Page 7 of The Perfect Melody

“Positive.” His face lights up with mischief. “You should book a flight to somewhere else to throw Miranda off your trail even more.”

“Good thinking.” Sometimes his special brand of chaos comes in handy. “Can you get Ant a ticket too?”

“You’re bringing him? Won’t having your 6ft 4” bodyguard following you everywhere be kind of conspicuous?”

“I’ll need to fly with him for safety reasons. I’ll be as low-key as I can, but there’s always a risk someone will spot me at the airport. He can fly right back to Nashville the next day. Miranda won’t even notice he’s gone if he makes it back quickly, so she won’t be able to pressure him into telling her anything. Even if she tries, Ant won’t know where I am. I’ll tell him I’m staying with you and Bailey and that you’ll take care of security if we decide to go anywhere. We’ll keep the rest between the three of us.”

“Alright, that makes sense. I’ll book his tickets, a hotel for Ant for one night, and your accommodation in Pine Grove too.”

“That’s too much money?—”

Liam chuckles. “Come on, Cass. I know I’m not filling up arenas, but I am still a successful actor, you know,” he teases. When I show no sign of relenting, he sighs. “If it makes you feel better, you can reimburse me once you’re back on the grid.”

I bite my lip. That seems fair, and it would mean Miranda will have no way of tracking me down. “You’re sure about this?”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but it’severything. “What are friends for?”

“Am I really doing this?” I ask in disbelief.

“Yes. No backing out. You need this.”

“OK.”

Liam cheers, and his excitement is almost enough to make me laugh. This plan is wild. Am I seriously agreeing to this? I think of the schedule Miranda sent me, then look at my best friend’s smiling face. Yep, I’m doing this. “I guess I’ll see you on Friday.”

“See you Friday.”

We end the call, and I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts a tangled web of confusion. Can I really go through with this?

Doubt clings to me like bad perfume throughout the day, right up to the party celebrating the end of the tour. Obnoxiously loud music thumps from speakers dotted around the venue we hired out. I take a sip of my mocktail, counting down the minutes until I can leave. The bar is full to bursting with people dressed to impress. I’ve been here two hours already, and my social battery is officially flat.

The next in a seemingly endless stream of people congratulates me on a successful tour. My face moves the right way, and my mouth says the right things, but my heart isn’t in it. The only time I feel a glimmer of anything is when I’mspeaking to the dancers, singers, musicians, crew, and creatives whose hard work made the tour happen. I’m grateful to all of them, and they deserve to be celebrated tonight. I already sent everyone handwritten cards and gifts commemorating the tour, but I know they’ve been looking forward to this party. If I could muster enough enthusiasm, I’d join them on the dancefloor. As it is, I barely have it in me to stay standing. After the gym this morning, I hung out in the suite all day—I even got a nap in—but I’m still exhausted.

Nails dig into the bare skin of my upper arm, making me flinch. “You could at least pretend to be happy,” Miranda hisses into my ear. To anyone who might glance our way, it will look like she’s congratulating me too. They can’t feel the sharp press of her acrylics leaving indents on my flesh. They don’t see that there’s no light in her eyes to make her fake smile believable.

“Of course I’m happy. I’m living the dream.” My response is an echo of what she’s been telling me for years, but since it’s her and not anyone else, I don’t bother selling it. The smile I’ve kept carefully in place all night is nowhere to be found, and my voice sounds flat.

“Don’t get smart with me,” she snaps. “You will stay here for at least another hour, smiling and acting like you are having the time of your life. We leave for the airport at four AM. Make sure you’re ready.”

“Fine.”

Her nails dig in even harder. “What was that?”

“Yes, Miranda.”

She lets go. “Better.”

Miranda waves over a handsome guy in his twenties with artfully styled dark hair and deep-brown eyes. As he saunters over wearing a cocky smirk that pairs perfectly with his leather jacket, I note he looks vaguely familiar even though I’m fairlycertain we haven’t met. “This is Alexander. You’re going to dance with him.”

“Why would I do that?”

The guy’s grin falters.

“His new film comes out in two weeks. It’ll be good for you to be seen together.” Ah, he’sthatAlexander—Hollywood’s bad boy.

“So the dance is a photo op,” I state flatly.

“Of course.”