Page 67 of Sweet Escape

So when Todd calls, I don’t ignore him.

“How’s the writing coming?”

“Actually, it’s going really fucking good.”

He laughs. “You know? I think that’s the first time you’ve ever told me it was going well and I really believed you.”

“Good thing I’m a singer and not an actress, huh?”

“I’ll say. Now ... tell me about what you’re working on.”

It’s surprisingly easy to explain my new songs to Todd, and I even play him a little bit over the phone. He seems into it, which is always a good thing, and encourages me to keep going.

“I booked you a flight for Sunday morning. Studio Monday, eleven a.m., all right?”

“Oh,” I say, realizing that’s only a few days away. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Todd says goodbye, and we hang up. I’m left ... unsettled.

Flying home Sunday morning means only three more days in Rosewood.

Which, admittedly, puts me at barely over two weeks.

Thatshouldbe plenty of time.

Plenty of time to get out of town. To take a break from the rat race. To recharge and calm my soul. To write all the words and find inspiration.

And I did do all those things.

But I’m not done.

Even if I’m not entirely sure why.

“Are you sleeping with my brother?”

The question makes me practically levitate out of my skin. When my eyes connect with the woman who is currently doing my pedicure, I give her an uncomfortable smile. Then I turn to look at Murphy, who is sitting in the chair next to me, sipping a boba tea.

On the other side of her, also watching me with wide eyes, is Murphy’s childhood friend Quinn, who she reconnected with when she moved back home.

To say I’m mortified at all the eyes currently on me is an understatement.

We’re in Napa at a little boutique spa, enjoying some self-care in the form of some very necessary manis and pedis. But the relaxation I was feeling moments ago has officially fled the coop.

“What did you just say?” I ask, buying myself a second to consider her question.

And how I want to answer it.

Murphy raises an eyebrow and doesn’t repeat herself. Instead she stares at me, giving me a chance to gather the courage to tell her that, yes, in fact, Iamallowing her brother to put his penis inside me.

Though I don’t phrase it that way.

“We’ve ... been intimate,” I finally say, my eyes flicking to the blonde at my feet again, though this time she is looking studiously at where she’s painting on a deep peach color. “Yes.”

Murphy makes a face. “Gross.”

“But it’s not serious, I promise.”

It feels wrong the minute I say it, like I’m some kid in high school lying about how much she likes a boy because she doesn’t want her friends to know.

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