Page 2 of Holding Hope

“What do you want?” she snapped, blocking the doorway with her knee.

I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and shrugged. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out.”

“Hang out?” Her brows pulled together. “Why would I want to hang out with you?” Fair question.

“Because we’re young music stars in a city that loves us,” I said, leaning on the doorframe. “And we leave tomorrow. Separate flights, separate lives. Might as well make the most of it.” I tilted my head, gave her my best troublemaker smile. “C’mon, Sweetheart. Let me in.”

Her whole body stiffened. “Don’t call me that. Only my fans call me Sweetheart.” “What makes you think I’m not a fan?”

She snorted. “You don’t strike me as a country music connoisseur.”

She wasn’t wrong. I didn’t have a single country song in any playlist I owned. “Maybe you’ve changed my mind,” I said.

She blinked, cheeks turning pink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“If I told you I was, would you tell me it was working?”

Her blush deepened. God, she was cute.

“You’re cocky, Avalon.”

“And you like it, Clarke.”

“I do not,” she said, but her voice betrayed her. “So what did you have in mind for this… hangout?”

I perked up. “Have you ever been to Teagan’s Place?”

She shook her head, towel unraveling slightly. “No. First time in Mayfair.” Her room was neat—boots with pink ribbons, laptop open, a stuffed white rabbit perched against the pillows. I picked it up.

“You still sleep with stuffed animals? What are you, twelve?”

She snatched it back. “He’s my good luck charm.”

Of course he was.

“Let me show you the coolest spot in town,” I said.

“So it’s not Teagan’s Place?”

“Nope. If you’re going to lose your Mayfair virginity, you have to do it right.” She snorted. “I have an early flight.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

I laughed. She glared.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking to sleep in,” she said. “Eight a.m. is early for me.” “Whatever you say, Clarke.” I looked her over—frizzy hair, cherry-print socks, pajama shorts. “You can’t wear that where we’re going. They’d eat you alive.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t go out looking indecent.”

If that was supposed to be a jab at me, it didn’t land. I liked the way I dressed. My fans liked the way I dressed. Clarke King’s opinion didn’t matter.

By the time Clarke finished throwing half her suitcase across the room in search of something “appropriate,” she finally settled on a short white stitched dress, a jean jacket, and her cowboy boots. Her hair was mostly dry, still a little frizzy, which only made her look more real. More… touchable.

We slipped out of the hotel, avoiding the cluster of fans near the front desk. My P.A. had warned me they were harassing staff trying to figure out which room was mine. I’d briefly considered inviting them up to party, but even I wasn’t stupid enough to hand the tabloids that kind of ammunition.

Especially not with my parents watching. Ayana McGregor and Anson Kennedy weren’t just famous—they were legacy. And I was their only child, the one who inherited their spotlight whether I wanted it or not. I’d grown up on red carpets, in camera flashes, in the background of my father’s films. Fame wasn’t new. Privacy was.