I close my eyes briefly before looking at him flatly. “No, Aidan. She pushed her belly button and Mila popped right on out like a little jack-in-the-box.” I push the door open and jump out of the truck, tugging my shorts up and adjusting the neckline of my shirt. “I have no idea where I’m going,” I say, looking up to see people rushing here, there, and everywhere.

He slides his fingers between mine and pulls me with him, nodding to a guy at security and tossing him his keys. “Does it change, down there?”

“No, it’s like elastic. Pings right back,” I reply dryly. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve never had a baby. I wouldn’t know the state of a vagina after. And if we keep talking about this, people are gonna get the wrong idea!” I add hurriedly, seeing a camera pointed at us. I take a step into his side, and he chuckles, letting go of my hand and wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

“These are supposed to be here, I swear. They won’t run anything without management’s say so,” he reassures me, his fingers brushing across my upper arm. “So even if they happen to hear our conversation, it won’t make it past Marc.”

I huff, but let him tuck me farther into his side and tug me toward a tent at the back. “What kind of show is this?”

“A party on the beach thing,” he says quietly into my ear. “Several groups and solo singers taking to the stage. They tried it last year with a bunch of local acts but it wasn’t successful, so they brought in bigger, national superstars this year.”

“Is it all country?”

“No. A bit of everything. Pop, rock, country . . . Something for everyone.”

“Except those who hate live music.”

“You cynic.”

“Realist,” I counter, half-grinning up at him.

Holy crap, our mouths are close right now.

I look away, blushing, and he presses his mouth to the side of my head. “Photographer,” he murmurs. “Pretend you like me.”

I smile at the begging tone in his voice and the camera flashes a few times. One behind us goes, too, and I’m almost blinded by the bright burst when Aidan gives someone a thumbs-up and guides me into a tiny white tent.

“Jessie!” Sofie squeals. “Well, hi!”

I purse my lips. “Hey, Sof, how are you?”

“I’m good.” She grins, looking at Aidan behind me. “I see you’re doing well.”

“Well . . . forced . . . aren’t they the same thing these days?”

Her smile widens.

“How long until we’re on?” Aidan asks, his hand sliding down to my hip.

“Twenty minutes. You like to cut it close,” Conner answers, his smile smug.

I roll my eyes as Sofie taps his arm. Take a deep breath, Jessie. Control your little temper. I slip away from Aidan’s hold and perch on the edge of the free sofa, clasping my hands on my legs.

Jesus, this is awful.

It’s a sad state of affairs when it’s less awkward to talk about a postpartum vagina with your fake boyfriend, whom you don’t really like, than it is to sit across a tent from your best friend.

Leila walks in and stops, her eyes dropping to her hands. She snorts, but manages to regroup enough to offer me a sympathetic smile.

I take the deep breath I just told myself to take and squeeze my own hands so my fingers don’t get minds of their own and fidget. This is one of the most uncomfortable situations I’ve ever been in—and I put myself in it.

What the fucking hell was I thinking, agreeing to this harebrained, bullshit scheme?

Oh, that’s right. Apparently I’m the kind of weak-willed girl that gets blindsided by tattoos and abs and delicious little smirks and great sex.

Dear Karma, in my next life, I should be a dung beetle until I’ve learned my lesson.

I inhale again deeply, this time much slower than the last. It takes everything I have not to sigh it out heavily, because there’s nothing I’d hate more than for Aidan to know just how uncomfortable this situation makes me. No doubt he’d revel in my awkwardness though.

Right now it doesn’t matter that I’ve known all of them my whole life. It just matters that every single one of them knows that I’m only here because I’ve been forced to be. . . . Because I agreed to be his girlfriend. Because he backed me into the corner.

“Move!” Ella cries, shoving the flapping door of the tent open. “Your butts need to be onstage. Now!”

“She says fuck as part of her daily vocab, yet you can’t get an ass outta the girl,” Kye mutters, shaking his head.

Ella whacks him with her tablet. “Next time it’s a stiletto in your ass, Kye!”

His laughter echoes as he darts out, followed by Conner, who leaves after planting a smacker on Sofie. Then Tate kisses Ella, darting past her and squeezing her butt, making her gasp and whack him, too, but her look is much softer than it was for Kye’s hit.

Eyes turn to me. Aidan. Us.

I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. Fake, I want to scream with my gaze. Play your game with the media, but not with your family.

He gets it. Or he thinks the same. I don’t know—I just know he gets up and leaves the tent without as much as a word to me.

“Ouch,” Sofie whispers.

“Good,” I respond, louder.

I don’t want him to kiss me. Because, hell, I can remember how it feels. I might have had one or two too many cosmos, but there’s that place between sane-drunk and dumb-drunk, and I was most certainly sane-drunk when I allowed him to take me back to the hotel.

Which could incidentally mean that I was actually dumb-drunk, but even sane-drunk people do dumb things. I guess it’s the drunk thing.

My point being, I can still remember what it’s like to have him kiss me. And I shouldn’t. That shit should be firmly blocked from my mind, locked away in Pandora’s box or like the boggart in Harry Potter. My memories of him inside me and over me and around me and whispering dirty things into my ear should be locked away in an iron box with walls six inches thick and secured with a padlock whose key has been dropped into the very depths of the Atlantic.

That’s how much I don’t want to remember.

“That was . . . awkward,” Ella says slowly, looking at me. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Jessie? These guys are kind of . . . overbearing.”

“I know,” I reply quietly, looking at her and up at the corner of the tent. “How do you think I got in this situation?”

Sofie laughs. “You didn’t answer the question. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Another deep breath, and I resign myself to the fact that I’m gonna take up a whole lot more of the world’s oxygen being around the Burke brothers. “No.” My voice is barely there, and I swallow the lump in my throat as the cameras and his arms and his behavior surround me in a suffocating hug. “No,” I repeat. “I have no damn idea what I’m doing.”

I can hear screams of “You were amazing!” and “Such a huge turnout!” and “Good job, y’all!” but they’re kind of blurred.

None of it is lies. They were amazing. They did an epic job. So many people did come out to see them. Us girls crept out halfway through their set, got our faces flashed at by the media a couple of times, and watched them for a song. Or two.

Hell, they’re good live. So good that it hurts to think they ever have to step into the studio and be tamed. It’s a good thing they were picked up off of YouTube or they would have stormed the dumb reality shows promising to find “the next big thing.”

There’s no denying their talent. Not ever. You’d have to be literally deaf to not appreciate the magic these four guys create. It’s nothing short of pure talent. They couldn’t be bad if they tried. I’m still not buying into the fangirling though. I’m not going to go over there and hang all over them like they’re gods, because to me, they’re just guys. And none of them is even my guy. So . . .

“You like it?” Aidan whispers into my ear from behind.

I ignore the startled shiver snaking down my spine and roll my shoulders, inching away from him. “Y’all did good,” I reply honestly.