As I sneak out of Ian’s room, still in last night’s dress and makeup, Dylan spots me. I tell him I’ll shower, change and be ready in half an hour.

“Don’t,” he’d says. He undoes the first few buttons of his shirt and musses his hair. “We’ll look like we just fucked.”

I blush.

“And it looks like you enjoyed it,” he adds.

I don’t deny it.

He takes me to a small restaurant that serves drinks in mason jars and has a special menu for dogs printed in the corner of the menu for humans.

I don’t know too many women would complain about being on a brunch date with Dylan Cotter. In fact, most women would kill to be where I am right now, sitting across from this stupidly hot man, sipping a bloody Mary, waiting for my egg sandwich to arrive.

“Glad to know my boy’s not letting you down in the bedroom,” Dylan says with a wink.

“Huh?”

“You’ve got a goofy smile and your hair’s a hot wreck,” he tells me, “Tell me he made you come at least twice.”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” he says, “I’ve got five weeks left before my piercing heals. I’m living vicariously through my bandmates. Was he at least generous?”

“Generous? How so?”

Dylan folds his hands in a very proper manner, clearly mocking my formality. “Did he initiate foreplay?” He laughs at himself. “Did he fucking go down on you?”

I choke on my sip of water. “You guys just… talk about stuff like that? So casually?”

“Sex is one of the best parts of life, Cora,” he explains, “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

I try to fight my discomfort. “It was great. He was… plenty generous.”

“Good man.”

“Yeah,” I say, “He really is.”

Dylan smiles. “You really like him.”

I nod, even though it wasn’t really a question.

“Good. He really needs some liking.”

“He told me what happened,” I tell Dylan, “The accident and everything.”

Dylan gets somber. “A lot changed that day. I mean, it was a wake up call for me. But Ian lost almost everything. It wiped away his will to live.”

I don’t know what to say. I hate thinking of Ian in that state.

“And then you showed up,” he adds.

I look up at him, confused. “Where are you going with this?”

“I mean… he’s all in, Cora,” Dylan warns me, “I don’t want to freak you out or anything. I know this is fast and all. But sometimes you can just tell.”

“I’m not freaked out,” I tell him.

“Do you love him?”

I take a deep breath. “I like him. I could see myself falling in love with him.” I really could. It’s kind of terrifying in a way that excites me. But it makes me feel vulnerable in a way that I don’t like.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, satisfied. I mean, it’s none of his business, but I think it’s sweet that he’s looking out for his friend. “Now lets put on a show for these camera jockeys, shall we?” He takes my hand and kisses my cheek.

Dylan is a perfect gentleman. I mean, except for the tattoos and the swearing. And the constant questions as to whether or not his bandmate is providing me with enough orgasms.

The paparazzi get their photos. Dylan signs some autographs. We do our job and keep up the lie over a very pleasant breakfast.

It’d be a pretty nice date if I weren’t sitting here wishing I were still in bed with someone else.

* * *

A few days later, we’re in a new city and before the show, there are press events. I wear a black metallic dress and gorgeous studded high heels that put me eye to eye with Dylan and I stay glued to his side. He never lets go of my hand, but, thankfully refrains from too much PDA.

We feed them the story we concocted and rehearsed at-length about having this crazy chemistry on set and him asking me out for drinks immediately afterward. According to the story, I said no a few times because I thought he was just another player, but he wore me down. Dylan tells people that he didn’t even try to fuck me right away because he knew I was special.

It’s sweet. In a crude way.

Very Dylan.

We tell them that we’ve been going out for a month, so the relationship is brand spanking new, but we’re serious.

They ask me what it’s like to tame a rock and roll bad boy and I laugh and give them my answer, also rehearsed, which is that you can’t tame a rocker boy, you just have to hang along for the ride.

They seems to like it.

More importantly, they seem to buy it.

They talk to the other guys in the band, asking their thoughts about the album and the tour.

One particularly handsy rep from a gossip magazine approaches Ian, coyly touching his arm.

She’s pretty.

Like, really pretty and all my horrible instincts to be intimidated by another attractive female kick in. Dylan catches me glaring at her and raises an eyebrow. I quickly check my reflection and make sure there are no signs of resting- bitch-face.

