For Sage’s sake, Mrs. Perino, Angel, and I have managed to put on fake birthday-day smiles ever since I hung up the phone with Joanie.

I couldn’t bear to tell Sage that random people were going to show up and shove him into a car and take him all the way to foster care and, possibly, also arrest me. Until Angel could do some more legal research for me, I’d decided to give my brother a modified version of the truth. My announcement about a return home hardly tripped Sage up at all. That was because I promised we’ll be coming back—and we will.

Someday…

Mrs. Perino had hugged both of us over and over as we told the kid. She’d also promised to try to seek some sort of legal custody for us right away if she could. Sage believed all of it, because he is the kind of kid who simply assumes the best. The idea that Mrs. Perino could so easily be our guardian now, and that he would be allowed to stay here and go to school in Florida until our father comes home, seemed a great solution to our problems. Because I didn’t have any answers as to how or what is going to happen, and because I feel slightly optimistic that the courts aren’t going to trash our whole lives and maybe give us a break, I hardly feel like I’ve lied to him at all.

It’s also made me more determined than ever to protect the Perinos. I know I have to exit this place in a way that leaves Angel, Mrs. Perino and the girls unaffected or noticed by the police or the press. Of course, like Sage, I’d be thrilled to call this place home forever, but even more, I’ll do anything the authorities ask me to do as long as they absolutely don’t stir up the Perino’s past lives because of the trouble I’ve caused.

After all that lying and smiling, I was so tired all I wanted to do was cry, but since that’s not allowed in front of Sage, and certainly not in front of little Anna and Julia who wouldn’t understand, I asked for a birthday gift from them all.

My last lie was saying how I wanted the chance to paint all day in the cottage. It was a gift everyone was thrilled to give. The kids didn’t want me outside while they decorated for the party, and Mrs. Perino said she didn’t want me in her kitchen peeking at the cake she was making. As for Angel? He simply knew I was down and needed to be alone.

I cried a good thirty minutes straight under my shower-head until I used all the hot water, which is my preferred method of secretive sobbing. Once I was done with that, I lay on my bed wrapped in damp towels, studying the blank ceiling for another half-hour, and finally got dressed and reported to one of Cara’s old easels. I know painting won’t make any of this better, but it will feel great to be doing it after such a long break, and it will make me less of a liar.

I choose one of the smaller canvases Cara left stored in her largest art cupboard and drag it to an easel near the window.

At first the beautifully rendered words in the tree mural Cara made on the walls sidetrack me. This happens often when I’m around work I admire. I get this idea that none of my stuff could ever be as beautiful as what the other artist has created, and that I’m a fraud to sit here and try. Thankfully the blank canvas lures me in and offers the escape I need. My thoughts are already pulling me into the possibilities: What will I do to fill this white rectangle? Which subject and medium will serve to distract me the most from all that hurts right now?

I grab a new pencil, sharpen it, and breathe in the smell of freshly turned wood off the sharpener, waiting until the point of the pencil is sharp but not too sharp, and start to sketch. After placing a few ultra-light, curving lines onto the canvas my throat grows dry in anticipation of how I’ll get to paint over them soon. I pause to pull out my acrylics and squirt a daub of each color onto one of Cara’s old wooden pallets, then fill a few small bowls with water, lining them up on the table next to the easel, along with some cotton rags and my brushes, making sure there’s enough so I won’t have to stop and gather more should I really get rolling.

My heart’s racing now, because it’s been too long since I’ve done this. Too long since I’ve felt the drag of the pencil bumping over canvas, since I dropped a color-tipped brush into water. Returning to the pencil, I sketch and sketch, hardly noticing when I exchange it for a chunk of charcoal, and then for the brushes. I float, pulling colors and the image I’m creating together. I never know what’s coming until it arrives in front of me. A memory comes alive. A fantasy becomes real, breaths of air and whispers of dreams and wishes I never knew I’d thought up all comes through my hands.

I lean back and laugh at what has appeared on the canvas this time.

“Are you really going to finish painting this? Him?” I mutter to myself, eyeing my largest paintbrush. One that I could load up with white—or black—and paint away the face that’s appeared in front of me. The that’s haunted me since the day we met.

“Damn you, Royce Devlin. Could you please get out of my head?” I laugh a little, rejecting the idea of smearing him away. Mostly because even half formed on a flat canvas, that face casts a spell on me. He’s so beautiful. Maybe painting him will purge how I want to stare at him too much. Maybe my brushes will solve the mysteries I know he’s been hiding behind his eyes.

