Oakley Ford’s new relationship already on the rocks!

Oakley Ford breaks up before he makes up!

Jim and Claudia won’t be happy if that happens. Right now the positive headlines are outnumbering the negative ones. Jim reported last night that we’re even seeing a boost in sales for some of my earlier albums. I guess this thing with me and Vaughn is actually doing what it’s supposed to do. But it only works if the public believes we’re a real couple.

So I close the distance under the guise of pointing to the display sign. “What’s your flavor?”

“God, kale crumbles? Only in LA. I’ll take a twist with birthday sprinkles.” She pulls out a five-dollar bill.

“Seriously?” I take the money from her fingers. “I got this.”

“Oh, right, this is a business expense.”

Is she serious? I can’t tell. “Two twists. Birthday sprinkles for her and—”

“If you order kale crumbles, I’m leaving right now,” she mutters.

“You can leave mine plain.” I turn to Ty, who hands me a twenty. I don’t carry my own wallet. It’s a security thing.

“Hey, man, mind if I get a photo of you for our celeb wall?” the order-taker asks as he makes my change.

I stifle a sigh. “Sure, no problem.”

“This your girl? She can be in it.” The guy leans out his window and peers directly down Vaughn’s shirt. Creep.

I step in front of her. “Nah, just me. Got a phone?”

These days, all anyone wants is a selfie. Autographs are dinosaurs of a different age. Now the proof that you met someone is on your camera roll. Pics or it didn’t happen.

The sweaty food truck guy leans over the counter. Two others stick their heads out. I step into the picture, allowing sweaty food truck guy to put his thick arm around my back. I grit my teeth, smile pretty for the camera, endure the billionth unwanted intrusion into my personal space for the sake of my music and wait. Wait for him to figure out that his phone camera needs to be flipped to the front. Wait for another guy in the truck to muscle his way into the frame so now I’ve got the armpit stew of four guys dripping onto my shoulder. Wait for the whispers to spread from the girl in the cutoff shorts to the dude with the Ray-Bans perched on the top of his bald head to the older lady five-people deep whose handbag is big enough to hold the entire ice cream truck. Wait for someone, anyone, to take the goddamn picture.

“Let me help.” Vaughn steps in, plucks the phone from the ice cream man’s hand and snaps the photo. Before we can get our ice cream, though, Ty and Big D hustle us away from the crowd as the mass closes in on us.

Vaughn looks longingly at the truck but doesn’t mouth a word of complaint as we’re escorted away.

“Thanks,” I tell her. For not pitching a fit. For taking the picture. For not busting my balls…again.

“It looked awkward,” she admits.

Awkward is an understatement. I was two seconds from having an epic fit, which would’ve caused even more problems.

“Is it always like this?” She tips her head back toward the truck.

From the growing crowd size, I guess the ice cream guy has already Tweeted and Facebooked this encounter. People are pointing in our direction. The noise level is increasing. Any minute now, one of them is going to feel brave and start the stampede toward me.

“Pretty much.” I scan the crowd for the other two bodyguards, and when their dark jean-clad bodies break through, I give Ty the sign that I’m ready to go. “Where’s your favorite beach?” I ask.

She wrinkles her nose. “Why?”

“Because we need to be seen together but I don’t want to be trampled by a crowd.”

She shrugs a little. “I like the ES. It’s not supercrowded. Bathrooms are closed right now, so mostly it’s only locals. Plus, it’s near the refinery and sometimes it stinks.”

“Sounds perfect. The stinkier, the better.” I rub my hands together. “Ty, you know where the El Segundo beach is?”

He nods.

“Awesome. Then let’s go.”

The bald bodyguard with sloping shoulders and no neck appears behind Vaughn, holding up the ice cream. Her face lights up like he just presented her with a Harry Winston necklace.

“Oh, I thought we abandoned these.” Vaughn grabs hers. “Thank you so much.”

Daniel, I think, grunts a you’re welcome and then retreats to the second Escalade. Ty holds open the back door, but I can’t move.

My feet are stuck to the ground as I watch Vaughn curl her tongue around the tip like a kitten, scooping the soft serve into her mouth. She closes her eyes, savoring the creamy mix of chocolate and vanilla.

And it might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. So hot it melts the ice cream in my own hand.

“You’re leaking,” she says.

“What?”

“Your ice cream is melting and leaking all over your fingers.”

I look down to see that I’ve crushed the cone in my hand and the ice cream is oozing out, just as Vaughn said. Ty reaches over and takes the cone out of my hand.

“You better get in the car.” His words are a warning, but his tone is full of humor. He’ll be mocking me over this for a long, long time.

Vaughn dives inside, somehow managing not to smash her cone against the leather seats. I follow behind her, and Ty has us on the road before Vaughn can get upright and buckle her seat belt. So I reach over and do it for her.

Not because I want to touch her. Nothing like that.

HER

Oakley’s eyes are on fire. Or maybe that’s my skin. The minute his hand touched my hip to grab the seat belt, I swear my entire body lit up—like I’d been dark my whole life and someone just plugged me in.

I hold my breath as he pulls the seat belt across my waist and clips it into place. Did his fingers linger before he pulled away or was that my imagination?

“You’re the one who’s leaking now,” he says in an amused tone. His thumb swipes across one trembling finger to catch a drop of ice cream and then—and then!—he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.

A strange sound—a squeak, really—escapes my throat.

He licks his thumb one more time before settling on his side of the SUV. “I didn’t realize birthday sprinkles were so tasty. I might have to try that topping next time.”

My eyes dart to the back of Ty’s head. “Ty, I—I need to go home. I—I just forgot that I have to be there when the twins get home because they need…permission slips signed for…a field trip.” I turn to Oakley, who’s staring at me from under hooded eyelids. His lower lip looks damp from where his thumb had pressed against it.

Feeling faint, I lean against my window. “I’m sorry about this. I forgot. I’ll make it up to you. I can do another daytime date tomorrow. I’ll even Google some suggestions. Maybe the skate park at Boyle Heights. No, that’s too busy. Um, we could hike somewhere. There’s a place near Griffith Observatory where Paisley likes to run when she wants a change of pace.” The more I babble, the more relaxed Oakley gets.

“Nah. It’s fine, Vaughn. Eat your ice cream before it melts all over your hand.”

Too late.

“Why’d you let that guy take a picture of you?” I ask, providing myself a much-needed distraction from the stomach-curling, toe-numbing feeling that should only be stirred in the presence of W.

“Because I owe it to him and to every other fan who wants my picture. Without them, I’d be Dustin Ford’s kid.”

“You hate it, though.” I could see it if no one else did. The strain around the corners of his fake smile. The tension in his shoulders. The way he tried to avoid the grip of the ice cream server only to have three others descend on him. But he stood patiently without complaint.

And then he waited, as the crowd started moving toward us, for the bodyguard to bring our ice cream. I’d given up on that, figuring it would be another aborted attempt at getting food.

Then he’d looked at me in a way I’d never seen anyone look at me. It scared me and drew me at the same time.

“You gotta do stuff you don’t like sometimes. The life of a celebrity isn’t all glamour and good times.”