I wake up in my bed with only the faintest recollection of Drew taking me into his arms and carrying me upstairs. The room is bright and warm.

The air smells better.

Even my toothpaste tastes better.

I throw on jeans and a sweater and rush down the stairs. No signs of Drew but there's a cup of tea on the counter.

That tastes better too.

* * *

Class flies by. My internship is a breeze. Everything is perfect until I collapse on the couch and pull out my cell phone.

Three Missed Calls from MOM.

One new message.

Fantastic. I roll my shoulders back. A preventative measure for the crick threatening to form in my neck.

There's the faint sound of music coming from upstairs. A recording of some kind. Not Sinful Serenade. Drew must be relaxing. There's no sense in disrupting him over nothing.

I listen to the voicemail.

Hey, Kara, sweetie. I miss you. Mr. Reeves tells me you're doing really well at Giffin. I'm so excited for you to start at Sugar and Spice in June. I've got a great visit planned for you during spring break. You'll be shadowing Stacey for two days—you remember Stacey? She adores you.

Call me soon.

Her voice is void of energy. She's not doing well.

There's no way I can tell her when she's this off-kilter.

What if she's not eating or sleeping again?

What if she's self-medicating again?

The crick in my neck spreads to the back of my skull. It will be a throbbing tension headache in five minutes flat.

Fantastic.

A glass of water and an ibuprofen might destroy this thing before it overtakes me. I push myself to my feet. My phone slides off my chest and onto the floor with a thud.

It's face-down.

I go to pick it up. Sure enough, there's a crack running down the middle.

It fell two feet onto hardwood and there's a crack.

It's so ridiculous it's funny.

A tiny laugh escapes my lips. It breaks up a tiny hint of tension in my chest, but it's not enough.

My throat is dry and ragged. The pounding in the back of my head starts. I move to the kitchen in a daze. Water. There's ibuprofen in my purse, but where the hell is my purse?

A door opens upstairs. Drew. God knows what he'll think of me in this sorry state. I plant my ass on the couch and dig through my purse. Those painkillers must be somewhere.

Footsteps rush down the stairs. And then I can feel it, even through the haze of my increasingly obnoxious headache. Drew is staring at me the way he always does. He's looking through me and picking me apart.

My fingers hit plastic. That must be it. I pull the bottle from my purse, align the child safety symbols, and pop off the top.

Drew sits next to me. "Let's skip the part where you lie and say you're okay."

I pop two Advil and down half my glass of water. "I have a headache."

"Where?"

I point to the back of my neck.

"Turn around."

I do.

Drew drags his fingertips up my back. He tugs at the collar of my shirt and traces its outline all the way to my chest.

He leans closer, so his breath is on my neck. Somehow, that dulls the awful throbbing.

He undoes the top button of my shirt. Then the next. The next. His fingertips skim the fabric of my bra and all the nerves in my body turn on at once.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Besides feeling you up?"

I swallow hard. "Yeah."

His fingertips trace their way up my blouse until they meet at the back of my collar. He rolls the shirt down so it's at my waist. He pulls my bra straps off my shoulders.

All that need for an explanation vanishes. I don't give a flying fuck what he's doing as long as he keeps doing it.

His hands settle at the edge of my neck and he rubs my shoulders.

I let out a low moan. That awful crick in my neck melts away. The throbbing in the back of my head dulls until it's barely a whimper. And then he rubs my neck and any remnants of pain are gone.

All I know is how good his hands feel.

How much I want them on my body.

On every part of my body.

"Should we take it from the top?" He presses his thumb against the place where my neck and shoulders meet. "You tell me what's wrong. I get my hands under your bra."

"I like the second part of that."

"Unfortunately, I can't do anything to change the order."

"Don't you find it inappropriate to feel up a girl after she pours her heart out?"

His voice drops an octave. "You don't want me touching you?"

"Don't say stupid things."

He mumbles some kind of affirmation and rubs me a little harder. No wonder all those flirty fans giggle over jokes about his skilled hands. These things are magic.

I close my eyes and relax into Drew's massage. He's quiet for a long time. There's nothing in the room except the sound of our breath.

