Page 34 of One More Made Up Love Song
What if I’d told Daphne I caught a whiff of alcohol on her boyfriend’s breath?
What if I’d followed her to the parking lot and insisted she take his keys and drive instead?
What if I’d begged her to ride with me?
None of those questions will ever have answers, and even if they did, they wouldn’t bring Daphne back.
But two things have been true since that warm spring night.
One: I hate getting dressed up. My junior prom dress was the last formal dress I’ve ever worn, and I have zero plans to change that anytime soon.
Tricky, seeing as how Freddie has attended the Grammys every year I’ve worked for him, and he’s been to the Oscarstwice. It’s typical for PAs, even multiple PAs to attend with their employers, but I’ve gotten pretty good at weaseling out of formal events.
I’m pretty sure Freddie thinks I just don’t want to give up my Converse. Which, he’s not entirely wrong about that.
And two: I do not drink alcohol. Not ever.
That’s something Carina and I have in common—a promise we made to each other.
It’s hard to process what it means if she broke that promise.
“Yeah, I probably should make sure she’s okay,” I say.
Freddie nods. “I think that’s a good call. And we’ll be in LA on Sunday.”
“Which is very close to Malibu.”
He smiles. “Yep.”
“So I can go get her.”
“You can sendWayneto go get her,” Freddie says. “You aren’t going anywhere near Margot.”
I don’t roll my eyes, and I don’t argue with him. Partly because he has to be on stage in a matter of minutes. My eyes drop to the maroon suit he’s currently wearing. On anyone else it might look silly, but Freddie pulls off looks like this one with ease. With several inches of skin visible at his collar, his tattoos peeking out in multiple places, he looks anythingbutsilly. Fit. Confident. Sexy. Like a rockstar.
A rockstar whocan’tactually keep me from going after Carina myself. I know my sister well enough to guess how much she’d hate having a security guard sent to retrieve her like she’s a wayward, troublesome child. Even if that’s exactly how I’m thinking about her right now.
But that’s a conversation I can have with Freddie another time.
Freddie squeezes my shoulders. “You okay?” he asks. “I thought you’d be happy.”
I look up and meet his sharp, green gaze. “Better than okay,” I say. “Thank you for finding her. I’ll thank Wayne too.”
“Anything for you,” Freddie says, and my breath catches. Why does he have to look at me like this? Why does he have to be so good? To care so much? It makes it impossible to read any potential signals.
Anything for me. Butwhyme? Because I’m an employee? His friend? This is the man who hand-delivered thank you cards to every single person who worked on his tour. He is exactly the kind of man who would do anything to help anyone. His words, the gestures, the touches, they really could have nothing to do with romance.
It could—and I’ve reminded myself of this no less than a thousand times—be all in my head.
I shrug out of his grip and take a step backward.
Freddie’s hands fall to his sides, and for a brief second, something flashes across his expression—something like hurt, or maybe confusion? It disappears so quickly, I have to think I imagined it, but the weird tension hovering between us stays.
“Your suit is ridiculous,” I finally say, because I have to say something, and teasing each other is something Freddie and I have always done well.
Freddie smirks and turns toward the mirror, then flips his lapels up. “Liar. This suit is amazing and you know it.”
“Nope,” I say. “1987 called, and they want it back.”
