Afterward, we lie in front of the fire as the evening bleeds away into a dark, snow-covered night. I lean up on my elbow and trace my fingertips across the tattoos on his broad chest.
“Sing me something, country.”
“Now?” I shake my head. “No. I’ll sound like crap.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“I thought you hated country music.”
“I have a newfound appreciation for it.”
I laugh. “What do you want to hear?
“Anything. Something that screams Stella Hart. Not the one your record label promotes, but the real Stella.”
“I’m not sure there’s any such thing,” I whisper. I hesitate over my next words, but I decide he should know. “My real name isn’t Stella.”
He scrunches up his gorgeous features and makes a face as if he doesn’t believe me. “What?”
“It’s Emma Riddle, but Emma doesn’t sell records.”
“Wow. I can’t imagine how weird that must have been, to have to change your name like that.”
“You get used to it.” I shrug and give him a wistful smile. “There’s no biz like show biz, right? Emma is just a memory of a different life now.”
“Then sing me something Emma would.”
I close my eyes on the flashes of my mother holding me, telling me I could be anything I wanted to be. She’d sing songs by Loretta, Patsy, and Dolly. Sometimes she’d even sing Johnny Cash, but her favorite was always Miss Lynn. Sometimes when I asked her to, she’d sing something more modern. I’d always beg her to sing Brad Paisley’s “Whiskey Lullaby” because she sounded just like an angel when she did.
I open my eyes and stare down at him. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Sure, you can. Just sing.”
“Just sing,” I repeat, as if it were that easy. I hum the first few bars of the song, and when I sing the first line, Van closes his eyes and smiles. My voice cracks over the bridge, and I’m reminded of how out of practice I am. Like athletes, vocalists have to train every day. You’re born with a natural talent, but that only goes so far.
If Van notices my slip-up, he’s kind enough not to draw attention to it, and when I finish, he opens his eyes and leans up and kisses me, pulling me down on top of him. I continue to hum, and he drifts off again.
When there’s a knock on the door, I figure it’s just his mom and brother come back, so rather than wake the sleeping beast, I throw on my hoodie because I can’t find my pants, but it covers my lady parts and then some. I pad over to the front door.
I pull it wide, and I’m met with flashing bulbs. Hundreds of them, all going off in my face as the paparazzi call my name. I’m frozen. I’m sure my hair has that freshly fucked look about it, and I’m dressed only in a hoodie. No bra. No makeup. Nothing.
I stare in mock horror as people shout my name, and then Van wraps his hand around my wrist and tugs me back inside. He’s wearing only a blanket wrapped around his waist as he steps onto the snowy porch and grabs the closest pap’s camera. He throws it to the ground and the lens shatters.
“Van!”
“Are you and Stella sleeping together?”
“Did you run out on your concert to shack up with Van Ross?”
“Stella, does Van live up to the rumors? And what do you have to say to the thousands of disappointed fans?”
“Get the fuck off my property!” Van roars.
“Van, how does it feel to pop the cherry of country’s sweetest virgin?”
My mouth drops open. Van grabs that pap’s parka and slams his fist into his face. The man crumples like a piece of paper. Van grabs the man’s camera and throws it at the side of the house.
“All of you, get the fuck off my property before I have you all arrested.”
I stumble back across the threshold. My limbs are shaking, and not just from the cold. Oh my god. I can’t stay here. I don’t know how they found out, but I can’t stay here now. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the mess, and then I race up the stairs and throw on some clothes.
“Stella,” Van yells. The front door slams and his footfalls thunder up the steps toward me. “Stella!”
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“What? Punch a guy out for being an asshole?”
“Do you know what kind of ramifications this is going to have?”
“Yeah. Hockey player, here, remember?”
“It’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“Because I’m not a hockey player. I don’t go around punching paparazzo in the face.” My anger boils over, and I suddenly want to hit him. Instead, I hit him where I think it will hurt. “It’s different because I’m not like you. I don’t sleep around.”
“No, you just tell the whole world you’re a virgin when you’re fucking me like a pro,” he seethes. “At least I’m damn honest. What else are you lying about, Stella?”
“Fuck you!”
“Already did, baby, but any time you wanna be a dirty girl again, you just call me up, okay?”
“Oh my god, you know none of this would have happened if it weren’t for—”
“For what? Me? You think I sold you out?”
“I didn’t say you.”
