Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

Facetime or just selling the lyrics outright. That and Aiken’s constant reminder to explore new tactics if I wanted to grow—tactics like touring with the band while I helped write music.

A big band, if the pay was any indication.

A touring band—like Parker’s.

No. Parker and the guys always wrote epic songs on their own—at least after they left me. Parker mentioned he hit a writing slump, but I couldn’t imagine him hiring a songwriter.

Definitely not them. Rubbing my sweaty hands on my pant legs, I studied the generic wall art without taking any of it in. Maybe I should have been bothered by all the secrecy, but in reality, it reassured me that the artist valued privacy as much as I did.

Freakin’ crap. I didn’t know. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe all these reasons I talked myself into doing something I wouldn’t normally do were really just excuses.

“You can head back. Third door on your left,” Miss Cool-calm-and-collected said, yanking me out of my doubts.

Well, no turning back now.

Lifting my chin high, I focused on my heels clipping their way down the hall. Be a boss. Let them know you’re coming. Be a boss.

My affirmation died a quick death like a tidal wave to a tealight flame when I rounded the corner to find four familiar faces staring back.

“Supernova!” Oren shouted. He hopped over the back of the couch, almost face-planting in his excitement but managing to catch himself and closed the gap between us. Like not a day had gone by, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground in the tightest hug I’d had in years. Unable to help it, I laughed, his excitement a tangible thing. I braced myself on his shoulders, taking in the breadth of them. His lanky limbs from high school filled out and flexed under my grip. But when he slid me to the floor, he smiled just like he had before—cornflower blue eyes and the most perfect dimples.

“Hey, Oren.”

“Get the fuck out of the way,” Brogan grumbled behind Oren, jerking him back. “I want a turn.” Brogan replaced Oren and repeated the process of lifting me off the floor in a burly hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

He held me off the ground and smiled up, the sun shining in through the glass windows, illuminating the changes in his face. He used to be the preppy, football player, but not anymore. His eyes still held that sweet sparkle, but of all of them, Brogan went through the biggest transformation. He was still as burly as ever, but now he had the beard and long hair making him look like the Viking his fans nicknamed him as. He had it pulled back, showing off the ear piercing and tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

“Good to see you, too.”

When he set me down and moved away, I barely got a chance to breathe before Ash engulfed me. He didn’t lift me up. Instead, hunching down and wrapping himself around me, pulling me in. I held on tight, feeling an edge of desperation in his hug. I don’t know why it was there, but I responded to it. Maybe because I knew that when he let go, there was only one member left to acknowledge, and I wasn’t ready to face him—wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to.

“Hey, Supernova,” he finally greeted, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. He brushed a few strands back that had fallen out of my topknot, giving me the smirk that somehow became even more devious over the years. Maybe because his cheeks had a sharp edge to them that had been hidden under his youthful face.

“Hey, Ash.”

“Oh, I get it,” Oren exclaimed.

Ash let me go to turn and look at Oren, but I still stuck close to him. Maybe he’d be my buffer, and I wouldn’t have to talk to Parker at all. Yeah right.

“Get what?” Brogan asked.

“SPRNV Music.” Oren wagged his finger at me. “Sneaky, sneaky girl. Supernova lyrics.”

I held up my hands. “You caught me.”

“Shit, you’re the songwriter?” Brogan asked with wide eyes.

“Why the hell else would she show up here?” Ash asked like it was obvious.

“Uhh, because we’re her friends, and Parker asked her to come.”

I didn’t know what hit harder—that he still considered me a friend after not really talking for five years or him referencing Parker’s name. It all stole a little extra air from my lungs I didn’t have to spare.

Oren slapped the back of Brogan’s head and had a whole conversation with just his eyes before a lightbulb went off in Brogan’s head. I could only assume he was remembering New Year’s Eve.

I didn’t turn to look at Parker, but I could feel him looking at me. His stare weighed on me like a fifty-pound blanket, and oh my god, I was going to die in this sweater. I should have just worn the summer dress hidden in the back of my closet. Anything had to be better than the overheating.

“So, you know each other,” a petite woman said.

I was forced to acknowledge her and give in to the silent demand Parker gave since he was standing right next to her. Our eyes locked for a moment, but it was enough to strike me like a blow.

A flash of red hair covering his face.

Him turning with red lipstick smeared on his mouth and his arms full of a perfect model.

His mouth I fantasized about for longer than I could remember mouthing my name just before I ran.

One second and each image hit me harder than the last until I forced myself to focus on the woman next to him. While she may have been short, she stood with confidence bigger than anyone else in the room. I’d be that confident, too, if I looked like her. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun—her hair almost as black as her leather pants. A stark contrast to the white silk