Love on the Tracks Read online

  The furious blushing that accompanies that statement is marvelous. I had no idea a person could get that red that quickly. No way do I want her to be embarrassed enough to call the whole thing off, though. So I break in over her fumbling.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. Being a public figure takes out a lot of the first date conversation topics, right? Like I already know you grew up in Maryland, but now you live in Lake Placid, and clearly I know what you do for a living.”

  “Exactly.” She takes a sip of her water—well, more like a chug—and then sets it down on the table and takes an audible breath. “So I’m at a bit of a loss.”

  “Then I’ll go first.” I pretend to consider it for a moment, and Rowan relaxes more, taking a real sip of water this time. “Tell me something about yourself that’s never been in a story about you. I think I’ve read them all.”

  The color on her cheeks darkens once again, but she taps her glass with her fingertips and looks toward the ceiling. “Let’s see . . . I love chocolate and coconut, I like chocolate and mint, but chocolate and peanut butter makes me want to barf.”

  “I guess a sponsorship from Reese’s is out then.”

  Rowan smiles, and gets a goofy look on her face. “Yeah, that would not go well. It’s not like I eat chocolate a whole lot anyway. But when I do, there’s this artisanal chocolate place about two hours from Lake Placid . . .”

  She gets this dreamy, faraway look on her face.

  “What kind of car do you drive to go to this chocolate shop?”

  Rowan covers her face again. I nudge her foot under the table. “You totally do that, don’t you? Drive four hours round trip to get your favorite chocolate?”

  Her answer comes from between her fingers, a plaintive “yes.”

  “Why don’t you keep some in your . . . apartment?”

  “House,” she mutters. “I still live with my dad. Oh my god, this is embarrassing.”

  I nudge her foot one more time and lean over the table. “If you let me see your face, I’ll tell you a secret.”

  Slowly, so slowly, she draws her fingers down her face and anchors her hands on her water glass again. “Something the fan boards don’t know? Because I already know all that stuff.”

  I bite back a laugh. “Yeah, I try to keep this one under wraps. I actually spend very little time at my house in LA. Whenever I can, I go back to Texas. When I can’t, I go to my sister’s in Las Flores.”

  “Why?” Now I’ve got her.

  “It’s a big-ass house and I live there all by myself. It gets lonely.”

  It’s the truth, and not something I admit to a lot of people. It’s supposed to be glamorous, right? Having everything a person could possibly want. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels cold, and empty, and I don’t like it. I’d rather have the noise of my nephews and nieces, and the smells of my mom’s cooking. Even my sisters’ teasing.

  “I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in a big family, huh?”

  We spend the rest of lunch trading small secrets and funny stories, and I have to say, once she turns the fangirl flail down from eleven, Rowan’s a pretty cool girl. Funny, and charming, and I see how she can put on that act in front of the press. She puts her own self on as an act. It’s confusing, but impressive at the same time.

  When we’re leaving the restaurant, I help her back into her parka, and as we walk out the door I rest my hand at the small of her back. There’s a stutter in her step, and I lean down to talk into her ear.

  “Here’s the part where you’re supposed to look like you’re having a good time, okay? Think you can do that?”

  I’m almost hoping she’ll take my hand, but she turns her face to the side to look at me. Her eyes are green tinged with blue, like the spruce around here, and her cheeks are a light pink—not the bright embarrassed flush of earlier, but a light blush of fun being had. Yes, I can spend a few weeks fake-dating Rowan Andrews.

  “Yes.” She smiles, white teeth showing, the bottom row slightly crooked. Then a bunch of flashes go off.

  Chapter Six

  Zane

  “Couldn’t you do any better than that?”

  “What’s your problem, Stan?”

  It’s too fucking early for Stan to be giving me this hard of a time. Really.

  “The pictures are up.”

  I scrub a hand over my face and into my hair. The clock says eight o’clock. In the morning. What the fuck? “I thought you’d be happy. Me, Rowan, out and about, flirting, having fun. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Look, Zane. You know as well as I do, if you want to keep their interest, you’ve got to keep upping the ante. A polite hand at the small of her back while leaving a trendy restaurant might’ve been okay yesterday, but today you’ve got to step it up. I want a kiss today. A real kiss. Not a peck on the cheek—on the lips. Some tongue if she’ll let you.”

