The rest of the interview goes shockingly well.

    After a full minute of gaping at me, Vittoria manages to pick her jaw up off the floor and apologize. Once everything settles back down, she even manages to ask some fairly interesting questions. Including my personal favorite: You’ve been very open about your support for up-anding artists, but who are the musicians who made you fall in love with music? I name Pauline, obviously, along with a few other faves.

    It’s always a treat when I get to answer music questions. It’s the rest of the shit I can’t stand. Unfortunately, the rest of the shit is what most people want to hear.

    So even though hints of derision creep into Vittoria’s questions from time to time, I have no problem spending the next hour and a half talking about the tour and the album and what I thinkes next. Of course, that’s not all she asks, but I manage to dodge her other questions about any current romantic prospects, whether I watch football (hint, hint), and how being back in Austinst week made me feel.

    Bryan starts to step in again on thatst one—she’s clearly referencing Jarrod’s death—but I evade it with a very long, very drawn-out answer about Austin’s incredible Tex-Mex and how much I miss it when I’m not there. I talk about tacos long enough that Vittoria finally gives up and ends with a question about the only person in this industry I really, truly trust.

    “So, I can’t help but notice that your itinerary has you staying in Vegas a couple of extra days.” She looks surprisingly interested in my schedule. “Is that so you can spend some extra time with Pau—?”

    As if on cue, an effervescentugh interrupts us from outside the suite, followed by the low, rumbling voice of my head of security. Secondster, the door opens and the one and only Pauline Vargus saunters in.

    After fifty years onstage, her timing is absolutely impable—and so is her presence. Shemandeers the room, a general with stilettos for sabers and a smile that slices through egos like gossip through a greenroom.

    Dressed in her signature monochromatic style, Pauline looks exactly like the superstar she is. Today’s color: hot pink.

    Her lips andshes are tinted a shade of fuchsia that wlesslyplements her deep brown skin, while her raspberry sherbet Gi suit is tailored to perfection. Bright-pink mingoes dangle from her ears, and she wears even brighter pink stilettos with gold heels, because even at seventy, “tforms are forzy women, Sloane, and we aren’tzy.”

    Per usual, Pauline’s wig is the absolute showstopper of the ensemble. Long, rosy pink spirals curl down almost to her waist and are tied back from her face with a sparkly floral scarf perfectly in line with the boho-disco style she’s known for. The fact that it also shows off her million-dor cheekbones to their best advantage doesn’t hurt, either.

    But that’s Pauline for you—everything about her is weighted, measured, and calcted to work triple time.

    Her presence has an immediate impact on the room. We all shoot to attention, including Vittoria, who jumps to her feet so fast she catches her heel on the back of the chair. For a second, it looks like she’s going ass over teakettle, and I think fleetingly about saving her. But then I remember karma’s a bitch.

    And you can’t save everyone.

    In the end, she saves herself, gasping out “Ms. Vargus!” like an infatuated fangirl, even as she grips the back of her chair to stay upright. I don’t miss the fact that she uses Ms. when addressing my mentor.

    Pauline, for her part, takes one look at my face, sees that I didn’t move a muscle to help Vittoria, and turns her ever-so-slightly narrowed gaze on the reporter. After so many years in the limelight, she can sniff out a shark in seconds. “Well, look at you,” she says in the warm, rich voice that has charmed at least four generations. “Aren’t you just adorable?”

    Pauline isn’t a southern woman—she was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, in Motown’s heyday—but she’s mastered the art of cutting a person down to size without ever saying a nasty word. And adorable is one of her most vicious insults. “Adorable doesn’t get the job done, Sloane. It doesn’t make women want to be you or men want to fuck you. And without those two things, you won’t get anywhere in this business.” It’s too bad she’s right.

    Vittoria doesn’t pick up on the insult, appropriately dazzled at being in Pauline’s presence. To be fair, she still dazzles me, and we’ve been friends ever since we shared a greenroom on ate-night show a decade ago.

    “You look gorgeous!” Vittoria blurts out, her carefully cultivated disdain for mepletely gone. In fact, she looks like she wants to take a bow at my mentor’s feet.

    Unfortunately for her, I’m not in the mood to share. “I guess this answers your question about whether or not I n to see Pauline this trip,” I say with augh that’s as false as my reputation. “Do you have any others?”

    “No, I think that’s everything,” she replies as she quickly gathers up her phone. “Thank you for your time.”

