Famously First: A Second Chance Romance Read online

  “Out of the way, out of the way, they’re coming off stage now,” Karmine switches focus and shoves me out of the way as Finn’s voice soars and Mariana brings the drums to a crashing finale.

  They take their bows and stride off stage. Karmine passes everyone water bottles and towels. She takes Owen’s sweat soaked jacket and replaces it with an identical one.

  Karmine tosses Finn a t-shirt.

  “I said I’m not doing a costume change.”

  “Pit stains are not sexy. Change your t-shirt before the encore,” Karmine says.

  Finn strips off his shirt in one smooth motion, and my mouth goes dry. I know he’s gorgeous, but … um … wow. A ninety year old lesbian would acknowledge that shirtless Finn Ryan is beautiful.

  And me? Well, I’m not a 90-year-old lesbian. And I’m not exactly impartial.

  Finn catches me looking and raises an eyebrow, masculine and cocky as all hell, and my knees go a little weak.

  I can’t pretend I’m not looking, so I raise my camera and start snapping.

  I’ve never seen a man scramble to put on a shirt so fast.

  Before they go back on stage, Finn jabs a finger at me, “Don’t do that again.”

  “Do what? I’m just capturing the real Finn Ryan,” I coo.

  Finn gives me a look like he’s considering strangling me, but instead he goes out on stage to the cheers of thousands and plays one hell of an encore.

  I capture every moment of it.

  5

  Finn

  I’m so rattled I almost fuck up the bridge of a song I’ve been playing for ten years.

  I don’t want to ask Charlie for help—and admit I haven’t written anything—while she still hates me. That’s too much ammunition to give one woman scorned.

  But I’m running out of time to call Zane, if I’m going to.

  Complicating all of that is the fact that Charlie is really fucking hot. The sweet flare of her hips, those little black t-shirts of hers, the scent of the jasmine oil she still rubs into her wrists. And there’s an edge to her I don’t remember.

  I can’t get her out of my mind, but I don’t seem to affect her at all. There are times I think she’s checking me out, but then she raises her camera, and I remember I’m just a paycheck.

  She’s been standing there, all cool and calm the whole concert, just watching me. Watching me through that camera of hers. The thing that lets her stare as much as she wants, while also keeping the world at bay.

  I don’t know why it’s getting to me. She’s taking pictures of me, which is literally what she was hired to do. But I can feel her eyes, and it’s reducing me to a horny, self-conscious teenager.

  Meanwhile, she’s over there professional and cool as all get out.

  I put every inch of frustration into the song I’m playing, which is, ironically, an energetic, uptempo song about begging a girl to see me.

  Fun fact: the woman the song is about is currently snapping photos of me, as dispassionately as a scientist dissecting a corpse.

  Well, fuck that. She started this, submitting that photo of my parents’ bar. She’s going to goddamn see me.

  I’m singing melodramatic lyrics about racing across San Francisco at night, when I get an idea. To get Charlie to forgive me, and help me, I need to spend time with her, just us, the way we used to. And if I know her at all, wandering a cool city at night is my best chance at getting her to thaw.

  If it doesn’t work, I’ll call Zane in the morning.

  But I think this will work. I finish the song in a mood to match the triumphant final chord.

  By the time I’ve given a final shout-out to Mariana and Owen, thanked everyone for coming, and finally gotten off stage, Charlie’s already packing up her camera equipment. I head over, slouching against the wall behind her. Trying to play it cool.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Charlie whirls, then scowls when she sees it’s me.

  She sure is jumpy tonight. Maybe she’s not as unaffected as I thought. I ignore that thought to focus on Project Friendship.

  “I’m packing up my shit,” Charlie says. “Because this show is finally over, and there is a bathtub at the hotel calling my name.”

  I’m momentarily distracted by the image of Charlie relaxing in the bath. Is this a regular thing she does after a rough day? Does she sit there for hours losing herself in those science fiction novels she used to like? Or does she just close her eyes and let herself soften?

  Does she wish she had company?