And then he stops. He drags his fingertips down my shoulders and sides. "If you don't talk to me, I'm not going to touch you."

Quite the card he's holding there.

My eyes flicker open. "My phone broke."

He leans down and scoops it off the ground. "It's only a scratch."

"It's more than a scratch."

He presses his lips into my neck. "But it's fixable." He plays with the screen. "It's still usable like this."

He kisses me again, a little harder. I moan into his mouth. This is much better than conversation.

He pulls back. "I'll still replace your screen tomorrow." He tugs at my ponytail, pulling the elastic band from my hair. His lips hover over my ear. His breath is soft. "You don't really expect me to believe you're this upset over a phone."

"I'm not—"

He brushes my hair behind my ear. "You remember how I touch after you talk to me?"

My cheeks flush. "Yes."

"Well, I'd hate if we didn't get to the touching part."

"But... I... we..." I want so badly to know what this means—if he likes me or loves me or simply wants to fuck me, no feelings required—but I'm not sure I'm prepared to hear the answer.

Drew has my shirt halfway off and he's whispering flirtatious dares in my ears. He clearly wants me. And there's no doubt he's my best friend.

But that could be it. It's entirely possible his feelings for me are only lust and friendship.

I pull my shirt back over my shoulders and rebutton it.

Drew lets out a low sigh. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

I turn to face him. "It's no big deal."

His stare is penetrating. His expression shifts. Not fun or flirty but serious.

He traces the hem of my pencil skirt. "Why do you play this game? You always tell me eventually."

I shrug like I'm not affected by him. "I had a message from my mom and she didn't sound happy."

His eyes narrow. He stares at me like he's daring me to tell him the truth.

"Okay. It was worse than not well. She sounds depressed again, the way she was after my dad died." I play with my skirt, my hands a few inches from Drew's. "My mom has plans for me to shadow at Sugar and Spice over spring break. She's super excited for me to work with her and fulfill all her dreams and I'll crush her if I turn down the opportunity."

"How do you know that?"

"She's my mom. I know." My gaze drifts toward the soft blue leather of the couch. "She's been either depressed or halfway to depression since my dad died. And she's almost there again."

Drew's voice gets soft. "Hey." He plays with my hair. "It's sweet you want to help her."

"I have to be there. No one else will."

He brings his hand to my chin and tilts me so he's staring straight into my eyes. "And how will you feel working at her company?"

"I'll live."

He shakes his head. "You're so full of shit. Why do I put up with you?"

"Because I have a great rack."

His eyes flare with desire. "True."

I fight a blush. "Okay, fine. I'll be miserable working at her company." I meet Drew's gaze. "Happy?"

"Very." He leans closer. "And what do you want?"

"You're obnoxious."

"And handsome." His voice gets serious. "Make me a promise."

"Why?"

"Because it's your only hope of staying on my good side." His fingertips brush my cheek. "Promise you'll get your teaching credential."

"You don't have the right to make me promise anything."

"So do it because it's what you want."

He says it like it's so easy. Must be easy for him—he's a talented musician with tens of thousands of fans. His future is set.

He can do whatever the hell he wants—drink or fuck or trash hotel rooms—and it's all excused under the guise of rock stardom.

"I'm not going to promise. Even if it means you never touch me again." I bite my lip, willing all my determination to rise. "Besides, I think you're bluffing."

He runs his hand through my hair. "That right?"

"Yeah." I close my eyes and relax into Drew's body. Whatever is happening between us, I need to be around him. I need him to hold me, touch me, whisper sweet things to me.

He tilts my chin so we're eye to eye. "Come on. I'm taking you out."

"I don't want to go out."

"You'll feel better."

I hold his gaze, but he's not backing down.

"Besides, I want to see you in one of those tight dresses you wear." He nibbles on my ear. "And out of it."

"Those are for dancing." I fight a groan. "And you hate dancing."

"No." He drags his fingertips over my neck. "I hate not being able to touch you."

I swallow hard. "Okay."

He smirks like he knows how dizzy he's making me.

I slide off the couch, change in my room, and add a little dramatic flair to my makeup.

Drew's door is half-open. He changes into a clean band t-shirt and grabs something from his dresser and slides it into his pocket.

A condom.