I turned and saw Ana across the room. I guessed she was wearing a shimmering dress, but she was what shone in the crowd. She looked amazing, radiant, and my breath caught in my throat.
The guy I’d been talking to clapped me on the back. “Good luck.”
Ana looked over at that moment and met my gaze. I guess maybe other people talked to me, maybe they didn’t. I couldn’t pay attention to anything or anyone else besides Ana until she finally made her way over to me. Her long legs in that dress, stretching down into high, high heels. The hemline barely hit her mid-thigh. I could reach my hand between those thighs and part her legs so easily.
She stood in front of me and swallowed, licking her lips, nervously.
“Ana.” My voice sounded husky.
“Hi, Ash.” She had a hard time meeting my eyes now that we were standing close. It took all the willpower I had not to scoop her into my arms, sink my mouth to her neck, carry her off out of the room like a caveman. She was mine. We belonged together. Didn’t she feel it, too?
Someone came up and started babbling to us about our song, congratulating us on our mega hit. There was talk of nominations for VMAs, the Grammies later in the year. I never took my eyes off of her.
“Red carpet time, people!” Lola arrived, right on cue. “Oh, look. You’re here.” Lola didn’t sound happy about it, but she could kiss my ass. She probably considered Ana a liability. Loose lips sink ships and all that. But I considered Ana my future, if she’d give me a shot.
“May I?” I extended my hand, hoping Ana would take it. In front of all those people, we hadn’t had even a second to talk. But she looked up into my eyes and with a soft smile, she put her hand in mine.
CHAPTER 12
Ana
My parents and I arrived in L.A. two days before the awards show. I thought about calling Ash, of course I did. Especially since I’d found out that my crazy roommates had destroyed a letter he’d written me many months ago.
I didn’t know what was in the letter, but a letter wasn’t usually what you sent when you didn’t care at all about someone. After a break up, if you were psyched about it, you tended to let communication die down. You might get back in touch if your ex had something of yours, a favorite shirt or a bag you’d left behind. But that you’d take care of with an awkward text, not a long letter.
I didn’t have any of Ash’s stuff, and I figured if he’d somehow misplaced something he cared about but didn’t care about me, he had many minions to do his bidding. He could task any number of handlers to do his dirty work. No, I didn’t think he was missing his favorite pair of headphones or socks. He’d had something he wanted to say to me in that letter. Unfinished business.
And then there was, of course, the song. The song of love and heartbreak and longing. In the airport, my parents and I had stopped to buy coffees. Not sandwiches, mind you, my mother insisted on packing those from home instead of—as she put it—paying through the nose for that sawdust and cardboard. While we were placing our orders, Ash’s voice came out from a speaker behind the cashier.
“That’s your song, Anya,” my mother murmured.
“That’s the song my daughter wrote.” My father lacked her subtly, announcing my accomplishment to the cashier. He proudly told anyone and everyone who’d listen about my song, bulldozing right through people’s confusion (I thought that was Ash Black?) and my protests (Dad, not everyone needs to know). I had to admit, after a lifetime of trying to live up to their high expectations, it did feel good to have done something that made them so proud. Even if they didn’t really seem to fully understand what was happening.
“Our baby, a big time record producer in L.A.,” they’d sigh. I’d protest that that wasn’t what had happened, but they’d shush me with a, “we know what you’ve done.” It was pointless to argue.
On the night of the awards ceremony, they accompanied me down to where the show would be held and televised, but they steadfastly refused to head into the pre-party or have anything to do with the red carpet arrivals. I didn’t think I’d be walking the red carpet, either. I was just a songwriter. And a part of me really wanted to go hide in the back row seating with them.
But another part of me? That part of me said I was there for a reason. I wasn’t just Ash Black’s pretend sham of a girlfriend. I was a musician and a songwriter, and my song was receiving a hell of a lot of recognition that night. I also had an assigned seat, right up close to the stage. Front and center.
I gave them a kiss good-bye, took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. I knew Ash would probably be at the pre-party. The number and size of the bouncers guarding the door and demanding to see invitations attested to the VIP nature of the event. And Ash was the most VIP of VIPs.
With more strut than I truly felt, I walked into the party. I had no idea what would happen that night, but it felt good to be there on my own terms, for an honest reason. And who knew? I might get a moment to talk with Ash, find out what had been in that letter. My curiosity could have killed a room full of cats.
For a moment, I thought I saw him across the room, dressed all in black and dripping with models. But that turned out to be John Mayer. I looked away quickly, tucking my hair behind my ear, hoping he hadn’t seen me checking him out.
Then I found Ash. He stood facing away and talking to another guy. There were a few women with their eyes on him, but that described every waking moment of his life. No one hung from his arm.
Then he looked up and right over at me. My breath caught in my throat. He was so impossibly handsome, clean-shaven in a white jacket. He still had that somewhat rumpled look, the casual sexiness that made him world-famous, but he looked older, somehow. Less posturing, more rugged. Impossible to resist. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to come after all.
I thought about ducking away, but I didn’t. He drew me like metal to a magnet. I’m just glad I didn’t trip on anything as I made my way over to him in the room. I certainly wasn’t aware of my surroundings. He mesmerized me.
I think he said my name. I might have managed to say his. We may have said hello, but maybe not. People talked around us, to us, but I couldn’t have told you a damn thing any of them said. I could tell you the color of Ash’s eyes, such a warm, deep brown they looked like melted dark chocolate. Then he held out his hand. I took it in mine.
Ash. God, I’d missed him. The grasp of his warm, calloused hand, the warmth of his body, the feel of his tall, solid presence by my side. We didn’t have privacy, none at all, so we couldn’t exactly talk. But there with him, I wondered if we needed to. Standing with him, holding hands, that’s where I bel
onged. I could feel it with such certainty. You didn’t need to talk about the sky looking blue on a sunny day. It just was and everyone knew it.
With camera flashes and hustling and bustling, we were ushered away and out onto the red carpet to make our official entrance. I was not red carpet ready. No stylists had groomed me, no makeup artists had had their way with me, but Ash wrapped his arm around my waist, hugged me to him, and it didn’t so much matter.
He led me down to a seat next to his. I didn’t know if that was the one I’d been assigned to, but I figured no one would argue with Ash. What he got he wanted. He was nominated more than any other artist that night. He kept my hand wrapped in his, tight, as we sat down.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” He spoke in hushed tones, almost reverent, and leaned into me.
“I can’t believe it, either,” I admitted.
“Did you think about not coming?”
“A little.” I paused. It wasn’t the right time to have a serious conversation, not when we were surrounded by every famous singer I could think of and then a whole bunch more I didn’t recognize but could tell I would if I paid more attention to celebrities. But I couldn’t wait for exactly the right moment. It might never come.
Leaning in closer, I whispered, “Ash, I never got your letter. Back in January.”
“You never got it?” he asked, confused.
I shook my head no. “I never knew you sent it. My roommates just told me a couple days ago that they burned it.”
“Burned it?” He pulled back, looking at me as if to check if he’d heard correctly.
“I know. It’s crazy.”
“They burned it,” he repeated, clearly having trouble comprehending. I still didn’t fully understand it, either, but that wasn’t the point. The point was what had been in it?
“So, I don’t know what you said in it.” I looked at him with probably too much eagerness showing in my face. How awkward would it be if he told me that the letter was about the fact that I still had his favorite pair of socks? And knowing my luck, a cameraman would probably swing his huge lens around and zoom in right when my eyes filled with tears. But I had to take the chance, right then in the front row of a live broadcast awards show. I didn’t know when or if I’d have the chance again.