I’m calm. Just a calm woman watching the guy she’s falling for be pawed by another woman while the guy she’s pretending to date expects her to keep up appearances.

No big deal.

Ian is polite about refusing her, but she’s insistent.

“What?” she asks him, “You got a girlfriend or something?”

“No,” he answers.

“Somebody else you’re interested in?”

He hesitates, but still answers no.

“Then what’s the harm?” she says, her hand now on his chest. “I’m not some clingy bitch looking for a relationship or something, Ian. Just a good time, I swear.”

“Answer’s still no, honey,” Ian says firmly.

“Well, then, interview question,” she says, getting all official. “What kind of girls does the elusive Ian Brooks actually like?”

“I don’t know,” he says, half-assing an answer, “Somebody cool. Chill. Can roll with the punches, that sort of thing.” He tries to excuse himself.

She slips a business card into his palm. “In case you change your mind,” she whispers as she breezes away.

“Cora. Cora!” Dylan says, dragging me back to reality.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

“What’s your favorite Say Yes song and why?” asks the overly friendly reporter.

“Oh, um, I like Rough Morning,” I tell him, looking around for Ian.

“And why?” he prods.

I spot Ian, standing by himself, the business card in hand. I expect to see him toss it into the trash, but instead he tucks it into his pocket.

Maybe he’s not as “all in” as Dylan thinks.

Ugh, I hate how jealous I am. This woman did nothing wrong.

“I don’t know…” I say carelessly. “It’s… catchy. Excuse me. Ladies’ room,” I mutter as I shift past Dylan and the reporter, my composure dwindling more and more by the second.

The ladies’ room is a single stall, so, thankfully, I won’t run into anyone.

I fix my makeup, mad at myself. Mad that I let this one little incident get to me. Mad that I’m almost thirty and standing in a bathroom stall, crying over a boy like a damn teenager.

Cora, we’ve been through this before. Ian’s going to be around other women. You have to stop being a jealous cow. You can’t fall apart every time this happens. He said you’re exclusive. You have no reason to doubt him.

Except that he held onto the business card, I argue with myself.

I hear a knock at the door.

“Cora,” Ian says softly, “Can I come in?”

“Give me a minute,” I answer. But the door opens anyway. Guess I forgot to lock it.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with her,” he says, “I swear.”

“But you kept the card,” I say.

He takes the card from his pocket and flushes it down the toilet. “Look, it would’ve been weird if she caught me throwing it out.”

I start, “I just… hate that she touched you. I hate watching other girls touch you.”

“I won’t lie, Cora,” he says, gently as possible, “There was a time when I wouldn’t have minded her touching me. I would’ve taken her back to my hotel, fucked her and forgotten her name. Some people, well, most people are still used to that version of me. And they treat me like that.

“But I told you, I’ve never felt this way about anyone. You have to know that I don’t look at you the way I’ve looked at other women in the past. There’s something real here.”

That makes me feel a little better. “God, Ian. I knew when I got back in to the dating game that it would be hard. I mean, a lot’s changed since high school.”

“I can pick you up in my old, beat up Toyota and take you to the movies if you want,” he laughs.

I ramble. “I’m serious. This isn’t baby steps back into the dating world. I’ve been pushed off the deep end and I’m swimming with sharks. And I know that we’re only friends with benefits and I know that it was my call, but sometimes, I have no idea what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.

“Except I do know that I can’t be the cool, chill girl all the time. Sometimes I’m gonna be the insecure girl with resting-bitch-face who falls apart in the bathroom over something stupid.”

Ian takes a step towards me and puts his arms around my waist. He tucks my head under his chin and holds me close, like he did that first night.

“I get it,” he says softly.

“You get it?” I question. “You think I don’t know that it sounds crazy?”

“It doesn’t,” he answers earnestly, “You’re being honest. Please. Always be honest with me. Even if you think you sound crazy. I promise you, you don’t.”

I close my eyes and settle into him, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from my chest.

“I’m asking a lot of you. We, the band, are asking a lot of you,” he says, “I get it.”

I let out a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you.”

A few minutes later, Ian leaves the bathroom. I give him a minute, staggering our exits. I make sure the coast is clear and step out into the hallway, only to come face to face with the handsy woman from earlier.

She smiles smugly. “Busted.”