SKYE

"You're lying."

"Oh no, you were totally snuggling up on Jackson," Kay says with a smirk.

"Oh my god." I bury my face in my hands. "I am never having 'special brownies' ever again."

"I don't think he minded one bit, girl."

Yeah, right. Jackson Ford is secretly crushing on his boring, non-famous tour photographer.

This can't be happening. I have a boyfriend. And Jacks is...

I don't even know what Jacks is.

I look up at Kaylani, who has a smirk plastered on her face. Salty is laying on her lap belly-up with his head hanging off the edge of her knees, snoring away.

"Do you think I should tell Greg?" I ask, biting at my nails.

"Who?"

"My boyfr-, uh... fiancé."

I'm going to ignore how weird it felt to say that just now. One crisis at a time.

"It depends. How do you feel about it? Or, better question—do you even know how you feel about it?"

Heck no. I'm so confused right now.

"Uh, I... not exactly." I chew on my bottom lip anxiously.

How am I supposed to even process any of this? One day I'm just boring little Skye with her small photography business and her one-bedroom apartment, the next I'm working my dream job and riding on a tour bus cuddling up to a world-famous superstar.

That's not something you process, that's something you shove down deep in your mind until you've convinced yourself it's not even real.

Kay scoots closer to me on the couch. Salty grumbles as he rolls off her lap and onto the cushion beside her.

"I would wait," she says. "Tell him when you're in the right headspace and you have processed your own feelings."

"Yeah."

I stand up with a sigh before walking over to the bunks and hopping into mine. I close the curtain and sigh as I stare at the compartment's low ceiling. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of privacy on tour buses, so hiding out in bed is sometimes the best option.

So I snuggled someone a little. And that someone is last year's official Sexiest Man Alive, Jackson Ford. No big deal.

Maybe I could just live in here and never come out.

Okay, so I like Jacks. That's fine, right?

Crap. I like Jacks.

Does that mean I don't want to be with Greg anymore? Did I ever actually want to be with him?

I squeeze my eyes shut. This is too much for my brain to handle. This isn't just about Jackson, it's about what these feelings mean. I know deep down that a guy like Jackson does not have any interest in a girl like me—a virtual nobody. He dates models and actors, people with 12-percent body fat whose stomachs somehow bend without producing chub rolls. Those people aren't human.

The Jackson Fords of the world do not date real people with chub rolls.

I pull out my phone and—for all kinds of stupid reasons—type "Jackson Ford" into Google and press enter.

Dozens of photos of him pop up—fashion shoots, concerts, album covers. More of them are shirtless than I would have expected. The first results are all news clips: "Jackson Ford's New Fling?", "Jackson Ford Pays Tuition for Fan", "Why Jackson Ford is the Style Icon Men Need".

I shouldn't be looking at this. It feels weird, intrusive almost, but I find myself scrolling. There are more photos of him with other women—drop-dead gorgeous women. Another of him kissing a buff guy on the beach, clearly taken by paparazzi.

I shouldn't care about it, but I do. It makes my stomach turn to see him with someone else.

I scroll further to his Wikipedia entry and start to read. He started singing when he was a kid, by age 12 he was signed to a label, and at 17 he had a number one single with N3XT. His mom and dad were already divorced and his dad managed his career.

What am I doing?

I turn off my phone screen and sigh.

Did I really think I was going to find the answers I'm looking for on Google?

Before Jacks, I thought I knew what I wanted—a stable, dependable guy who would love me and be there for me. I thought Greg was that guy. But now I'm wondering how much I've sacrificed for someone who feels safe.

One of the things I always liked about Greg was that he felt like solid ground. He was neutral—never angry or intense. He never pushed me, never forced me out of my comfort zone. He was predictable.

Not like Jacks. With Jacks, it feels like I'm walking along a cliff's edge—teetering between greatness and certain death. I'm exhilarated and terrified and vulnerable all at once. And I can't help but think that maybe that's what it's supposed to feel like.

It doesn't help that Greg is several states away and barely has time to text me most days.

The only thing that's clear to me right now is that I can't keep on the way I'm going. For the foreseeable future, I have to avoid Jackson Ford.

JACKS

I hear footsteps in the front of the bus and immediately jump up, setting my guitar on the bed.

"Expecting a pretty little blonde, are we?" Sticks teases as he writes out the drum bars for the new song.