  Sometimes I wonder why Stanley’s on his third wife. Then he says shit like that, and I don’t wonder anymore. “At that rate, we’ll be fucking in front of the SIG ice tower by the end of the week.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  Ugh. It’s a good thing Stan is so good at his job and I know he’s kidding, otherwise I would’ve fired him a long time ago. “I promised Rowan I would be a gentleman. I’m not going to stick my tongue down her throat so we can end up on the front of tabloids, okay? I’ll see what I can do about a kiss, but don’t push it. She’s not a means to an end, you know. She’s a person.”

  “A person who was willing to go along with this for the same reason everyone else is. Dollar bills, yo.”

  “Stanley, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but don’t ever say that again. You are far, far too white for that. And yes, she consented to this, but she didn’t consent to being assaulted in public. I’ll talk to her and see what I can do. If you want this to last, you need to let us take it slow. Slow-ish,” I amend, because if I were to actually take it slow with a girl . . . Well, I don’t actually remember what that was like. “I gotta go.”

  “Okay, but don’t forget about the—” I cut him off by hanging up before he can say something truly disgusting. Usually when the business is getting to be too much for me, I’d call my parents or one of my sisters to help me get my head on straight, but I’m not up for getting the third degree from them about what exactly is going on with the lady luger. I can hear it now, and no. Not until I’ve had a cup of coffee. Or three.

  After thinking for a few minutes, I text Rowan. I don’t know exactly what her schedule is today, but she said something about having free time in the afternoon.

  If you’re free this afternoon, I thought we might go over to 16th street. Good people-watching. Especially for everyone else who’ll be there ;)

  I take a shower while I wait for her response, and when I get out it’s to her answer:

  Sure. I have to be back for the ceremony, but I have a couple of hours at 1pm. Should I meet you there?

  Girl’s not good at this, but why would she be? It’s probably the first fake relationship she’s ever had. I wish I could say the same.

  No, I’ll pick you up. More photo ops that way. I’ll meet you in front of the village, black Land Rover.

  Rowan

  There he is a few hours later, as promised. I’d wondered if I’d have to search him out because it’s a busy place, but no. He’s standing there, looking impossibly hot leaning up against the black SUV he told me to watch for.

  Jeans that are ripped just so, boots, half-buttoned cardigan under a down coat, with a scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, and some aviator shades. Plus his signature tousled hair. No wonder he’s surrounded. A crowd of twenty or so—mostly women—is churning around him, handing over things to be signed, thrusting hands toward him to shake.

  It’s so much, I almost walk away. I don’t, though. This is good for my career, and it’s good for his. I just need to work up some mettle before I strut over, acting as though I belong. I am, after all, the only one h
e actually invited.

  This is when he sees me. He smiles, and it melts a part of me that has no business being anything but icy. Feels and swooning not allowed. I raise my hand and start my way over. He clears a path between his admirers, greets me with a kiss on the cheek, and then tucks me under his arm as he shakes a few more hands, signs a few more scraps of paper—whatever people could dig out of their purses or pockets.

  And then graciously excuses himself with that pop star smile, saying, “Sorry guys, I gotta go. I promised my girl Rowan I’d take her out before she has to get ready for the opening ceremony tonight.”

  Which starts another flutter as people then ask for my autograph, which I don’t deny them. Even though Zane said we had to go, he stands by patiently with a satisfied half-smile on his face while I sign. He totally did that on purpose.

  Then we’re headed over to Sixteenth Street, which is a pretty sweet pedestrian mall. I’m not in the market for anything, but it’s nice to walk among the stores with everyone and pretend to be a normal person. Zane’s pulled a hat over his hair, which makes him less recognizable, but it’s not so long before we’re being trailed by a few photogs. Even though that was the point, it still makes me uneasy. Being followed, even knowingly, is creepy.