    “Of course. It was fun,” I lie through my teeth.

    “Before we leave, do you mind if I get a couple of photos of you two together?” the photographer asks.

    “Of course,” Pauline answers, tossing her spectacr curls over her shoulder before holding an arm out to me. “Come on over here, baby.”

    Oh, yeah, she’s gone full Mama Bear. She never calls me “baby” unless she’s feeling way overprotective. I move toward her, then turn to Vittoria at thest second. “Would you like to join us?”

    Pauline doesn’t object, but I feel her side-eye in my bones.

    Vittoria looks between us. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

    “Not at all.” Pauline is obviously her hero, and—even if she was a total ass to me—I can understand that sentiment. “Come on over.”

    Pauline shoots me another look, but the pics get taken. Then Bryan escorts the Vanity Fair team out the door while I make my way over to the coffee cart, feeling like I’ve run a marathon or four.

    “You can’t reward bad behavior,” Pauline tells me as she elegantly perches on the other end of the couch.

    “Maybe not, but leading with kindness is never a bad thing,” I toss back. “I learned that from you.”

    “Sure, that’s the lesson you choose to glom on to,” she says with a sniff. But I can see the approval in her eyes.

    I hold up a cup. “Want some coffee?”

    “Only if you have real cream. That half-and-half stuff gives me hives.”

    “Half-and-half is perfectly fine.”

    “Nothing done halfway is fine,” Pauline expands, crossing her billion-dor legs. “You give either your all or nothing. Anything in between is for whiners and weaklings. We are neither, Sloane.”

    She was totally looking for a chance to drop some wisdom.

    “You know, everything doesn’t have to be a teachable moment,” I tell her as I pour a three-second dollop of cream into her cup, just the way she likes it. “Some people just have regr conversations.”

    “Some people don’t have the number one tour in America right now, either.” She raises a single, shapely brow as high as decades of L.A.’s finest Botox injections will allow. “You want to be one of those people?”

    “Absolutely.” I bat my eyes at her as I cross the room to give her the coffee. And it’s only half a lie.

    But that just makes her words sting more. Because I’ve been camped in that halfway ce for a while now. Not moving forward but not letting go. Just stuck, pretending that I’m safe. And happy.

    “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” she sniffs as I hand her the cup before curling up on the other side of the couch with my own.

    “I would never.”

    For a second, it looks like she’s about to roast me for my insouciance. But she must decide to let it go, because she takes a long, slow sip of coffee instead. “What time do we need to leave for the venue tonight?”

    “I did sound check this morning, so not for an hour and a half or so.”

    “Oh, good.” Her dark eyes gleam. “That gives you plenty of time to tell me about the guy.”

    For the second time today, my drink goes down the wrong pipe. Only this time I don’t bother to hide it. When I finally finish coughing, it’s to find Pauline tucked into her corner of the couch with a spill it expression on her face—and she’s definitely not talking about the coffee.

    “What guy?” I ask, even though I know it’s way toote for that.

    “Oh, please.” She uses her eyes to call me out. “That reporter clearly rubbed you the wrong way, which usually means that one”—she holds up a single, stiletto-adorned nail—“they asked you about romance. And two”—a second graceful finger joins the first, and Pauline leans forward, mischief sparkling in her onyx-colored eyes—“they’re actually onto something.”

    “That’s not true!” My voicees out an octave too high, which only stokes the mes of her glee, before I sigh in defeat. “Did Bryan message you?”

    “Bryan? As if.” This time, herugh is derisive. “You think I need him to tell me something’s going on with you?”

    “Nothing’s going on. I swear. There’s nothing to tell.”

    “And yet you were upset when I got here,” she murmurs.

    “By the time you got here, I was over being upset. I’d already handled the situation.”

    “So you admit there was a situation.” She breathes deeply, and I can tell she’s going to impart some more motherly advice. “You control the narrative of your life, Sloane. You don’t let anyone else control it for you. You know that. If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. Then they’ll use that mile to drive over you with a dump truck full of trash. No one wants trash in their drawers, Sloane. No one.”

    “I know that. I do. Which is exactly what I did.” I take another fortifying sip of coffee before giving her a rundown of the conversation and how I handled it. By the time I get to how I told Vittoria to grab a few cookies for the road, Pauline is rxed again, for real this time.

    “That’s my girl,” she says with a proud grin. “Though you still haven’t told me who all this fuss is about.”

    I sigh. She’s going to get it out of me either way. “He’s a football guy. The quarterback for the Twisters.”

