Page 60 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

“Me brain’s a bit rattled, but how could I forget that? Dead brilliant it were.”

“Do you remember if you guys got new phones?”

“New phones? I don’t remember, but Gordo was always swapping out our phones, so it’s possible.”

“On that tour, d-did Conor ever mention to you guys that he couldn’t reach me?”

Charlie’s sharp laugh nearly pierced my eardrum. “Don’t tell him I told you, but we used to call him Conor the Goner because all he did the first half of that tour was mope around waiting on texts from you. Drove us bloody mad. Is he trying to pretend he wasn’t completely gutted when you dumped him?”

I didn’t dump him.

“No, I just...hey, I’ll let you get back to writing that song with Devon. Thanks for the party the other night. See you soon.”

“See ya. And don’t forget, luv. You’re supposed to be working on Jay to get him to agree to the reunion tour.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I ended the call before I let it slip that I had no clue how to get through to Javeed.

I cupped my phone between my hands. Conor the Goner. Charlie’s words didn’t bring me any joy. They grabbed me by the throat and squeezed the breath out of me.

How had we let that happen to us? I didn’t believe Conor would discover the truth. Too many years. Too many stunts. Too much control.

Gordon Cooper would never remember one little relationship between a boybander—even one from his most successful act—and a junior publicist.

That title bordered on the generous. I was a gofer. Maybe that’s why I never dug deeper or questioned anyone about Conor.

Someone knocked on my hotel door, and I crept toward it to press my eye against the peephole. Conor hadn’t reached out to me today after that kiss last night, and I was too chicken to discuss it with him. Knowing myself, I’d blurt out that it was a mistake before he could.

Seeing Ashley tapping her foot outside my door made me feel only slightly less relieved.

I pulled the door open. “Hey, Ashley. Are you ready for the show tonight?”

She squeezed past me and into my room. “I am so ready. The music critics, who are usually assholes, liked me. I mean, they praised the whole show, but they liked my set. No snarky comments this time.”

“I read the press.” I held out my hand for a fist bump.

Ashley stared at my fist for a second before giving it the tiniest of taps with one knuckle.

Guess she wasn’t a fist bump girl.

“You’re a PR genius, Noelle.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“The whole fake dating thing with Conor is working.”

Ashley waved her arms around the room, her musky perfume making me sneeze. She covered her mouth and nose with one hand. “Don’t get me sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

Was she high? The fake dating thing, as she called it, seemed to be going nowhere fast—maybe because the fake dating instigator and one of the fake datees couldn’t keep their eyes off each other—and now their lips. Hands next.

I shook my head. “Well, something’s working. Ticket sales are good. We sold out tonight, too. Maybe it’s just the music.”

“It’s never just the music. You should know better than anyone.” She crouched in front of my mini bar and plucked out a little bottle of white wine. She unscrewed the lid and chugged half of it.

I said, “Of course, good buzz around a concert sells tickets. I’m chuffed it’s working.”

“Chuffed. You talk like an English person.” Ashley squinted at the label on the bottle. “Must be hanging out with Conor all the time.”