’ for you at my shows, and I owe you a sincere apology for that. I’ve realized that song isn’t mine anymore. It’s yours. Nowadays, I’m just the lucky guy who gets to play it for you.”

The crowd goes absolutely insane.

Lucas lays his palm onto his muscular chest, right over his heart. “You guys mean everything to me. I promise not to take you for granted ever again. I feel really fortunate to have written a song that’s meant so much to so many people for so long. Thank you for being patient with me as I fuck up and stumble and try to figure my shit out. Sometimes, I’m an idiot, guys.” He chuckles. “But live and learn, right? That’s all we can do in this life.”

More enthusiastic applause.

Lucas pauses, seemingly stuffing down acute emotion, and tears prick my eyes at the sight of his obvious vulnerability. Lucas takes a deep breath and gathers himself. “I have a huge announcement for you. Are those phones still recording out there?”

The person behind the device recording whoops along with everyone else in the arena.

“Cool, because I’ve got great news. I’ve been writing a ton of new songs lately, and I’ve finally got everything I need for my fourth album! I’m going to be heading into the studio with the band next month to get started, so I’m guessing you’ll have the album in your hands in about a year.”

The crowd erupts with unadulterated glee.

“And if you love ‘Shattered Hearts,’ trust me, you’re going to love my fourth album. I honestly believe it’s going to be my best one yet.”

The crowd goes batshit crazy, yet again.

Lucas grins like a little kid. “Okay, enough plugging the new album. Let’s get back to the songs you already know and love.” He turns back to his band and signals them and then turns to the crowd again, a charming smile on his face. “Let’s have some fun!”

Much to the thrill of the arena, Lucas and his band launch into the instantly recognizable introductory riff of his massive hit, “Eat Me Alive,” and the clip abruptly ends.

“Wow,” Danica says. “Who the hell was that guy?”

I open my mouth to reply but quickly realize I won’t be able to speak without crying.

“I wonder if some of the songs he wrote here at The Rockford will be on his new album?” Danica says breezily, apparently experiencing no emotional turmoil whatsoever as a result of the video.

But since I can’t speak without losing it, I drift back to my open textbook and pretend to study it, willing myself not to let the hurricane of emotion swirling inside me seep out.

Danica chuckles at the other end of the counter. “What a difference from the asshole we met a few weeks ago, huh? Hey, did you ever see a clip of his meltdown at his show here in Denver? Holy hell, it’s like he was a different dude from the one in LA. Lemme find it for you.” She begins swiping furiously on her phone. “You’ve got to see this. It’s night and day from what we just saw.”

“I’ve seen it,” I manage to choke out, my eyes stinging. I clear my throat. “Excuse me.”

I stride across the lobby toward the restrooms on rubbery legs, my lower lip trembling, my heart about to burst. Once inside the safety of a stall, I lock the door, sit on the toilet, and let my tears flow.