“And so I’ll start with those,” I whisper like I’m talking to him. “Your eyes. What color are they exactly?”

I reach for the smallest brush and spend a few moments mixing little circles of cobalt blue combined with every color I can think of—sea green, baby blue, hints of purple, bits of grey, each time, adding in swirls of white, trying to come up with a combination that mimics his eye color plus the shards of light those eyes exude.

None of my attempts work.

Frustrated, I jump up and pull open drawer after drawer of Cara’s workbench, hoping she’s stockpiled what I’m looking for. I zero in on where she stored her paints, and in the third drawer down I discover an entire row of top quality, unopened metallic acrylics. Yanking out the silver for his eyes, and grabbing the gold in case I need to add it to his skin tones, I rush back to my stool.

This time, it takes only two tries to mix his eye color just right. I know I’m close when my heart races like he’s here in the room with me, and I know I’ve got it right when my throat closes some with that feeling I always get when he’s looking at me.

In seconds, I’ve painted the color into his iris, and it’s so perfect I find that I’m blushing, because it feels like I’ve brought the canvas to life. Next, I reach for pure black and use the same tiny brush to proceed with the outline of his eyes, adding in the squinty-sexy tilt plus draw in those few deeper laugh lines he’s got at the edges. Heart galloping now, I slash in his mocking brows. Use a thicker brush and the very same black to smudge in thick swirls of jet-black hair, then risk placing some of the silver mixed with white on the tips of that hair so it looks like he’s backlit by the moon. I’m almost panting from the effort it takes to hold the brush loaded with silver in just the right way so I don’t overdo my lines.

Realizing I want to do more detail work on the planes of his face, I search again for a pencil. This time I choose the one with the softest lead, made up of half charcoal half oil pastel. It will create thicker lines that won’t be hidden when I add paint. I layer the high parts his cheekbones, and just in case, I go over the brows, defining the edges of those and the eye lines again. Next I strengthen his square chin, and add some muscular cords to his neck, ending the image by dragging one side of his collarbone all the way to his broad shoulder line and then carrying it off the canvas.

I work on his mouth shape next. It takes mad concentration to do perfect justice to the sardonic twists in those sexy, curving lips. When he’s smiling at me exactly how I like—and it’s a real smile, not the one he always wears to hide his thoughts, but a smile I’ve only caught glimpses of when he thinks I’m not looking—I trade the pencil back for my brushes again. Staring at his face, I let the paints, my passion and my emotions take me somewhere far, far away…

I come to consciousness when my spine screams for motion—when my right arm shakes—when my eyes feel like I might go blind from staring in the same direction too long, and when my fingers and hand ache so much that, when I set down the brush, I groan.

Pulling in a breath, I slide off the stool so I can step back to survey the canvas. The acrylics dry fast, which is good, because I already know this one is getting shoved in the back of a closet…right after I’m done staring at it, that is.

Because, Holy cow. God…but…Royce Devlin is so beautiful.

I’ve never done anyone’s face this well. I’ve captured Royce’s hair, his luminous skin, his barely-there rock-star beard. I’ve trapped that intangible, watchful sex-music-and-secrets expression that is his essence. Tilting my head to the side, I say, “I do think it’s the best portrait I’ve ever done.”

I laugh a little at myself for this conversation. “At least this allows me to blatantly look my fill at your beautiful face, doesn’t it? Because I’m sure not allowed to stare like this when you’re actually in the room, now am I?” I laugh again. “Damn the backs of my knees, always going out on me. Even on a flat canvas your presence makes that happen and my chest constricts. I also can’t believe that when I first met you, I wondered who would want to take a selfie with you? Ha. Stupid me. Stupid… dumb… annoying… terrible… rockstar.” I glance around for my phone, wondering if I should take a selfie with my painting. “Oh my God.” I laugh again. “I’m going insane. Aren’t I? Well, who cares. I’ve got real reasons for it now. The world would understand if I snapped.” I sigh. “Except my little brother, that is, and so…” I sigh out, biting my lower lip. “Onward.”

I turn the easel, painting and all, toward the wall, deciding I need to wash my hands, because…damn, but I can’t look at that face anymore. Possibly ever again. “Just why…did I even paint him? Something is so wrong with me…” I mutter, soaping up my hands and watching the bottom of the sink and the bubbles between my fingers light with color as I rinse.

The floorboards of the cottage creak and I jump, looking up to see Angel watching me. “Sorry. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. Not going well?” he asks, raising a brow as I grab a towel. “There’s a lot of grumbling going on in here.”