    “Sly Sylvester?” She leans back in her seat, throwing a hand over the back of the couch as her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “My, my, my. He is a pretty one. How interesting.”

    “What’s interesting about it?” I ask. What does Pauline know about Sly that I don’t?

    But she just smiles, a little like a cat who got all the cream and not just three seconds’ worth. “I think you’re the only one who can answer that question, baby.”

    “We met for ten minutes, Pauline.” I make sure my voice sounds a lot more bored than I currently feel. “Maybe fifteen. He has a cool grandma, and that’s about it.”

    I don’t mention the way his dark-brown eyes pop into my head at the most inopportune times or the melody I heard when we first touched. And I sure as hell don’t tell her I asked for his phone number, then freaked out so much I never used it.

    I start to change the subject, but before I can, there’s a knock on the door, followed by Marco, my head of security, poking his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Sloane, but there’s a delivery for you.”

    More flowers. Fantastic. As much as I appreciate being surrounded by beautiful blooms, getting inundated with gifts from people who want something from me kinda sucks. And it’s not great for the environment, either, considering I almost always have to leave them behind.

    “You can put them over there with the others,” I tell him, waving to the pile of flowers sent by the hotel, minor celebrities trying to getst-minute tickets, and Lord knows who else. I gave up looking at the cards years ago—they never say anything that matters. Bryan usually rounds them up at each tour stop and sends a thank-you note without bothering me with any of it.

    Well aware of how I feel about floral arrangements, Marco grins. “Actually, it’s not flowers this time.”

    “Well, if it’s a gift basket, you know the drill. Take what you want and set the rest aside for the food pantry.”

    His smile is nearly as big as the rest of him now, which is definitely saying something. His brown eyes are all but dancing when he says, “It’s not that, either.”

    “If you’re this excited about it, I’m not sure I even want to know.”

    “Well, I do! Don’t just stand in the doorway.” Paulinemands the room with a wave of her hand. “Come over here so we can get a look at it.”

    “My pleasure,” he replies as hees in and drops a small cooler on the coffee table in front of us. “Why don’t you check out the card first?” He holds it out to me, and though his face is carefully nk, the amused look in his eye keeps me on red alert.

    What the hell is this going to be?

    The fact that I don’t know the answer to that question has me staring apprehensively at the card for several seconds before Pauline takes things into her own hands.

    “For God’s sake!” she exims, all but ripping it from Marco’s hands herself.

    My trepidation only grows when she starts smiling as soon as she sees what’s written on it. “My, my, my.”

    “My, my, my what?” I demand, curiosity getting the better of me as I lean over to read it myself. Despite my best efforts, my breath hitches at the words printed inside.

    Everything goodes on a sundae…

    Sly

    I read it over a few times before I can stop myself, and my heart goes from stuttering to beating overtime the same way it did that night when he lingered in the doorway, all calm and quiet, like a challenge I didn’t know how to meet.

    I take a breath to ground myself, and that damn melodyes crashing back, even louder than before. Only this time, a sh of lyricses with it.

    It happened on a Sunday.

    I reach for my book before I can forget and scribble the lyrics down next to those same two bars. Then I turn my attention back to ying it cool.

    Why is Sly sending me presents? And what exactly do I want to do about it?

    Nothing, the responsible side of my brain tells me. I want to do nothing about it. I can’t.

    A harmless picture with Sly in the background turned a reporter rabid today. I can’t imagine what would happen if people found out he was sending me sweet nothings.

    Just the thought has a chill skating down my spine. Instinctively, I drop the card and sit back as far away from the cooler as I can get. “Whatever it is, you two can have it. Take the card, too.”

    Marco’s smile disappears. “Are you sure? His number’s on the back.”

    I don’t tell him that I already have his number. I just say, “Yes, I’m very—”

    “Hell no, she’s not sure!” Pauline says, snatching the card from the table before Marco can touch it. “What’s wrong with you? Turning down a gift before you’ve even looked inside.” She tsks her favorite tsk at me. “Whatever’s in that cooler, we’re eating it.” Famousst words, I think, but bite my tongue and lean in anyway. With that, she pulls the lid off the box to reveal arge, white carton.

    Pauline gasps and lets out a whoop that’s downright girlish as she picks it up to get a better look at the logo on the side. “Sugar Factory!”

    “Sugar Factory? I don’t even know what that is,” I tell her, mystified.

