As suddenly as she’d started talking, she stopped. The quiet threw me, and I waited, expecting her to make the first move. After several minutes of nothing, I grew antsy and tipped back my glass, intending to gulp down the drink and bite the bullet. Before I could, she slammed her drink down on the countertop and swore.

“For fucks sake, Mikey, you’re seriously gonna sit there and ignore me?”

The glass tumbled out of my hand, but I was too busy looking at the woman next to me to notice if the amber liquid spilled all over me as well as the bar. Anger-filled green eyes met my own, and an infuriated redhead glared at me with a fierceness I’d missed. “Lee?” I thought I asked, but I wasn’t sure if it came out mumbled or spoken.

She snorted as if I were the biggest idiot she’d ever talked to, and placed her hands on her hips. “How much have you had to drink, you ass? I’ve been talking to you for a half hour. Who in the hell did you think it was?”

I shook my head, trying to clear the confusion. Why was she here? Isn’t she on her honeymoon? On tour with Nate? I didn’t even realize I’d asked the questions out loud until she leaned in close. “If you ever answered your goddamn phone, you’d know exactly where I was and what I was doing.”

I shook my head again. “I told you I’d call when I wasn’t busy.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. “You look real busy, Mike. Real fucking busy holding up a barstool. I can see how that’s important.”

Suddenly, I was tired. Beyond exhausted. “Why are you here, Lia?”

Her beautiful face contorted into a scowl. “I’m here to get your sorry ass and bring you home.”

Chapter One

~ Molly ~

Anyone who has said that you are your own worst critic has never seen their picture splattered on the covers of the tabloids or posted on every gossip site known to mankind. Oh, you think you look great in that dress? Just wait until a million people, whom you’ve never met, start weighing in on Twitter. They’ll complain about everything: the color, the cut, whether you’re showing too much skin—or not enough—the cellulite on your thighs because the photo hasn’t been edited…or the thigh gap because it has. Nothing, not the little birthmark on your shoulder or the scar on your elbow, is off limits to the strangers that sought to pick you apart.

They say this is the price of fame. And holy hell, the cost is high. Strangers watch as your relationships fall apart over rumors, loyalties are tested daily, and even if you’re surrounded by a hundred people, you feel alone. Some days you wonder if it really is worth it.

The expectations are unreal. Heaven forbid a girl doesn’t wear full makeup or designer jeans when she makes a quick, last minute run to the drug store. I glared down at the cover of Star Magazine, completely appalled. The words, “Molly’s Pregnancy Shocker!” made my heart ache, but they weren’t the worst part of this nightmare.

The picture they used front and center was of my pink sweat-pant clad form rushing out of Walgreens, clutching a bag—which supposedly carried a home pregnancy test—to my chest. I’d been completely shocked when cameras greeted me, and in a very un-Molly like fashion, I hadn’t been able to hide the fear on my face.

In the middle of the picture, there was a giant white arrow pointing to my very bloated belly, claiming you could already see my baby bump. Even the people that read this shit couldn’t be that stupid, right? If you could see my baby bump, why in the fuck would I be buying a test kit in the middle of the night? I rolled my eyes and kept reading.

The corner picture, the one that led to the secondary headline in the swill—claiming the father of my baby had finally admitted his mistake—was the worst part of this entire article. Me being the mistake, of course. The image was of my best friend, reaching for his very beautiful wife as she strode away from him in what looked like anger. Knowing Nate and Lia as well as I did, I knew the photo had been taken out of context. Especially considering he’d never had anything to come clean about in the first place.

The “news” articles were just as bad as the headlines, even though it was nothing I hadn’t read before. I was the home wrecker, out to steal Nate back from his wife, and that Nate and I had been sneaking around for a year while poor Lia lived in denial. The pictures inside at least weren’t that bad; most of them highlighted my negative behavior as I flipped off the photographers and threatened to punch the one that wouldn’t get out of my face. Just another day in the life of temperamental Molly Ray.

What the fuck? Seriously. What the fuck?

Anyone that knew us knew it was all lies. Nate and Lia had been happily married for a couple of months now and were still disgustingly in love. She was on tour with us, and went almost every single place he did. When she wasn’t with him, she was with me. When, exactly, were Nate and I supposed to have had time to sneak away and make our secret love child?

Eww, by the way. Just eww. I pretended to be his girlfriend last summer, and that was hell. Nate was repulsive and had the most disgusting little ticks. He made this obnoxious noise while he ate, and unless he had a concert or was meeting with industry people, he believed in the “showering is optional” philosophy. I could probably sell that story to the tabloids, but no one would believe anything derogatory about the great Nate Kelly. Being stuck on a bus with a bunch of sweaty men, who don’t feel the need to bathe regularly, really makes you see past a person’s looks.

Yeah, he was pretty. And talented. And he was funny as hell. The world loved him. But Nate had eyes for only one woman, and he would never do anything to jeopardize his marriage. Plus, in my mind, Nate was family. He was the big brother I never had, the sibling that protected me from everyone—including myself—and my biggest fan. I loved the man and would do anything for him.

Okay, that’s a lie. I’d do almost anything for him. Contrary to popular belief, even I had my standards.

A knock interrupted my thoughts and I groaned, dreading what would come. I didn’t need a lecture from Mr. Kelly himself. Before I had a chance to move, the door opened and a redhead hurried in.

I didn’t have a chance to greet my friend before Lia threw herself on the other end of the couch, glaring at the magazine in my hand. “You saw it already.” She was breathing hard, as if she had run from her hotel room to mine, up the two flights of stairs, and down the hall. “I was hoping to get up here before you did.”

And I hoped she hadn’t seen it at all. It was the last thing she needed. “I have a Google alert set up,” I explained, suddenly relieved it was her and not her other half that was here. “So, I asked Tim to get me an actual copy for the scrapbook.”

Yep. I kept a scrapbook of all stories that were published about me. And every time I was on a cover, I made sure I kept that, too. So far, I hadn’t made the cover for anything I’d actually done, but a girl could hope that one day I’d be recognized for being more than a home-wrecking whore.

Lia pursed her lips and tipped her head, watching me as if trying to find the right words to say. Finally, she shook her head. “One day, you and I are going to burn that book.” She didn’t wait for me to respond, but rubbed her hands up and down her jean-clad thighs. “Why were you alone when that picture was taken?”

I appreciated her subtlety, even though we both knew she really wanted to ask where in the hell my security detail had been that night. “I didn’t think I needed him; it was just a quick trip to the drug store, which was literally next to the hotel.”

Lia shook her head. “Mols…” she sighed in exasperation. She hated it when I ditched my security. “What did Eli say?”