  I think Zane can tell I’m feeling edgy, because he pulls me into a small crowd that’s gathered around a busker. The guy’s good, playing guitar, with an open case full of dollar bills in front of him. After he wraps up the pop hit we’ve been listening to, I toss a few dollars into his case. The busker bows and thanks everyone before sitting on his stool again and—hilariously—launching into an LtG song.

  Turning my gaze to Zane, I wonder how he’s going to react. I know some artists get tetchy about this. While I don’t blame them, I’m still glad Zane seems tickled instead of annoyed. In fact, he peels off his hat and doffs his sunglasses, handing them to me with a wink before slipping through the crowd and standing next to the guy, picking up the beat with a hand clap and joining in on a harmony.

  The busker’s eyes go huge and he looks like he’s about to stop but Zane twirls a finger in the air and tells him to keep on keeping on, which the guy does with a huge grin. They jam it out for the rest of the song, and flow straight into a second one. The crowd’s gotten twice as big, and while it’s thrilling to listen to them, the swarm is starting to get overwhelming. I feel pushed, pulled, surrounded.

  All I can offer Zane the next time he makes eye contact with me is a tight smile. His own doesn’t fade, but he drops a nod that seems to be only for me. When they come to a stop, Zane takes a bow.

  “Thank you, thank you all for humoring me. Especially John here. Give him a round of applause, and show him some love in the form of dollar bills.”

  Zane plucks the hat from John’s head and holds it out to everyone who’s gathered around. They’re only too happy to throw money in it, especially in exchange for a high five or a fist bump from Zane. By the time Zane dumps it out in the guitar case, it’s full, and then he hands it back to John, who settles the porkpie on his head with a tap.

  That done, Zane tries to leave with a wave, and beckons for me to join him in his escape, which I do. He takes my hand in his and squeezes.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just a lot.”

  And continues to be a lot, as people follow us. Not just media now, but people with their phones, and those who want to touch. Zane tries to politely keep them at arm’s length, but some of them are persistent. Between polite requests to give us some space, Zane takes out his phone and texts his driver, asking him to meet us at one of the cross streets. When he’s done, he leans down to me.

  “I’m going to get you out of here, okay? We’re going to make a break for it. Half a dozen blocks down and on the right, there should be an alley between stores, and Tony will be waiting. When I say go, you run. I probably won’t be able to keep up with you, but I’ll be right behind you, swear. Got it?”

  I nod, and get ready to run.

  Zane tries one more time, fruitlessly, to get the throng around us to back off and let us be, but of course it doesn’t work. So he squeezes my hand and adrenaline floods my system, making it easier for me to take off when he says, “Go.”

  I run for all I’m worth, turn into the alley and after making sure there’s no one on my tail, jog to the end. No one follows me, and I’m glad as I lean up against the cold brick wall. A few seconds later, Zane rounds into the alley, taking a glance over his shoulder.

  “I think I lost them? We shouldn’t hang out here though, no doubt they’ll find us.”

  He walks up to me, and stands close, the toes of his boots between mine, and I can smell him. Mostly that expensive cologne he wears, but also a spritz of exertion that makes him smell all the better.

  Which is the only excuse I have for grabbing the sides of his jacket between my gloves, and pulling him flush against me, tipping my head up for a kiss, and then pressing my lips to his.

  Zane’s mouth is warm, sweet, and soft. Achingly tender until I coax him open with my tongue and then he’s kissing me back wholeheartedly, with an appetite that almost matches my own. Honey. That’s what this is, and I want every last taste.

  For a second, I’m frozen with regret. This isn’t part of the deal. If we kiss, it should be in front of the cameras. He doesn’t stop me, though, doesn’t pull away. No, instead, his hand glides up my neck, and he circles his thumb behind my ear. My knees go weak, and when I slump, he still doesn’t stop, but presses me up against the brick with his body. He’s . . . Yeah, even through his jeans and mine, I can still tell. He’s hard for me.

