“You what?” I picked up my coffee, contemplated throwing it, then realised I needed the caffeine too much. “I borrowed your phone, so technically, you were flirting with Rush Moder.” ![]() With hindsight, I should have realised something really, really bad was coming, but my alcohol-addled brain was still functioning at half capacity. “No t exactly.” Tessa shifted so the granite expanse of the kitchen island was between us. “Let me get this straight… You were flirting with Rush Moder last night, and now you don’t know what to say to him?” I didn’t believe it at first either, but he even sent a photo.” I bet the band’s PR person confiscated his phone right after he unleashed that tirade on the press.” He’s a rock star-I’m sure he gets loads of messages from tipsy girls.” “Right.” She paused to take a sip of her coffee. He’d posted a snap of himself holding his middle finger up to the camera then gone on a rant at the paparazzi, accusing them of printing lie after lie about the band to sell their “shitty, hate-filled gossip rags.” A proper meltdown. And last night, it hadn’t only been pictures of Rush Moder we were looking at, but his words too. She even had a shirtless photo of him set as the screen saver on her phone. I could understand why-dark hair, designer stubble, a strong jaw, piercing blue eyes… He was incendiary. Tessa had been perving over Rush Moder, something she’d started doing almost three years ago when Indigo Rain had their first UK number one. “Remember how last night, someone put on an Indigo Rain song and we started perving over pictures of Rush Moder on Instagram?” What did you do, Tessa?” I asked for the third time. “I already tried that last night, and look how it turned out. “It’s actually really good news if you decide not to be boring for the rest of your life.” “So, tell me why I’m gonna hate you more than I already do right now.” Someone had drawn a smiley face on the clock above the sink. Tessa slid a mug of coffee across the kitchen island in my direction, and I propped myself up on a stool. ![]() What were the symptoms of an aneurysm? Something in my head felt as though it was about to burst. Was that a red wine stain on the carpet? Or worse, blood? With Tessa and a blow-up doll as my witnesses, I was never holding a party again. I rolled off the sofa, tripped over a cushion, then paused to pick up a lamp on my quest to find caffeine. But then they’d decided to travel around South America for a month, and since I’d just started my summer break from university, I’d been left home alone. They’d only been together for a few months, but they were perfect for each other, and I couldn’t have been happier for them when they’d decided on the spur of the moment to tie the knot in Las Vegas. But Zander had raised me from the age of fourteen, so to me, sharing a home with him was normal-first a crappy bedsit in Sydenham, and now our riverside apartment in Chelsea. Perhaps you’re thinking it was a strange arrangement, me living with my half-brother and his new wife, and I guess you’re kind of right. Which meant we only had one day to make the apartment look perfect again. Possibly because I’d unplugged the stereo straight away, or maybe because Tessa had cried-crying on cue was her party trick, quite literally-but when everybody scuttled away, we’d been left with the mess to clean up. The police had actually been quite understanding. Which meant my brother was sure to find out what I’d done when he got back from his honeymoon, and he’d probably lecture me for twenty-four hours straight. You haven’t lived until you’ve had to grovel to the police at three o’clock in the morning.” “I can’t believe you talked me into having a party.” ![]() How about I go and puke in the bathroom instead? “Tell you what, why don’t you get up and have a cup of coffee first? Or some more wine? There’s half a bottle of…” She ducked back into the kitchen. Judging by the apologetic grimace on her face, it would be the latter. “You’re either gonna love me or you’re gonna hate me.” Once, she’d been my best friend, but not anymore seeing as last night’s get-together had been her idea. Tessa poked her head around the kitchen door. I’d fallen asleep-or rather, passed out-on the sofa, and between there and the kitchen, the apartment I shared with my brother looked as though the love child of a hurricane and a tornado had rampaged through it. Huh? My neck creaked as I turned my head to the side. If you act like a rock star, you will be treated like one. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.Īll rights reserved. Published by Undercover Publishing Limited
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