Tracy fills the SUV with her questions—ones I have no answers to, but her enthusiasm is contagious. And she’s right to be excited, because the number of famous people at the venue is so astronomical, even Tracy can’t keep up with them all. My friends are blown away by the guest list, the fancy digs and the fact that we’re so close to the stage I could almost lick Oakley’s feet at one point.

As for me, my vision has narrowed to just Oakley, because Oakley Ford on stage is incredible. My whole body is tingling as I watch him own the crowd. His raspy voice belts out note after perfect note. I’m not sure if it’s the lights or the energy he’s pouring into his performance, but he’s worked up a sweat. His T-shirt is soaked through. The strands of blond-brown hair are damp around his forehead. His arms flex with each strummed note.

He looks so good up there. So…hot. And so sexy. And I feel so guilty about standing here and admiring him. I told W that I’d be acting, but I’m no actress. I can’t separate fake feelings from real ones, and it’s all getting jumbled. Every time I look at Oakley, I think about that moment we shared on our ice cream date. The heat in his eyes. The way he’d made my heart pound.

I almost called W that night to tell him about it. To confess that all the pretend stuff is becoming confusing for me. To get his reassurance that it’s okay—normal even—that I had any kind of response to Oakley.

But that’s crazy. Of course W wouldn’t have reassured me. He would’ve been furious.

I have to tell him, though. Right? This is the first time in two years that I’ve felt even a hint of attraction to another guy—that’s something W needs to know.

Right?

I swallow a frustrated groan and force myself to focus on Oakley’s last song, which is as awesome as everything else he’s sung tonight. When he finishes, the crowd is chanting his name, but for some reason he doesn’t seem happy with all the adoration he’s being showered with. I expected him to shake people’s hands, flirt with his female fans, pander to the crowd, maybe. But he doesn’t. He simply sets down his guitar, gives the audience a salute and a wry grin and then disappears backstage as if this performance wasn’t totally amazing.

A frown creeps onto my lips as I glance around the club, wondering if anyone else finds this odd. Or if anyone noticed how forced his parting smile looked.

But they’re all busy raving about Oakley’s incredible performance, including my friends, who gush loudly about how gorgeous he looks tonight.

“Sorry,” Kiki says hastily, blushing when she notices me eyeing her. “I know he’s your man, but…come on. You know he’s hot.”

“Yeah, he is,” I say absently. I don’t care that my friends are analyzing my fake boyfriend’s appearance. I’m more concerned about what put those shadows in said fake boyfriend’s eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the girls before darting away. “Don’t break too many hearts tonight,” I yell over my shoulder.

I feel bad about abandoning them, but I get the sense that Oakley needs me. And while that’s a stupid thought, I can’t shake the feeling, and it drives me to elbow and jostle my way through the throng of people until I reach the small hallway by the far wall. Two muscled bodyguards stand in front of the black velvet rope separating the corridor from the main room, but they lift the rope when I flash my backstage pass.

In the hall, I’m surrounded by more people. Guys lugging huge amps and instruments. Girls in skimpy clothes squealing to each other. People in suits wearing badges like mine. Dozens of cameras everywhere. Some of them point in my direction, and I instantly duck my head so the photographers can’t get a clear shot of my face. Uncomfortable with the attention, I keep walking until I see Ty’s gleaming shaved head, which is a good five inches above all the other heads in the hall.

“Ty,” I call out quietly.

He turns. “Hey, Vaughn. Enjoy the show?”

“Yeah, it was amazing. Where’s Oak?” The nickname slips out before I can stop it, surprising me. Since when do I call him Oak? He’s always bugging me to use it, and I’ve always ignored him and called him Oakley.

Ty jerks his thumb at the door behind him. A gold plaque says Dressing Room, and on top of it there’s a white piece of paper with “Ford” scribbled on it.

I hesitate. “Can I go in there?”

Ty nods. “Go ahead.”

He holds the door open for me, and I timidly step through the threshold. The room is smaller than I expected. I figured Oakley Ford would get a ginormous dressing room with expensive leather couches and a champagne tower and chocolate fountain or something. But this place is about the size of my bedroom, with only one couch—not leather—and a mini fridge under a small vanity table.

Oakley is in the process of pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. He straightens up when he sees me, rolling the plastic bottle over his sweaty forehead.

Once again I’m floored by how attractive he is. He inherited all the best traits from his movie-star parents, though now that I think about it, I’m not sure Katrina and Dustin Ford have any bad traits. They’re both drop-dead gorgeous, and so is their son.

His sweat-soaked T-shirt is practically glued to his chest, making me realize exactly how unbearably hot those lights out there must have been—and making me notice every single hard, ridged muscle of his chest.

“Hey,” I say.

He twists off the bottle cap and takes a swig of water. “Hey.” His voice is raspier than usual, probably because he just sang his lungs out for thirty minutes.

“You were good up there.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence. I wait for him to make some snarky remark about me finally admitting that I like his music, but he says nothing. Instead, he wanders over to the couch and flops down with a heavy sigh. After a moment I walk up and sit beside him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask frankly.

His teeth dig into his lower lip. A drop of sweat slides from his forehead, down his cheek and clings to the five o’clock shadow on his strong jaw. “I didn’t sing anything new,” he finally confesses.

My forehead creases. “Were you supposed to?”

“No, but…” He caps the bottle and shoves it onto the little table in front of the couch.

“Then what’s the issue? You put on an amazing performance. Everyone went crazy for it.”

“I know.” He sighs again. “You don’t get it. Just…singing the same goddamn songs over and over again…it’s exhausting sometimes.”

My frown only deepens. “Isn’t that what you do, though? I mean, it’s not like you write new songs every time you do a concert. You have no choice but to sing the same stuff.”

“No. I mean, yes. That’s the gig—you’re right. But you’re also wrong, because it’s not the same stuff. I mean, it is, but…” A faraway expression passes through his eyes. “Every time I step on that stage, it’s a new experience, even if the song is the same. It’s a new crowd, a new energy.”

“So what’s different about tonight?” I ask in confusion.

He makes a frustrated noise under his breath. “It’s this stupid block. There’s music inside me, Vaughn, and it won’t come out. I haven’t made a record in two years. Everything I record at the studio sucks. But in my head, it doesn’t suck. Like, it’s right there. It’s there, and I can’t seem to get it out. Know what I mean?”

I nod slowly. “Kind of. This probably isn’t the same thing, but that happens to me sometimes with my drawing. I took a lot of art classes in high school, and there were times when I couldn’t draw a single line. Especially when it started to feel like work. I’d be rushing to get the assignment done, but drawing is so hard when you’re not inspired.”

Or when I cook at home. There are times when inspiration hits me and I can whip up the most amazing things out of the meager contents in our refrigerator, like the soupfilled dumplings I made from leftover chicken stock. Other times, I’m stuck making the same thing every week—meat loaf, pasta, hamburgers. And yeah, even though I try to fancy those dishes up, they get tiring. I guess that’s what led me to try new things in the first place.