“Another night? For sure. Today just got a whole lot better.”
She looked around, and then met his eyes. “No. A bit longer, maybe. You left something behind in Detroit.” She’d had a whole spiel planned but was now too tired to deliver it. “I’m pregnant.”
Luke’s face changed from concern to shock. He tugged his fingers through his hair, all the while with his mouth making like a goldfish. “You’re pregnant?”
“I don’t need you to marry me or anything stupid,” she said, leading with the decision she’d already made for herself. “But if this gets out that I got knocked up by a one-night stand, I’ll lose everything. Followers. Sponsors who invest in my wholesome platform. Income. I have a deal for you. One million dollars and twelve months of your time to pretend I’m the centre of your world. Make them believe we are in love and want this baby, then we’ll realise we aren’t meant to be, and I’ll go back to LA. I helped put your band on the map which has skyrocketed your career, now I need your help to save mine. It seems fair, don’t you think?”
“Fair? Holy fuck, Willow. Can we process one thing at a time? You’re pregnant?”
“I am.”
He took her tote off her shoulder, grabbed her cases, and tipped his chin in the direction of the elevator she’d only just arrived in. “Let’s go. And give me a fucking minute to sober up.”
She did as he asked because she knew firsthand how much of a shock the whole pregnancy thing was. As he bundled them both into a cab, she remembered the conversation they had on the way to her hotel in Detroit. This time there was no flicker of mischief in his eyes. No flirtation. No meaningful questions.
Clearly, he wasn’t enraptured by her return, and certainly hadn’t pulled her into his arms to tell her everything would be okay. Not that she would have believed him if he had.
“We’re here,” he said eventually, reaching for the door handle as soon as the car pulled up to the kerb outside a utilitarian Manchester apartment building, a million miles from her Malibu home. “I’ll get your things.”
The rain pelted her hoodie as she hurried under the open-sided awning and the wind whipped along the street.
How could the weather be this dire? In April. She’d left warm and sunny spring weather behind. This felt like a dark and dreary November evening.
Luke opened the door for her before dragging her cases inside. They’d been so overweight; she’d paid a fortune in excess baggage. But she’d not had time to overthink her plan. Her parents had gone out for an afternoon of shopping and on to a Lakers game, and feigning a headache, she’d waited until they’d left to put her plan into action.
Secretly she’d been packing up the guesthouse she lived in on their property for weeks.
Riley had helped her pack the basics. Some of her things were in boxes in Riley’s dad’s garage. Some to be shipped once she was settled, the rest to be stored. What was left in her parents’—no, her guest house, she could forfeit.
Willow followed him to the apartment, then yawned as she glanced around the open plan space. One exposed brick wall, three white, no artwork. Various drum equipment sat in the hall and living room. A round table with four chairs was pushed against the wall and piled with so much junk, it was clear it went unused. There was a stack of beer bottles on the table, along with two pizza boxes.
And the air, rich with the scent of leftovers and yeast turned her already exhausted and fragile stomach to mush.
“Bathroom,” she managed to say before covering her mouth.
“Second door,” Luke said, grabbing her wrist and leading her to a small, white-and-grey room.
She kicked the door closed behind her and made it to the toilet before she retched.
Goddamn morning sickness, that could last all day sickness, especially if she smelled something funky sickness.
It had shown signs of stopping for a few days, but the travel and stress must have gotten to her.
She retched again.
Finally, Willow leaned back against the wall and breathed shakily. “Just get through tonight, Will,” she muttered.
There was a knock on the door, and it opened slightly. Without stepping inside, Luke offered her a glass of water. “Thought you might need this,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Willow wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “Sure.”
Luke sat down on the side of the bathtub. It was his hands she’d remembered, with a tattoo of a large black bee on one hand, a moth with a skull on its back on the other. The wings spanned the width of his hands. His long fingers took her back to their single night in her Detroit hotel room. When she’d learned the difference between clinical sex and fucking, between feeling like a girl and being a woman. When she’d realised she needed a man like Luke to feel the heady rush of falling headfirst into bad decisions and liberation.
“Rough day?” he asked.
She took a sip of the cool refreshing water. “Rough couple of months.”
He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. “I’ve got questions. Lots of them. I’m not sure asking them all when I’m eight beers and two lines of coke in is a smart move. And I’m not so much of a dick that I’ll grill you while you’re sick. But do you feel up to answering the basics right now?”
Willow ran her fingers over her swollen and puffy eyes. She needed a shower. Sleep. Her eye masks with gold flakes in them. Anything so she didn’t look as feeble as she felt. She’d intended to be strong.
Unbreakable.
Impervious.
“I’ll answer as many as I can, but you should know I’m pretty exhausted. It was a long trip to get here.”
“Fair enough. Don’t get offended by this, but I think we should start with the obvious. How do you know it’s mine?”
She’d braced herself for that very question, knowing it would hurt when he asked it. First, she would have preferred to not look a mess and smell like eau de long haul. Second, she’d hoped he’d trust her, would somehow magically know she was telling the truth.
“It’s yours. There are some things about my life I don’t want to get into the press.”
Luke looked up around the bathroom. “Nobody in here but me and you. Think that’s as private as you can get.”
She wanted to tell him everything, but words stuck in her throat. Plus, he hadn’t agreed to the contract yet. And without it, she’d have to take him at his word, so she stuck to the basics. “I haven’t slept with many men, and I split with the guy I made the video about using your song in September last year. That’s seven months ago. He cheated on me, so there was definitely no contact between us after that.”
Nor would there ever be. She held back from telling Luke about the arrangement her father and Ansel had concocted.
“The only person I’ve slept with since then is you in February. Contrary to my behaviour that night, I don’t treat sex casually as I think my answers to your questions showed at the time. Unless this is the second coming of the baby Jesus, it’s definitely yours.” Their night had been a precious memory. One she’d tucked away in a corner of her mind, when the pressure all felt too much. Luke didn’t care about her followers or likes or what she could do for him. Just that her father had hurt her wrist. He’d asked for nothing. He’d not even left a number she could reach him on. Just a scribbled note on a water-ring-stained napkin.