“Thanks for the ice cream,” I said tersely. “Next time … pretend you don’t know me if we happen to see each other.”

“Wait. Don’t go,” he said as I headed to the door.

But I knew he didn’t mean it. I wasn’t an imbecile. I could tell he hadn’t wanted to be seen with me.

“Violin Girl!” he called out, frustration evident in his voice, but I increased my stride, anxious to put distance between us. Like an idiot, I looked over my shoulder as a soft cooing came from Blair. I watched her jump in his arms and lay a big kiss on his cheek. My stomach rolled, and I don’t even know why.

I backed out the door, unable to tear my eyes off them.

“First impression? She called me a wiener.”

—Sebastian Tate

“WHO WAS THAT girl?” Blair hissed under her breath as we posed for a couple of pictures inside the ice cream shop.

“My neighbor. No one that concerns you.”

She reached out, her hands taking mine in a fake handhold. “It concerns us both if the media even sniffs that we aren’t a real couple. You want that movie, don’t you?”

I shot her a dark look. “Don’t patronize me, Blair. I know exactly what I want and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. I also know you need me to make you look younger for those acting jobs you want. We both benefit.”

“You seem to have the gist of it.” She applied lip gloss and then puckered up her mouth. “Now kiss me. There’s a guy from TMZ here.”

I feigned a happy expression and took her mouth, my hands on her shoulders. Her hairspray smell clogged my nose, reminding me that she didn’t smell like strawberries, like Violin Girl had. I closed my eyes and wondered what kissing her mouth would be like. Would her lips be as soft as they looked? Did she like long, slow kisses or hard ones that took her breath away? Would she even want to kiss me? I clenched my hands, remembering how close we’d been at our table, how I’d ached to know more about her but had sensed she needed to go slow.

And the tapping.

What had happened to her? I’d been truthful with her. Her quirk hadn’t bothered me. In the big picture, it wasn’t what stood out about her. Nope. What struck me were her big lavender eyes, creamy skin, and jet-black hair.

Most of all, I felt like I knew her even when I didn’t.

Did she think about me at all?

The kiss ended and I pulled back to tweak Blair on the nose. All for show. She fluttered her eyelashes at me and started talking, but I barely listened, my head still running through every little second I’d spent with Violin Girl. Analyzing it. Would she play for me again? What song would she do next? I got amped up just imagining it.

Then I got pissed at myself.

Daydreaming about her was insane. Blair might be hard to deal with, but she was my ticket to the big time, and the only girl I needed to be focused on right now. My goal was not to woo the raven-haired beauty that lived next door, but to be a star.

“What would you like to eat, babe?” I asked a bit later as we stood at the counter.

“Apparently, you’ve already had ice cream,” she snipped in a low voice. “Are you going to eat again? That’s a lot of calories, Basty.”

I tampered down my flare of anger. “Don’t make me regret this,” I said in her ear through gritted teeth. “Stop bitching and let’s get this done. I have a meeting in an hour that I can’t miss.”

One that no one knew about.

“Fine.” She shrugged.

“And don’t call me any of your ridiculous nicknames. I’m not your pet.”

She let out a tingling laugh and squeezed my arm as she gazed adoringly into my eyes. “Of course, darling. Whatever you say.”

I had to give it to her. She really was a good actress.

“WELCOME TO LYONS Place,” said Mrs. Smythe with a flourish as she led me back to her office.

I gazed around at the orphanage, taking in the freshly painted walls in the foyer and the staff who milled around. I got a good vibe from the place, and it put a spring in my step. For once, I was doing something I wanted, not something Harry Goldberg, my new Hollywood agent, had recommended. He was all about the social aspect of my career—especially Blair—and that was essential, but I also wanted to do something that was just for me. Something relevant.

A wiry janitorial lady loaded down with cleaning supplies and pushing a mop bucket stopped me for my autograph. She fumbled around in the pockets of her uniform and pulled out a piece of notepaper. Her hands shook. “Sebastian Tate! Good God, my daughter will go nuts when she sees this. Thank you!” She beamed at me.

I signed it and handed it back. “No problem. Anytime.” Feeling nostalgic, I leaned in and gave her a quick hug. Truth was she kinda reminded me of my own mom, Rachel, who’d died fifteen years ago. She’d been a hardworking lady too, spending her days at a local LA diner to contribute to the family. Dad had been a musician, and her extra tip money had come in handy.

The cleaning lady left whistling, and I followed Mrs. Smythe into her office and sat down in a leather chair. Petite and fiftyish, she sent me a cool businesslike smile. I got the impression she wasn’t impressed with my star power. “Well. I was shocked to get your email and then your persistent phone messages about your interest here. It’s not everyday we get requests from celebrities offering their services. Money, yes, but not their actual time, Mr. Tate—”

I sent her my best charming smile. “Call me Sebastian, please.”