“Then who? Eli? My mom?” It dawns on him then. I see it in the way his eyes narrow. Van shakes his head. “No. That’s not it. You think Emmett told the press.”
I don’t want to believe it because I love Emmett, and I highly doubt he went to the tabloids, but maybe he told someone at work, or at his social group. “How else would anyone link the two of us?”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s far too big a leap to make. What could country’s good girl possibly want with a piece of shit like me?”
“Van, you’re not helping here.”
“Oh, I’m not helping? See, here I thought I’d helped you quite a lot these past few weeks, but my mistake. I didn’t realize you didn’t need me after all—just my house.”
“I can’t stay here now.”
“Could you before? Come on, Stella. Are we really going to pretend this isn’t just some midlife crisis for you, and that you’re not going to go running back to your people and forget all about that Canadian guy you screwed over?”
“Screwed over?” I shake my head. I haven’t the first clue what he means by that. How exactly have I screwed him? “If anyone is screwed here, it’s me, and I don’t have people, Van. Don’t you get it? I’m it. I don’t have family or friends. All I have is a stadium full of people who think they know me. You get to walk away clean from all of this.” I lower my voice in a poor imitation of a man’s. “Van Ross is such a stud. He boned a virgin.” Hot tears spring up in my eyes. “Meanwhile, my career will be in tatters the second those pictures hit the internet.”
“Why? Because the world might learn that you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be? Fuck what everyone says.” Van scrubs his hand through his beard, raking at the coarse hair as if he’d like to rip it out in frustration. “If you let go of what everyone thinks, of what everyone wants you to be, and just be you, just for a second, you might realize no one gives a shit if you give it up to an NHL player or a goddamn asshole roadie. It’s none of their business anyway.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You have a penis—technically, that’s a free pass to do anything you want. It’s different for women.” I bury my face in my hands. “The press is going to have a field day with this. My name will be dragged through the mud, but that doesn’t matter to you because your career isn’t over, just mine.”
“Jesus Christ. Are you listening to yourself? Stop trying to be so fucking perfect and just be real with yourself, with me. So the whole world is going to know you’re no longer a virgin. Who gives a fucking shit?”
“I do!”
“Why? You think anybody cares if you have sex or not? Tomorrow, some other starlet will be making headlines and this story will be lining for kitty-litter boxes all over the country.” He rakes a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. “And you’re not alone. I don’t wanna hear you say that shit again. You have me.”
“No, I don’t,” I say, blinking back tears. I don’t have him. I don’t have anyone. For all I know he sold me out to the press, or his family did. “I have a shit-ton of regret, and that’s all I have.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Right, well I’m sorry your stay here at Lodge Ross wasn’t a better one. I thought we were connecting. Turns out I was just fodder for another country song.”
“Van,” I say, reaching out to grab his arm, but he yanks out of my grasp. He grabs a pair of jeans from his walk-in closet and throws them on. He pulls out a worn Henley, and puts it on, struggling with it over his injured shoulder. I resist the urge to go to him, to help pull the material down over his large chest. It seems too personal after what just happened, as though the paps are still watching.
The doorbell rings again, and I stare at Van. Silence hangs heavy between us. There’s nothing more to say, really. I think he knows that too, because when the doorbell rings a little more insistently this time, he walks out of the room and hurries downstairs. I follow, because I’m afraid he’s going to do something stupid again like break more paparazzo face, but when he swings the door back, it isn’t paps we’re faced with. It’s something much worse.
“Shit,” I mutter, and both men glance at me.
Van snarls. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Logan Bryant.”
“And?”
“He’s here for me.” I step out from behind Van.
“Who the fuck is this?” Van demands, “Why is he here, Stella?”
“Why are you here, Stella?” Logan says. He’s angry, which kind of comes as a surprise, because Logan is usually so unaffected by everything. Unless it means his ego is taking a hit. “Do you know how crazy I’ve been going, not knowing where you are? I almost had to cancel three shows of my tour.”
“Who is this jackass?” Van demands. Bile rises in my belly as I meet his gaze, and I’m sure guilt is written all over my face. “Stella?”
I’m not prepared for the hurt I hear in his voice. I’m not prepared for his questions or the way his pretty blue eyes beg me to tell him the truth.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Heat claws at my cheeks. My breathing comes in shallow pants, and that crushing anvil feels as if it’s sitting on my chest again, weighing down my heart with panic until I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating on emptiness, on regret and fear.
“I’m her boyfriend,” Logan hisses. “Who the fuck are you?”