“He’s so hot!”
Abby’s fingers tighten around mine. I lean over to speak directly in her ear. “You doing okay?”
She grins, nodding, but I can see fear reflected in her wide eyes.
“You’re doing great and you look stunning.” I resist the urge to wrap her in my arms and shield her from the never-ending onslaught of questions.
Up ahead, I catch sight of a young female pop star clad only in a few strategically placed scraps of material and my mouth falls open. Fuck. I know this is the VMAs and artists like to push the boundaries of appropriate attire, but if Abby wore something like that? Hell, I’d kill everyone here just for looking. That nagging, familiar word pops into my head when I think of Abby. Mine.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Abby stiffens next to me and I glance over just in time to see displeasure on her face.
Is she jealous that I looked at the half-naked pop star? No. I have to stop projecting what I want to see when it isn’t there. We’re friends. Just friends.
Finally, what seems like hours later, the interviews are done, the never-ending photo ops are done, and the small-talk, ass-kissing, Hollywood bullshit is done.
The ceremony hasn’t even started and I’m fucking exhausted. Abby sits next to me in the theater, a calming influence on my fried nerves. I’m too anxious. Her presence isn’t enough and my thoughts begin to darken. I drum my fingers on my knee, bouncing my leg in time with the rhythm in my head.
The lighter in my pocket starts to feel like a fifty-pound weight at my side. Its siren song calls to me, urging me to flee to the bathroom, roll up a sleeve, and let the blackness drain out. Abby chooses that moment to casually lay her hand over mine, stilling the nonstop movements of my fingers. She tilts her head and gives me a reassuring smile and just like that… my demons are forgotten, replaced by a blossoming warmth radiating out from my chest.
How long will this feeling last? When I remember how spectacularly I failed at holding back my destructive behavior when we were actually together, the warmth recedes.
I wrecked us back then and I have no doubt I’ll wreck us again. It’s merely a matter of when.
86
Abby
“Dr. Kessler.”
“Good morning, Laura.” I try to sound chipper, but after tottering around on heels all evening and well into the early morning, my feet hurt and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is crawl under my covers for another seven or eight hours or so and not deal with real life for a while.
“You didn’t tell me!”
Two steps into my office, the slightly hysterical tone of Laura’s voice has me whipping around to face my assistant.
“Tell you what?” If the freaked-out look on Laura’s face means anything, I brace myself for the worst.
“This!” she practically squeals. Laura bounces over to me and shoves a newspaper in my face.
“Laura! I can’t see what you’re holding if you hit me in the nose with it.” I take the paper from her, lowering it enough to read the article my oh-so-thoughtful assistant carefully folded back to emphasize. At the top is a large color photograph.
Of me.
As many warnings as Hawke gave me about the press, it’s still a shock to see a quarter-page photograph of yourself in USA Today’s Life section. I stumble back until my knees hit the comfortable chair I use when in session with a patient. Without looking, I drop into it.
“Are you dating Hawke Evans from Sphere of Irony?” Laura asks.
“I-I… we’re not…” Laura is staring, anxiously waiting for some sort of explanation. “Ugh.” I stand up and circle around my desk, tossing the newspaper on top. “Hawke and I have been friends for a long time,” I explain. When Laura’s eyes nearly bug out of her head, I hold up a hand to stop her impending shriek. “Actually, that’s not true. We were friends when I was in college, before the band was famous.”
I glance down to take another look at the large color photo of Hawke and me on the red carpet last night at the VMAs. He’s gorgeous, as usual, and if I had to admit it, I don’t look half-bad either.
There’s more there, though. Something I failed to notice last night amidst all the chaos. Because of my crippling heels, Hawke and I are pretty much standing eye to eye. In this particular photo, neither of us is looking at any of the cameras exploding around us. No, we’re staring at each other, and the expression on my face is one of pure adoration.
I frown. I could have sworn I masked my true feelings better than that. Clearly not. But it’s not me that my eyes are drawn to. It’s the expression on Hawke’s face that has my pulse racing and my heart fluttering with hope. His face mirrors mine—his smile, the light in his eyes, the way his body leans toward me, even the way his hand curls around my waist—is it possible Hawke feels the same?
“Abby?”
Laura’s voice jerks me out of my thoughts. I tear my attention away from the photograph to lock eyes with my friend and assistant. “Sorry. I’m just… this is all a little overwhelming.” I point at the article.