The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(22)

“One, tell him nothing in public because your kids’ privacy is paramount. Two, he’s met your children already, so it’s not like he doesn’t know you’re a package deal. Three, if he doesn’t want the package deal, fling it up, because you’re a grown-ass woman who deserves to be treated like one, and four, talk to me. What’s wrong with dating? I don’t know how is not a valid excuse, because there is no how. We’re all special and we all do it our own way. I don’t know if I want the complication of a man in my life is baloney. If you’re not interested in him, say you’re not interested in him. Decide what you want or don’t want, then own it. You read a lot. I know you have words. Use them. Other objections? Which ones did I miss?”

“You only had two.”

“I had at least a dozen, and they’re the most common, and don’t start with the what do I tell my children stuff. Mommies are allowed friends, even booty call friends, and they won’t break when you quit seeing him. You’re not introducing them to a new potential daddy every night of the week, and you deserve to have a life beyond your family and your job. Your kids deserve to see that example too.”

I flop back on the couch and stare up at the cracked popcorn ceiling. “Do you remember when I went to his concert? The one here in Copper Valley?”

“Do I remember you and Daniel fighting because he was terrified of putting his own child to bed by himself? That might ring a bell.”

I smile, but it’s a sad smile. “Is it weird that I regret for him that he wasn’t home more?”

“Don’t regret it for him, boo. And don’t feel like you have to be two parents at once. You want to go to another concert, we’ve got you covered. You want to go out to dinner by yourself, we’ve got you for that too.”

“You do so much already—”

“You’re in my village, Ingrid Penelope Scott.”

“You are my village.”

“And as much as I’d love to keep you to myself, you have a hot pop star who wants to join yours.”

“His security guards slipped me a backstage pass at that concert,” I whisper. “I swear to god, while he was singing ‘Baby Me,’ we locked eyes, a few songs later, this massive bouncer tapped me on the shoulder, got right down in my ear, and said I was randomly selected for the post-show meet-and-greet.”

Portia goes silent.

I know exactly how it sounds. Na?ve bookstore owner thinks she had a moment with a pop star on stage and that he remembers her and wants to seduce her now.

Except he’s come to my store twice, and when I texted Giselle to ask how he was doing, since the gossip sites seem to have totally missed that he got injured, she said he’d appreciate it if I stopped by and checked on him in person.

Famous people don’t do that.

I swear they don’t.

And then he asked me to dinner. Persistently. Not like he was doing it just to be polite.

Levi Wilson has everything. Not just money and fame, but also solid friends and family.

He doesn’t need me. Especially not with the chaos that my life comes with. His condo wasn’t sparse and minimalist or anything, but it was stupidly neat, with the two exceptions being his guitar tossed on his couch and the water bottle that his mom put on his end table without a coaster beneath it.

What could I possibly have that someone like Levi would want?

“The man’s crew slipped you backstage passes and I’m just now hearing about this?” Portia asks slowly.

I sit on my hands, because if I don’t, I’ll start talking with them too. “I was married.”

“Backstage passes aren’t an invitation to a booty call.”

“But if it had been, I would’ve stripped out of my nursing bra and humped him on the concrete floor, and I knew it. So I didn’t go. And you’re forgetting the part where we locked eyes over the song.”

“Ingrid.”

“You weren’t there. I’m not crazy. It happened. I had this sign—and two weeks later, it hit the news that he was playing a pro bono USO tour—and how do they really pick random people to get backstage passes?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds like you could ask the man yourself, now, doesn’t it? What did your sign say? Levi Wilson, Booty Call Me?”

“Of course not.”

“Forget the concert, Ing. Concentrate on the fact that a guy who can afford to buy you a freaking steak wants to do just that, and go have a night of fun. You name the night. We’ve got you covered.”

“Look, it’s one thing to be a stranger in a crowd and think you have a moment with a star, because that’s what they’re paid to do, right? They’re paid to make you feel something with their music. And I do. It works. Logical me recognizes this. Say we did have a moment. Say it wasn’t in my head. He didn’t know if I was single or married. Kids or not. Straight or gay. So all he probably wanted was to make a fan’s night. But today? Asking me to dinner? Portia, he knows I’m a hot mess single mom, and he still asked. Why? I wouldn’t take me out. Why would one of the most successful superstars on the entire planet want to take me out?”

“Tell me you don’t think this is a publicity stunt. You know if that’s all this is, I’ll kick his ass to kingdom come.”