Page 35 of Verses Of Us

“So, who’s the interview?”

Alexis swallowed hard, still trying to wrap her brain around it. “Sorry, can’t say. I’m under strict orders to keep it confidential.”

“Woah,” he whispered, lowering back into his chair.

Unable to trust her emotions weren’t about to spill out, Alexis switched her computer on and tried to focus on her work, on her research, on pleasing her demanding boss—anything so she could ignore the gaping wound that throbbed as it reopened in her chest. But every piece of information she dug up was like one more lashing.

For years, she’d fought to suppress all memories of Ciarán. She had avoided his interviews or mentions of him, and didn’t want to know what he was up to. Other than the few stray thoughts that drifted in sometimes, she had carved him out of her life. Alexis had kept Ciarán Jones out of her mind and heart almost entirely.

But that didn’t mean that when one of his songs played on the radio, his face didn’t invade her thoughts and she didn’t hurry to change the station. Or that when she walked by certain stores, or hotel, it didn’t all come storming back: the days spent together, the happiness at being by his side, and worst of all, the voice of the woman who’d answered his phone.

According to one article that popped up during her research, that woman, a British television star named Laurel Cohen, had ended their engagement in early 2000. Though Alexis could have read more about it, she shut it all down, not interested in knowing why they’d broken up or if he was with anyone now.

Her time with Ciarán had been a random lucky break; a dream come true, despite the shit that came afterward. But she knew, as with all dreams—or in her case, a nightmare that had plagued her sleep for months—they don’t last and eventually, you need to wake up and get on with real life.

Her stomach dropped. Unfortunately, this nightmare was coming back to haunt her.

REUNITED

Alexis

Twoo’clockneared,thetightness in her chest getting worse. Alexis hid from her coworkers in the bathroom, her phone pressed to her ear, her stomach tied in knots.

“You’re going to do fine,” Julie said on the other end, her cheerful voice attempting reassurance.

“I’m gonna be sick.”

Alexis touched up her makeup. On regular days, she came to the office with some lip gloss and dressed casual and simple, like leggings and a baggy top. Sophisticated without being stuffy.

Today, she was pleased she’d chosen something a little smarter, as if she’d known the universe would send a curve ball. She tucked her white turtleneck into her black jeans and slipped her brown plaid long-sleeve jacket on. The outfit was cute, perfect for spring and wasn’t showy. But now she wondered if she shouldn’t have worn something more fitting for an interview with someone she once…

“Lexi?” Julie asked. “You there?”

Alexis blew out a long breath, returning to the present. “I’m here.”

“I can come meet you and give him a piece of my mind, if you want.”

She grinned. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Ok, but if he pulls anything, you—”

“Thanks, Jules. I’ll be alright.”

Alexis hung up and fixed her hair as best she could into a neat ponytail, ignoring the flash memory of Ciarán’s fingers running through it, as well as the resulting heavenly tingle that ran down her back. She snuck out of the bathroom and left work, saying a quick goodbye to Brandon, then headed down the street to the concert venue.

Even though terrified and anxious at seeing Ciarán again, there was also a twinge of excitement bubbling in her chest, something she hadn’t felt since he brought her up on stage. The memory warmed her blood, but she shook it away.

With a long steady exhale, she crossed the street and reached the side door of the amphitheatre. Newly renovated, it was the same building he’d performed in back in ninety-nine and brought a burst of déjà vu.

With shaky fingers, she pulled out her press pass and showed it proudly to the security guard, who escorted her through the bowels of the building toward the dressing rooms. The tightness in her chest only got worse.

Muffled sounds of guitars and drums bled in from the stage. A voice echoed over the speakers, slightly muffled by the walls. But she recognized Ciarán easily, or at least enough that a faint sheen of sweat settled on her skin.

“Hi, there.” A young man with beady eyes and pale skin approached, and the security guard left them alone. “You’re here for Ciarán?” His British accent was thick, as were his eyebrows. He was short, about her height, and his extended hand was tiny and cold. “I’m Clark Leboue, his manager.”

“Hi, Alexis Stanek from The Herald. Pleased to meet you.”

Confused, he pursed his lips, his brown eyes skating over her features. “I thought we were meeting Marie something…”

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