“Just mulling over my own insanity and future incarceration,” I try to joke, firing off a cynical smile, taking his outfit. “Dude. You’re in a full suit? Is it princess party time?” I blink, waggling my brows acting like I can’t wait. “I’m getting hungry and I really want to hear you singing happy birthday soon, so I won’t have to hear myself think anymore.”

“Uh. Party. Yeah. There’s uh…problems. A little delay going on.”

“I can sympathize, but don’t worry if you think I’ll be upset if the frosting won’t set or if the Piñata falls down, because even your worst party problem will seem puny after this morning’s cry-fest, right?” I dry my hands and glance over my shoulder with holding the grin as wide as I can.

I thought he’d soften a little and at least smile back by now. But he doesn’t.

He’s clutching a rolled-up newspaper in his hands, and I could swear, for some reason, my comments have made his naturally tanned face go pale. “Look.” He clutches the paper tighter. “I know it’s your birthday and you’ve already had the worst news of your life today, and we’re supposed to leave you alone, but my mom said I better tell you right away. She’s freaking out. All of the guys in the band are freaking out. Mrs. Felix and Gregory have lost their minds. They’ve been on the phone with my mom for over an hour, and—well—I got the job of telling you…”

“What?” I reach for it, but he won’t release it from his clutches until I tug really hard. “What?” I repeat, unrolling it to the front page.

“You know how when it rains, it kind of pours? You’re part of the first article. “There. He points. “Up top.”

I scan the headlines and read: Guarderobe’s Daily Delivery! Young girls seem happy to offer up favors and more this summer to the rockstar residents living in the penthouse at La Belle Paris! Exclusive interview from a groupie who’s been inside. What she saw, what she did, who she did it with, and who was already up there in Royce Devlin’s closet.

“Holy…crap.” My gaze lands on four photographs. Of me. Laid out in a photo collage.

In one, I’m exiting the limousine. Someone’s got a shot of the back of my head as I’m entering the unmarked hotel side door. A second shot shows me in a different outfit with my face turned away again, while jumping into the unmarked elevator holding my lanyard. My hair is down, so it must have been snapped early in the morning, because it’s also shower wet. The third is me in the shorts outfit I’d worn on the first day of work! The fourth was taken yesterday as I’d run out. I’d been rubbing my temples and trying not to cry, but the way the photo is shot, it looks as though I’m trying to hide my face from the paparazzi like I knew that they were there!

“I don’t remember anyone taking any of these photos.”

“Luckily they’re not clear, obviously shot from a long distance.”

The largest two photos in the article, thankfully, are of other girls. One is particularly damming. It’s a full shot of a long-legged redhead who’s dressed in stilettos and a very short skirt. She’s pressed up next to Adam’s neck inside the same elevator I’ve been using to access the penthouse. His arms are locked tightly around her waist like he’s not going to let her go, while very inch of her body seems provocatively pressed into him. Royce is in the background, making the photo look worse because he’s doing his sexy, lip-twisty-smile like he approves of what he sees.

Or, according to the photo caption, Royce Devlin waits his turn.

I pull in a breath. “Oh…wow this looks bad.”

The last large photo is a selfie taken with Royce and a third girl. A girl I recognize.

“Wait! I know her. That girl there.” Angel scoots in to look over my shoulder. “She was up in the suite. Royce didn’t do anything with her at all, even though she says he did. Adam…invited her up, mostly as a joke, But, oh, that girl, she was there for serious. She was nuts. She even grabbed him and begged him for time with his crotch! And worse, she seemed angry when she didn’t get anything out of Royce beyond this selfie, even though he gave her free VIP concert tickets, swag, the works.”

“That explains why she did the interview for the article. Nothing like a pissed-off girl who didn’t get what she really wanted to make up malicious stories.”

I bite my lip. “Poor Guarderobe. This is so terrible for them, isn’t it?” I put the paper on my worktable.

“Terrible for them? How about for you?” Angel paces the room. “The article tells a nice story of girls being escorted up the private elevator by Adam and Royce. The selfie-girl says she was witness to another groupie making out with Royce Devlin in a closet. She says closet-girl had used up the lead singer’s energy, so the interviewee had to wait until she could get with him backstage. She also says the other girl was part of the band’s paid staff! That got Royce’s leather jacket as her special take-home swag for her services. That she lives there to keep the guys happy and relaxed like she’s on call, if you know what I mean?”

My eyes go round as I remember the conversation that Royce had with the girl after we kissed. “Oh—God.”