I pull the divider curtain back and see Dré walking in with coffee and bags of food.

"Hey man, how's it goin'?" he says, setting the food and drinks on the table.

"Alright," I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

"That's code for Skye is ignoring me so I'm moping around like a lil' bitch," Sticks says, poking his head out from the bedroom.

That's more true than I'd like to admit.

I thought that Skye and I were moving in the right direction, but she's been avoiding me ever since that night in Roman's bus.

"Something happen between you two or what?" Dré asks.

"I don't know, we were playing 'Never Have I Ever' with Roman and... maybe I said something, but it seemed like maybe we were connecting and then... I don't know."

"Well, I've got an idea that might help out with that."

"What's that?"

"I was gonna ask her to come along and do some behind-the-scenes shots for your video shoot tomorrow."

"Oooh! Are we playing matchmaker?" Sticks asks, stepping out of the bedroom and taking a seat on the couch.

"Do I even want to know why he's in your bedroom?" Dré asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Please. Playboy wishes he could get with this."

"Egch," I gag. "He was helping me work out the drums for the new song. We actually managed to lay down the basic recording and everything."

"Thank god, man," Dré says. "You're rapidly approaching your deadline and I know you're not hot on moving the release date. What's the song?"

"I'm exporting it right now." I walk to the bedroom and grab the roughly written sheet music, handing it to him when I return.

He scans the pages for a moment, his eyes widening slightly.

"Damn, Jacks, this is—whooo—not a song you can play for grandma." He chuckles and shakes his head.

"It's filthy," Sticks says with a smirk.

"You asked for sexy," I say with a shrug.

"Well you certainly delivered. I can't wait to hear it. You got a title yet?"

"Fishnets."

SKYE

When I decided to avoid Jacks, spending an entire extra day photographing him was not what I had in mind. But here I am, on the set of his music video snapping photos of him getting his makeup done.

I'm trying my best to resist the butterflies in my stomach every time he looks into the lens and winks.

And I'm failing. Big time.

André walks up to Jacks as he sits in his makeup chair while a girl with bright blue hair dusts his face in a sheer powder.

"Where's the model?" Jacks asks him. "I haven't met her yet. I thought she was shooting her parts before me."

Jacks grabs a paper off the counter in front of him and looks it over with narrowed eyes.

"Yeah she's running late, don't worry about it," Dré says. "I'm working it out with the crew right now, we'll probably switch the production schedule around a little bit. They're not my biggest fans right now, but it's all under control."

Jacks raises an eyebrow and looks at him through the mirror.

"Why would they have any issue with you? You're not in charge of casting and you certainly can't control when an actress shows up."

Dré shakes his head and laughs.

"Not your job to worry about the details, brother. That's why you hired me."

He gives Jacks a pat on the shoulder before walking over to me standing in the corner.

"Skye, can I talk to you a sec?" Dré asks softly, tilting his head to gesture toward the other room. He walks out and I follow him.

"What's up?" I ask as we walk into the larger warehouse area where they'll be filming later.

"I have a big favor to ask you." His eyebrows lift and his expression morphs into one of concern. "I told the production team I was going to find the girl for the video, made a pretty big deal of wanting to choose her myself. Well, she's a no-show."

I nod and my brows furrow as I try to understand what he's asking.

"I don't think I know any models in this area but I can maybe reach out to some of my contacts. How much time do you have?"

"None. She needs to be in makeup immediately or we blow the whole day."

"Oh shit... I'm sorry, dude, I really don't see any way of making that happen."

He looks at me and smiles pleadingly.

What do you think I can do here, Dré? I'm a photographer, not a magician who can make women appear from thin air. If I were, I'd be making a lot more money.

I don't have any idea how he expects me to find a girl to be in a music... wait.

Shit.

"You're not asking me to do it, are you?"

He nods and smiles, putting his hands together to mime praying.

"This is an $18,000 production, Skye. You've gotta help me."

"No. No no no. No way. I am not an actress. I was in the school play when I was 7 and I had two lines. I forgot both of them. Both of them. You do not want me for this."

"There are no lines, I promise. You go into a room and you smash a bunch of stuff, then you and Jacks pretend you're a couple a bit. No words at all. Please, I'm desperate."

I sigh.

Avoid Jackson Ford. I had one damn goal.

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