“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“Take her to dinner tonight. Charge it to the band credit card.”

“What?”

“This is publicity. Take her to the most expensive restaurant and show the world you’re serious about her.”

“Marc. This is fake.”

“I know, kid. But they don’t. And one nice date and your face is on the front page of every tabloid and paper and the top of every newsfeed. Keep it going as long as possible. We can use the speculation to launch the new album announcement in December.”

Tate grabs the phone from behind me. “We haven’t started recordin’ yet. Shit, we don’t have any fuckin’ songs! . . . A month and a half is dumb. It’s a damn fling, not forever. . . . Yeah, all right. I got it.” He turns and throws the phone onto the sofa. “Ella, darlin’, book a table at that fancy-ass place Dad took Mom for their anniversary a couple of weeks ago.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Hey,” I say, making him turn to me. “What about your ‘it’s a damn fling’ protestation?”

Tate sighs heavily, throwing his arms out to the sides. “What Marc wants, Marc gets. He’s the boss, after all. And he wants you in a relationship so sudden and unexpected that the whole world will be holding its breath waiting for you to propose by Thanksgiving.”

“Then we break up explosively, and while me and by default the band are thrust into a permanent limelight, we announce our new album and probably another tour. Great, a new spin on capturing the attention.”

His lips thin. “Exactly.” The word is short and sharp and he stalks out of the room, leaving a heavy silence to descend over me and Ella. She moves, but not to go after him. Instead, she gets up and walks across the room to me, stopping just in front of me. I could rest my chin on top of her head, she’s that much smaller than me, but she takes a deep, resigned breath, and looks up at me, her dark eyes full of worry.

“Ads, do you know what that means? What he’s expecting you to do?”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

She shakes her head, her ponytail swinging. “No. Marc is expecting you to spend no time with her beyond what you have to. He wants you to make the world believe you’re in love without you even liking each other.”

The reality sinks into the pit of my stomach. “He wants us to care so little that the breakup will be as easy as slicing through thin air.”

“Precisely. Now, I’ve only met Jessie a few times. But I like her.” Ella pauses. “She’s fun and she’s bubbly and she’s carefree. She’s my friend, Ads, and I don’t want her to get hurt. So I’m asking you to think about this before you do it. I know how easy it is to fall for one of you. She might hate you now, but one night is all it takes to fall in love.”

Our stare lasts for a long, long second as her words swirl around me and hit me with their truth. It would be so easy to change the dynamic we have. So easy for one fuck to go too far, one kiss to mean too much, one touch to be too full of emotion.

But we’re not lying to each other. Neither of us is under any kind of pretenses about the status of our relationship. It’s the biggest load of bullshit to drop on Shelton Bay since silage season. We both have far more things to gain than to lose, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.

Gaining. Whether it’s publicity for the band or freedom for her, it doesn’t matter. It’s still something we both need, and this is one surefire, easy way to get it.

“I appreciate your concern, Ella, but there’s far more to me and Jessie than you know. We’re like oil and water. This is nothing more than an arrangement of convenience.”

She sighs. “I’ll book your table. Seven?”

“Please. Can you have some flowers sent to her, too?”

“Which ones?”

“Whatever they have.” I shrug. “Flowers are flowers, aren’t they?”

“Aidan Burke, you have a lot to learn about women.” She shakes her head. “And . . .” She stops and looks at something on her phone, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth before releasing it slowly. “And I’ll also tip off some media about your dinner date, at the request of your manager. Fantastic. There goes my day off,” she adds with a mutter, walking away.

“Don’t worry,” I call after her. “I’ll make sure Tate gives you a bonus!”

She flips me the bird over her shoulder. “At least text your girlfriend about your date, okay?”

I laugh, dropping onto the sofa and grabbing the remote. “Got it!”

Flowers.

What the fuck am I supposed to know about flowers?

“You’re wearing that on a date? Are you serious?” Kye leans against my doorframe, staring at my T-shirt, a disgruntled reflection of myself.

“What am I supposed to wear? A fuckin’ tuxedo?”

“A shirt with buttons at least, you bum.”

“This whole thing is stupid.”

“Yet you’re the one who started it.”

“Moment of weakness. And stupidity. And remembering how good she is in bed.”

“I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

I grin at him, and he returns the exact same smile. “Of course I had an ulterior motive. I can’t stand her company, but she’s damn good when her mouth is doing something other than talking.”

“Have mercy,” Mom sighs from the hall. “How’d I manage to raise four Southern gentlemen who are such disrespectful little shits?”

“Hey!” Kye argues. “I ain’t done a thing. It’s all him!”

“Like you respect women,” I snort.

Mom slaps us both in the back of the head, and we jump, rubbing the spot where her hand just collided, the way we’ve done so many times in our life. Fuck, I feel like I’m seven again.

“Y’all listen to me now!” she demands, straightening to her much-shorter-than-us full height. Somehow, though, she seems to tower over us. “I’ll have none of this ‘I like her because she’s good in bed’ nonsense in my house. We’re not in the fifties anymore, boys. Women are worth more than nightly entertainment.”

Kye opens his mouth to respond, but she points to the door, her eyes hard and practically screaming, I’ll talk to you in a moment. He follows her silent command and disappears through my door, leaving me solo to face the wrath of my mother at twenty-four years old.

“And you! Sit your ass down, boy.” She moves her pointing finger to my bed, and I take three steps back and perch on it. “I raised you better than this. I raised all y’all better than this. I know this lifestyle and your . . . manager . . . sometimes makes you forget how to behave yourself, Aidan, but I’ll be damned if you’re gonna stand under my roof and talk about Jessie like that. A girl you’ve known almost your whole sorry life. I couldn’t give your father’s left testicle if you don’t like her or if y’all are still fighting from grade school. But if you’re gonna go through with this silly plan, you’re sure as hell gonna treat her like a lady and not a piece of trash. And that means takin’ off that goddamn T-shirt, pressin’ a shirt until it’s crisper than bacon on a Sunday mornin’, and watchin’ your mouth when you’re out with her.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Here.” She turns and opens my closet, pulling out a white shirt and throwing it at me. “Get yourself the iron from the laundry room and make that presentable.”

Tail between my legs, I pull it from the hanger and stand up, laying it over my arm. Shit, I’m well and truly chastised.

“And, son?” Mom puts her hands on her hips. “You’re a gentleman. Act like it. You better hold her door open and carry her purse and kiss her hand when you help her from a car. You got that?”

“Understood, Mom.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m Mom when I’m your friend. I’m ma’am when I’m kickin’ your sorry little ass.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, scooting past her.

Fuck me.

I love her, but sweet Jesus. I haven’t been yelled at like that since the time the ant farm I was hiding under my bed broke open.

I guess I’d better be on my best damn behavior tonight, because I wouldn’t put it past her to book a table at the restaurant for herself just to keep an eye on me.