    “It’s an ice cream parlor right off the strip,” she exins, reaching for the lid. “Well, not just an ice cream ce. It’s the ice cream ce—an old-fashioned parlor with world-famous milkshakes and sundaes.”

    “Ice cream? He sent me ice cream?” Even I can hear the wistful sound in my voice. Ice cream sundaes are pretty much my favorite food in the world.

    Apparently, I’m not the only one. For a second, Pauline looks like a little kid again, her eyes alight in a way I’ve never seen them. “Why are you just standing around talking when we should be digging in before it melts? I’ve been dying to try one of their sundaes, and it’s a hundred and ten degrees outside right now.”

    “Open it up.”

    Pauline does, to reveal thergest, most fantastical sundae I have ever seen. Twenty scoops of ice cream—each one a different vor—covered in chocte syrup and caramel and what has to be an entire pint of whipped cream.

    And then there are the toppings. Cherries, bananas, fresh strawberries, crumbled brownies, and crushed chocte chip cookies. M&M’s and tiny peanut butter cups. Not to mention more sprinkles than I’ve ever seen on any one food item in my life.

    I have no idea how many people he thought were going to be eating this, but I have to admit, it’s the most original present I’ve ever received.

    “And you were just going to give this away!” Pauline cries, reaching for the packet of spoons they’ve included. “Along with the man who sent it.”

    She hands me a spoon.

    I stare at it for a second, not sure what to do. I’ve spent so long denying myself everything and everyone that makes me happy, the idea of just recklessly grabbing onto this sundae—onto Sly’s gift—turns everything inside me hot and cold.

    At least until Pauline says, “It’s ice cream, Sloane, not a ring. Just take a bite.”

    I don’t know why that statement turns my palms mmy. She’s right. It’s just ice cream. It doesn’t have to mean anything more. I reach out and take the spoon she offers.

    “About damn time,” she tells me as we dig in.

    Weugh like kids as we divvy up the sundae into bowls and down the entire thing with the help of Bryan, Marco, and another member of my security team, G.

    When we’re finished, the others melt away while Pauline slides Sly’s card across the table to me.

    I eye it like I would a venomous snake about to strike. “What do you expect me to do with that?”

    “Maybe thank the boy for his thoughtful gift?”

    “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” I shove the card back at her.

    She looks from it to me for a second before snuggling into the couch with a shrug. “You know, a gentleman being interested in you doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

    “It may not be a bad thing, but me being interested in this gentleman would definitely be a mistake. For the both of us.”

    She watches me with a softness in her eyes that makes me itchy. “How can you be so sure about that?”

    “I thought that was obvious. A third super-famous guy at the top of his game is definitely not the charm—not for me.” No matter what I said to Olivia a few days ago.

    I hate that I’m mirroring that reporter’s words, but…she did have a point.

    “Sloane, baby, you aren’t the same girl you were with Hayden. And you’re definitely not the young woman you were with Jarrod. What’s the point of all the therapy you’ve done if you can’t use it to move on?”

    Because she’s one of the few people on the whose touchforts me, I don’t move away when she reaches out to run aforting hand over my hair. “You were forged in fire, Sloane, though God knows I wish you didn’t have to be. You’re more than strong enough to take what you want. And what you deserve.”

    What I want? Her smooth voice reverberates inside my head, and for one traitorous second, all I can see is the reflection of myself in the depths of Sly’s eyes.

    I want to argue with Pauline. To tell her she doesn’t understand. But the truth is, she does. And I think maybe Sly does, too. Because he didn’t just look at me. He saw me. Not the spectacle, not the scandal. Just…me.

    And I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.

    “I don’t—” I start, not even sure what I want to say.

    But then another knock sounds at the door, and Marco pokes his head back in. “Just got the word. Your car to the venue is downstairs.”

    I nod. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

    Once the door closes behind him again, I turn back to the woman who has been my mentor, my friend, and, for all intents and purposes, my mother for thest ten years. “It’s not that I think I don’t deserve him. It’s that I don’t want him.”

    To prove it to her—and myself—I grab the card Sly sent and rip it into quarters before tossing the remnants in my empty coffee cup to be thrown away.

    But even as I do it, even as I head into the bedroom to grab my shoes and purse, I’m aware that this is the first time I’ve lied to Pauline. Or if not lied, then at least not beenpletely honest. Because the truth is that I don’t know if I want Sly. I just know that I can’t have him, and that isn’t the same thing at all.