Page 5 of Movers and Shakers

I didn’t do this. I didn’t disappoint people.

But I couldn’tthankhim when his betrayal was so fresh.

Mia walked into the dressing room, hand on her hip, blue eyes narrowed in my direction. She’d always looked sharp, especially with her severe dark brown bob—even when I’d originally met her at sixteen. But now, her pointy edgeshurt. “Really?”

“I couldn’t.”

“You have to. You said yourself that you didn’t want rumors.”

I pressed my lips together.

“Just get in the car. We’re leaving.”

“Shouldn’t we meet with fans?”

“I canceled that. The last thing we need is for you to make this worse. Come on.”

I followed her to the armored car, feeling like a petulant child. Not meeting the fans was the harshest punishment she could dole out. The people who supported me were my everything.

Still, I couldn’t wait to get back to my hotel for the night where I could be blissfully alone. Only then could I get out of my Lila costume and be myself for a bit.

The Nashville lights hurt my eyes, and I counted the seconds until we got to the airport.

I’d only been here on tour and I didn’t know where I was, but the buildings grew taller, the roads more congested. This didn’t match the way we’d come in.

“Why are we going downtown?”

“Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?”

I frowned, but then I saw what she was talking about: Blaze, surrounded by cameras.

“No,” I protested.

“Yes. You’re going to go on a romantic walk with him down Broadway. Now.”

“I can’t.”

“We all make sacrifices for this. You’re the couple. Now, go and be a couple.”

She pushed me out of the car and I had a moment before the cameras knew I was there. I was still in my tour outfit, and after singing for hours, I hadn’t had any water.

Mia was probably right. I needed to do this. I needed to get over this thing with Blaze. People wanted us together. Our love songs were what sold albums.

But my feet didn’t want to walk toward him. I didn’t want to do a pap walk. I wanted to be alone and to get out of this damn wig.

So, instead of doing my job, I ran.

I ducked into an alley, hand going to my hairline. It was glued on, as always, before the show. Ripping it off would hurt, but I could get it off and leave it somewhere. Usually, I’d never take this kind of risk, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Then I heard something in the dark of the alley. I yelped, turning around with my hands raised in some version of self-defense.

But I dropped them when I saw the man before me.

Long, dark blond hair piled on his head in a bun that put any of mine to shame. His brows were darker than his hair and matched the short, well-trimmed beard framing the lower half of his face. He was kept, yet unkempt. He screamed mess but in an organized way.

And his eyes were widened in my direction. “You’re—”

“Please don’t say my name,” I said breathlessly. “There are reporters just around the block.”

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