He taps the photos of me. “The girl in the interview has identified closet-girl as the girl in these photos.” He points to the collage. “That’s you, Robin. They don’t state your name, and maybe others can’t tell who’s in this photo, but, I can tell it’s you with only one of these photographs. Everyone who knows you back home will be able to do the same.”

I cover my mouth with a hand and pull in a long breath, blowing it out against my fingers, and think again of the words Royce uttered that day when that girl whined about not getting a jacket.

She earned that jacket.

She works here.

I mutter under my hand, completely unable to meet his gaze. “What if some of that story is partly true?”

“Are you saying Mrs. Felix and Gregory approve the keeping of paid prostitutes up in the suite?”

“No! Of course not. That part is sheer lies.”

He grimaces. “Well. Reading this, it’s easy to believe. What do you mean, then? What part of this madness is true?”

“I was in Royce Devlin’s closet. And he did give me his leather jacket. See, he heard me rummaging around in there, and one thing led to another and so we—” I look up at Angel and shrug.

“What?” Angel’s eyes widen and he almost trips over the canvas that fell on the floor. “Holy shit! You really are closet-girl? You slept with Royce Devlin in a closet? And he paid you with a jacket? And that obnoxious girl witnessed it? No way!”

“No!” I shout, shaking my head. “I kissed him in his closet. For a long time, but we didn’t sleep together or anything like that. And I feel really guilty about it.” I put my hands up to cool my cheeks. “And—fine. I sort of lost my head during that kiss, and it hasn’t been right ever since.”

“Holy mother of God.”

I lean my weight on the work table and sigh. “Whatever. How many girls has that guy kissed? Inside of closets—and outside of closets—and probably everywhere before he kissed me, right? It was only a kiss. A huge mistake. It’s not like he’s thinking about that kiss non-stop, or thinking about me one bit, that’s for damn sure.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Thinking about that— about him?” He paces over to the window.

“Only a little. Hardly at all, actually.” I lie. “And even if I was, well now I’m done thinking about him,” I acknowledge, my voice sounding half-hysterical as he turns and bumps into my easel.

“Oh—no. Watch that.”

Angel saves the painting before it almost hits the floor and he gasps as he registers what—who’s on the canvas.

I put my hands up and shrug.

“Liar. Done thinking about him, my ass!” Angel cries out. “You better come clean, Robin. What the hell? Why did you paint this?”

I swallow, watching him stare at my work. “I don’t know. It’s kind of like how I wound up kissing him. I simply couldn’t stop myself and then what seemed small turned out to be huge.”

“You like him?” His eyes seem to gobble up the painting. “Damn.” He holds it out so he can get a better look. “You really…must…like him?”

“Twenty billion-million girls like him. He’s a famous rockstar,” I evade, feeling queasy. “But yeah. Considering what went down this past week at work, I might like him more than I’d care to admit. Which means I probably need therapy, because I also hate him utterly, completely and irrevocably,” I whisper, trying to joke.

But it’s not funny. Royce Devlin’s made me feel crazy.

After a long silence, Angel sighs, turning the painting more into the light. “This is such a good painting. I totally see how you got a Ridley scholarship. You’re amazing. You’ve made him look even better than he looks in person. This blows my mind. I guess this face is why Royce Devlin’s got record deals and twenty-eight million Instagram followers. I feel like after staring at this for so long, that if he asked me to kiss him in a closet, I just might do it.” He winks.

“Shut. Up.” I snort-laugh, grabbing the canvas away from him and shoving it back on the easel, facing it to the wall again. “You’re just as handsome. If we put you on a stage and handed you a guitar to hold—even without playing it—you would get the same number of social media followers and your antics inside of closets with groupies would be epic.”

He grins. “Yeah? Nice of you to say, and I’ll keep those compliments.”

“You should.” I grin back. “And unlike that devil, you’re actually nice.”

His smile drops off his face. “About that. Royce is nicer than you think. Way nicer.”

“Have you gone mental? You sound like Vere and Adam. They’re always saying that, but I really know him. He’s not mean—but he’s not nice—he’s just…kind of a mess.”

Angel laughs. “Well, all of us are, right?”

“Yeah.” I laugh with him some, pointing to the back of the panting. “Let’s not tell anyone about how I became fangirl number twenty-eight million and one today? No one needs to ever see that portrait besides us. I’m quitting the job. I mean, I’ve quit just as soon as I get the courage to call Mrs. Felix and tell her that I’m not going back and not ever seeing them again. I’m sure I painted Royce’s face to purge him from my head. I think it’s the best way. If I never go near them again, I will fade out of this crazy newspaper story, right?”

“I’m not so sure of that, Robin. I think closet-girl is in trouble.”

