After his meteoric rise to superstardom, Jim O'Brien is no longer a small-town boy who plays in bars and dreams of success. His handsome face is plastered on the covers of celebrity gossip magazines, and his voice alone is enough to make girls swoon...
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Ivy: Wow, his voice. It's even better live.
Isla: All of him. I've never fangirled, but I might start tonight. *rushes to add the bands' songs.* Ava, do you like it?
Ivy: Ava?
Isla: Ava, I know you don't follow the trends that much, but admit it. He's insanely good. Those lyrics…
Ivy: Makes me regret skipping the concert. I should've bought the ticket. *cries*
Isla: Tasha, you're lucky. Ask him for an autograph.
Ivy: one for Ava, another one for me. Right, Ava?
Isla: Ava?
Ten missed calls.
An autograph.
I wiped at my eyes and stared at my laptop screen. This time, Jim was with Riley White. One of my favorite actresses.
My gaze fell on his hand on the small of her back and then shifted to another image in which Jim was smiling at her.
Why wouldn't he? She was stunning, and they were at an event together — probably one of his "work things" he didn't want to bore me with. Didn't want me to know about, more likely.
I was his cute little thing, a.k.a his dirty little secret.
He hadn't seen the text yet. The show was over, but there would be a Meet and Greet with the fans.
I'd asked myself many questions since Tasha sent the video. Did he pretend he cared about me? Did he laugh at how naive I was, fake-dating a superstar and not having a clue? Why did he go after me at the hospital?
Did Tasha know this whole time? Did she laugh at me while she planned how she would make the naive, men-hating Ava discover her boyfriend's true identity?
They exchanged numbers, after all, or so she said.
I slammed my laptop shut and buried my face in my palms. If only I could leave so that Jim wouldn't find me. Too bad Harper was out of the city at a conference.
I had nowhere to go. I didn't want to see the girls and confess the ugly, embarrassing truth about Jim and me. I didn't want anyone's company, especially not his.
The dress I ironed for our date mocked me from the hanger. I rose from the chair and dragged my feet to the bed, where I lay staring at the ceiling, purposely avoiding looking at my phone.
I'd seen way too many images of the person who broke my heart and read too many articles about him and his success I knew nothing about.
He knew so many things about me —things I didn't dare to confess to my dad or the girls. I showed him my book and talked about my dreams, and all he did was lie.
