Page 29 of Falling Like Stars

Zach grins and glances around the kitchen. “Can I make myself useful?”

“Sure…” J.J. says and puts the world-famous megastar to work.

I find a vase for the flowers while J.J. instructs Zach on whatever’s left to do. The two of them chat amiably. Once, J.J. shoots me a furtive wow look but she settles into Zach’s presence quickly enough. He makes it so easy. I feel like I should be nervous or self-conscious too, but I’m strangely calm. Almost peaceful. As if the permanent electrical storm in my chest has decided to take five.

Party prep over, I fix the three of us the first drinks of the evening—a strawberry infused gin cocktail with lime juice and basil syrup. My specialty.

“Holy shit, this is good,” Zach says. “What’s it called?”

“Thai gimlet,” I say.

“It’s too good,” J.J. agrees. “You’re going to be making this all night instead of enjoying your party.”

I nearly tell her I didn’t want a party in the first place. I don’t like being the center of attention, but J.J.’s worked really hard and—for reasons I’m still unclear on—cares about me. I shoot her an appreciative smile.

“Save me from having to make small talk,” I say and turn to Zach. “Care to see your lodgings?”

“I’m all yours.”

I steadfastly ignore that J.J. is shooting sparks at me with her eyes and show Zach the rest of the little cabin.

“One bathroom here,” I say, then nod down the hall. “My room there. Your room here.”

I open the door to the tiny second bedroom that has a bed, side table, and is mostly filled with my childhood stuff. Sketchpads, notebooks, bolts of fabric, and my old sewing machine clog most of the space.

“Like I said, it’s not the Four Seasons.”

Zach scans the room with curiosity. “Doesn’t need to be. Just a place to rest my head for a few hours.” He nods at the fabric and machine. “Who’s the seamstress? Or…sew person?”

“Oh, no one. This is nothing. Just…stuff from my parents’ house,” I say. “My mom died a few years ago so it all came to me.”

Another lie. I’m on a roll. My mom did pass—her liver, having begged for mercy for years, finally called it quits—but the sewing stuff is all mine. Like relics of a past life.

Zach’s eyes are soft and full of compassion. “I’m sorry about your mom, Rowan.”

“Thanks.”

He moves to a drafting table, and before I can stop him, he’s picking up an open sketchpad. One of my drawings of costumes—this one a steampunk movie that only exists in my imagination—on top.

“Holy shit,” he says. “This you?”

“No, uh…no.”

He arches a brow and taps the initials RW on the bottom right corner. “You sure?”

“Okay, yes, it’s mine. But it’s from a long time ago. It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” He flips a page. “These are amazing. I can only draw stick figures…” Zach drags his gaze to me, then glances around the room. “This is all you, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing,” I say again. “Just a hobby.”

“Why did you stop?”

I have no way to answer. How he even knew I’d quit… It’s like Zach has a window right into the center of me and if I’m not careful, he’ll see all the dark parts I keep hidden away.

I shrug one shoulder. “It was a thing I did but don’t anymore.”

It must be all over my face to let it drop because Zach sets the sketchpad down. He steps out of the room, and I shut the door.

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