“Adam?”
I turn around to find her hovering in the doorway. “Yeah?”
Her gaze is contemplative, like she’s debating asking whatever it is she wants to ask. “Who told you about the meeting?”
Not for the first time, facing off against Eleanor feels like a game of chicken. Like hell am I going to flinch first.
But I do hesitate for a moment. I glance down the long, ruby-carpeted hallway, then back to Eleanor. Barefoot, she seems much smaller than I ever realized. Almost vulnerable. Given the way she’s looking up at me through her lashes, I get the feeling that’s exactly how she wants to come across.
I lean forward and brace my forearm against the doorframe. “Listen… I know honesty is the foundation of a healthy marriage…” Her face hardens and she tightens her grip on the door. “But seeing as neither of us actually remembers the wedding, I think I’m gonna keep that one to myself.”
I barely manage to move out of the way before she slams the door in my face.
CHAPTER THREEELEANOR
Logically, I know I can’t be the first person to wake up in a Las Vegas hotel room with regrets. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a singular screwup. The moment Adam and his little smirk are out of my sight, I shuffle back over to the bed and collapse face down for a pity party.
It’s obvious I’ve entered a coma, or a parallel dimension, or maybe purgatory. Because how else do you explain going from being justifiably furious at Adam for crashing my dinner to willingly walking down the aisle andmarryingthe man?
I have no desire to get married. At least not anytime soon. And definitely not to anyone even remotely involved with the music industry.
I figured if it ever happened, it would be years from now, after I’d met the right guy and we’d dated for at least eighteen months followed by a long enough engagement to plan a low-maintenance butlegitimatewedding. I’d have the vintage handkerchief my mom used at her own wedding tuckeddiscreetly in my bra—my something old, borrowed, and blue. My sister, Iris, would be my maid of honor, because we made a pact when I was ten and I don’t take that shit lightly. I would sip champagne but remain sober because in addition to being emetophobic and rarely having more than two drinks to avoid any chance of getting sick, I would want to be a classy bride. Elegant.
Hungover as I may be right now—and let’s be clear, I am hungover as shit—I cannot fathom drinking enough to make any of what allegedly happened last night seem like a good idea. Intoxicated people eat too much Taco Bell and call up their exes and say cringey things they can’t take back. They do not marry someone they haven’t even had a full conversation with in years. Even if drunk me was trying to one-up Adam… it just doesn’t track. This has the potential to hurt me as much as him. More, probably. Because Adam isn’t the one who has spent the past few years trying to offset a reputation as someone who fucked their way to the top.
The kicker is, I can’t remember exactly how I left things with the band. I have no idea if I’m supposed to call Fiona today, or if I’m supposed to do anything before the show tonight. I remember dinner, and Adam’s limo taking us to a club across town, which apparently was actually a cannabis lounge. Everything after that point is hazy.
I roll over onto my back and pull my phone out to dial my office number. My assistant, Nora, answers after the first ring.
“Thank god,” she says. “I’ve been dying here.”
“Sounds like a super-rough morning for you,” I deadpan.
Nora huffs and the line fills with rustling, followed by the click of a door closing. I suspect she’s switched to Bluetoothand shut herself in my office for privacy. “How did it go? Did you sign them? Did you two-piece the guy from Exeter?”
I fiddle with my ring, twisting it around until abruptly I register what I’m doing, and tuck my fingers into a tight fist. “Not exactly.”
“So then what happened?”
She sounds so earnest, my hand unclenches and my body releases some of the tension I’ve been holding all morning. It wasn’t Nora. She’s not Adam’s source. Ever since last night I’ve wondered—with access to my calendar, she’s the most obvious suspect, after all. But she wouldn’t do that, would have no reason to.
“They haven’t committed to anyone yet.”
“Okay. So what are the next steps? What do you need from me?”
“Nothing at the moment. Do I have any messages?”
“A few… Most can wait until you’re back, but Josie wanted an update.”
This comes as no surprise. It’s already after eleven, and she probably expected me to check in as soon as the office was open. Josie has kept me on a bit of a short leash lately, especially since learning about the times I skirted her budget cap by spending my own money to take artists out.
Josie might have lost some of her confidence in my ability to bring in new talent, but I know I can make this happen. Just like when I first signed Maya—I wasn’t the only offer on the table then either. But I never let Josie see me sweat. I assured her I had it covered, and I took Maya out and I sold her on what we could accomplish together. That’s what I’m doing with Dempsey. Josie will see.
“Can you let her know I’m on top of everything, and that I’ll reach out after tonight’s show?”
“No problem.” A pause. “You’re sure you don’t want to check in now? I could transfer you over.”
“I’ve got a few things to take care of right now. Tonight works better.” For a moment, I consider telling Nora. Just to havesomeoneto tell. But the fewer people who know, the better. Besides, Josie is technically her boss too. I won’t put Nora in a position to lie for me. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks, Nora.”