“Impossible. Closet girl has officially disappeared.” I shrug. “Like you said, they don’t have my name and I refuse to add more worries to what I’m already carrying in my head. Plus, I’ve got a most awesome princess birthday party to attend, right?” I open my eyes as wide as possible, hoping my expression is as convincing as my words just were.

“Yes. The birthday party. You have to look outside.” He nods, seeming to force some brightness into his voice like I just did. He follows me to the door and swings it open for me. “It’s—uh—all set up. What do you think?”

“Wow. Look at what they’ve done.” I grin as I swing the screen door wide, admiring how the Perinos have transformed the garden in the last few hours. “It couldn’t be more princess-bride perfect. It looks like there’s going to be a real wedding!”

“Good. Legit is what they were shooting for and I have to agree, it’s pretty great back here.”

We survey the garden and mini piazza together in silence. Someone’s placed little white paper bag lanterns around the circumference of the patio. White and silver ribbons of varying lengths have been tied to the trees and float in the breeze over the tables. Fat ivory candles have been lit and placed with glitter inside mason jars. Their flames reflect on the glass and brighten the white linens that have been laid over the picnic tables. Fresh garden daisies have been placed in little vases as well as scattered all over the grass, filling every spot that’s not holding a candle or a paper lantern.

“Oh wow.” I clap my hands in front of me and sigh. “Tell them all thank you. It makes me feel so special.”

Angel steps out and pushes me back into the cottage. “Once we’re all set, we’ll come and get you. Oh, and we’re hoping for some sort of a grand entrance, which includes this.” He picks up the bag he placed by the door when he first came in, and takes out a surprisingly fancy sparkling tiara that someone, most probably his mom, has wrapped partly with ribbons and then attached fresh daisies from the garden to the ends.

“Aw, this is so pretty.”

He nods, as I hold it over my head and flutter my eyelashes. “What do you think?”

He grimaces and hands me a long, flat box. “As horrible as the veil that was sent along to go with it.” He reaches into his suit pocket and shoves a pile of pins onto the top of the box. “Mom says attach the crown to the front of the veil first, then add more pins so none of it slips. Whatever that means.”

I laugh. “I know what to do. I can’t wait to put all of this on and dance with the girls. I heard some chatter that they’re even making Sage wear a suit, too. Is it true? If so, this will be the best birthday party I’ve ever had.”

“Robin—um.” Suddenly he can’t meet my eyes at all. “I—we—my mom and I—hope that you know that we—” He turns back to face me. “Damn. I suck at this. I have so many things I wish I could say to you, but the timing is all wrong, and I’m suddenly afraid I’ll never have the chance.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to say what I already know. I love you and your family right back. I know you’re worried about me, but I’m okay if the authorities show up, even if they show today,” I say. “I need to fix this the right way, and I just know everything is going to turn out fine. I simply haven’t thought of how get to that point yet, and I know you wish you could do it for me, and I love you for wishing that. Okay?”

He shakes his head. “You’re sound exactly like Cara right now. I only wish I could control what’s happening and…the newspaper and all of it, it’s so bad…and I’m sorry,” he trails off, voice going hoarse.

“I should say I really regret meeting you, because I’ve involved you and your family in my mess. And I’m terrified the news is going to find out that I’ve been staying with you, and it will make your past come back and you will suddenly be ‘new news’ all over again, and that will be my fault. Because I agreed to come here.” I feel my eyes tearing up. “But even so, and I know it’s selfish of me, I can’t say that I have regrets because I’m so happy I met you guys and that you made us…yours. Even if it was only for a week, and because I couldn’t imagine not knowing you, you know?” I sniffle.

“Hell yes, I know.” He pulls me into a big bear hug. “Hey…don’t cry. I can’t breathe if you do that. We wouldn’t trade this last week and meeting you and Sage for anything. No matter what happens, that’s what matters. Remember that. You two have a whole family at your back now. A meant to be family. You also have so many other people who also care, like Mrs. Felix and Gregory and the band. We’re all fighting the fight with you, but you must let others step up and help. It might get crazy these next few days, hell these next few hours even. But if you roll with things and stay open to suggestions, it’s all going to work out. Would you believe that, please? None of us are going to let you go through any of this alone. Got it?”

“Got it.” I swallow pull away from his arms so I can see his face. Finally, he smiles a real smile, one that reaches his eyes. “Your only job will be to do the one thing you hate the most.”

I raise one brow. “Which is?”

“Trust other people besides yourself. Trust that we love you. Can you do that?”

“Yes. Okay. Yes.”