  It shouldn’t give me such a sense of satisfaction, because it’s not as though I did anything to earn this, but nevertheless, I love the way he’s breathing hard and how his eyes glint with more than adrenaline as he pulls away. He has to adjust himself in his jeans and I love that he looks sheepish as he does, but not embarrassed. Like it makes all the sense in the world for him to be crazy turned on from kissing me in an alley.

  Which is when we hear the shouts. They’ve found us. So he slides his bare fingers through my gloved ones, and hustles us both toward the Land Rover where his driver’s got the back door open and waiting for us to dive through.

  Zane

  The call screen blinks out, and I have a text. From Rowan? God knows the guys aren’t awake yet. Maybe one of my sisters or my mom. Only one way to find out, so I click it open.

  The ceremony last night was so awesome, but it took a lot out of me. Also, this all just got super real, and I’m on edge.

  I hesitate. If I were her real boyfriend, I would probably be able to decode what she was trying to say. “I need some space?” Or is it a plea to distract her? I stare at my phone for a good long while, so long that if my bandmates were here they’d be mocking me. They’re not, so I take another few seconds before I thumb out my message.

  We can skip today if you want, I don’t want to pile on.

  It’s not what I want at all—I want to see her again, I want to kiss her again, maybe enjoy the feeling of her hand in mine. The weird thing about the SIGs is that days seem to go on forever, so it feels as if it’s been a few days, not less than one, since I’ve seen her. I wouldn’t say I missed her, but I’d thought of her. Where she might be, what she might be doing. I’d like to see her today. To show off for the cameras, of course.

  But I promised Rowan she could be in charge and I meant it. No doubt I’ll be getting an angry phone call from Stanley if there aren’t any pictures of us on Celebrinews by the end of the day, but he’ll have to suck it up.

  I don’t want to skip today. Unless you do. If you don’t . . . want to skip that is . . . then maybe we could go to a movie? It’s not super public, but it helps take my mind off things, you know? Tonight’s pretty open for me.

  A movie, huh? She’s right it’s not an optimal place for a photo op, but if Stanley gives a few of his paparazzi contacts the heads up that we’ll be there, and we get so
me hand-holding and popcorn-eating in, it could work. Plus, the idea of kicking back with Rowan in a dark theater where no one would recognize us has a certain appeal. One I don’t want to think too much about.

  Can do. I can put tickets on hold. What do you like—comedy, drama, documentary, something foreign and high-brow with subtitles?

  Rowan’s so not a foreign film kind of girl. I don’t think. Although the truth is I don’t know her well, and maybe I’ll end up spending a few precious hours this evening trying not to fall asleep during some boring-as-fuck thing you’re not even allowed to call a movie. Although, to be honest, we could probably make googly eyes at each other in line for tickets and popcorn and then sneak out the back of the theater without actually having to watch the movie. If I’d been thinking, I totally could’ve suggested that. Too late now.

  Uh, no. Action all the way. The more things that blow up the better. I’m kind of an adrenaline junkie, but since I can’t risk getting hurt anywhere but on the track, I get my kicks on the screen.

  Sweet.

  Rowan

  A few hours after we make our arrangements, I meet Zane’s car a block away from the entrance to the village. Gives the photogs a chance to follow me to our meeting place and snap a few pics of when he greets me. Maybe with a kiss again?

  It’s stupid of me, but I can’t help but feel like that last one we shared . . . it didn’t seem fake. If nothing else, Zane seems to find me attractive. At least that’s what the hardness in his jeans indicated yesterday. Even if he doesn’t have romantic feelings for me, surely being friends and giving him a hard-on should be good enough to get laid?

  Why must everything be so complicated?

  When I see the now-familiar black Land Rover idling by the corner, and the rear driver’s side door opens to let Zane out into the chilly evening, it doesn’t feel so complicated. He smiles at me, and rubs his bare hands together—guy should invest in some gloves before he starts going to the outdoor events.

  I don’t know where it comes from, but that bold part of me wells up and swamps all my doubts and insecurities. This is supposed to be fun. I’m supposed to be having fun. What would be fun would be to kiss the incredibly good-looking guy who’s smiling at me as though I’m the only person on earth even though I’m well aware of being trailed by half a dozen photographers.