  Christ. Fuck. She’s turning me into a fucking teenager.

  Focus. Project Friendship.

  “Unfortunately,” I say. “You’re not done yet.”

  Charlie groans, “What more could your vanity possibly demand I shoot?”

  “Me. Experiencing the city.”

  “Sure, let’s do it tomorrow.”

  “I think it should really be at night. You know, it’s New Orleans. 24 Hour Beignets. Live music on every corner. Strolling the streets, wine in hand.”

  “I hate you,” Charlie says, and there’s so much venom in her voice, I’m worried I’ll fail. But instead I make myself laugh.

  “Come on Charlie,” I say, letting my voice go deep in that way that always used to work with her. “You use to love the city at night.”

  “That was a different city.”

  “This one’s pretty good too.”

  Charlie narrows her eyes at me, “This isn’t just a way to spend time with me?”

  I hold up my hands, “Bridget’s idea, I swear. Something about promoting the next album.”

  Charlie’s stance softens. She never could tell when I was lying.

  If she could, we might still be together. I shove the thought away.

  “Fine,” Charlie says, “But we’re stopping by the hotel first. I need a change of clothes and a different camera.”

  I take the opportunity to change too, but I still beat Charlie down to the lobby by fifteen minutes. I’m starting to think I’ve been stood up, when the elevator doors open, and Charlie walks through them.

  Here’s the thing with Charlie: whenever she enters a room, my eyes go to her. It doesn’t matter that it’s been ten years since we were together, or that she acts like she hates me. As soon as she’s there, I have to work not to look at her.

  She’s wearing a scooped-necked sweater that keeps sliding off her shoulder, black leggings that make me want to cup her ass, and chunky black ankle boots. She’s got a camera bag hanging off her shoulder, but it’s small and light.

  “Want me to carry that for you?” I ask out of some long buried reflex, and then wish I could bite my tongue off. It’s the sort of thing a boyfriend asks. Not a friend. Definitely not a boss.

  She gives me an odd look and shakes her head.

  “So,” Charlie says after an awkward beat. “Where to?”

  I grin and hold up a map I snagged from the concierge, “Where do you want to go?”

  “Admit it, that was fun,” Charlie says behind me. I look over my shoulder to glare at her. She laughs and snaps another photo.

  We’ve been wandering around the French Quarter for the last hour and a half. So far, she’s picked a ghost tour, a packed piano bar, and someone’s bachelorette party? I’m still not sure how we ended up at that one.

  They’re all activities where we’re surrounded by other people. Activities where Charlie can hide behind her camera and avoid having an honest conversation with me. Project Friendship is not going how I intended.

  “The piano bar was fun,” I admit grudgingly. Mostly because it was so packed we had to share a table with someone, and Charlie ended up so close she was almost in my lap. All that strength and softness pressed up against me, while her hair tickled my skin and her jasmine scent stole my breath.

  “So how about it, Mr. Rockstar? Have you experienced enough of the city?”

  “Not even close,” I say.

  “Ok, then let’s—”

  “I get to
pick the next one,” I interrupt. “You broke my trust with the bachelorette party.”

  I’m going to get her to let down her guard if it kills me.

  I check the map, and perk up when I see an artsy night market on Frenchman Street. Charlie can’t resist a street market. I tap the map, “Found our next stop.”

  Charlie leans in to peer at the map, and I try not to enjoy her delicious closeness.

  “No fair,” she says when she sees what I’m pointing to. “You’re playing dirty.”

  “Ah ha! You do know we’re playing. You were picking places we couldn’t talk on purpose.”

  Charlie sticks her nose in the air and starts walking toward Frenchman Street, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I sigh, aggrieved, and follow her.

  The market is a small, open air space with white lights strung above everything, giving it a magical feel. I think we’re there near closing time because some vendors are already packing up. Charlie drifts from stall to stall, before settling on one with photography prints.

  I look over her shoulder, curious to see what catches her eye. I’m expecting cityscapes, like she shoots, but everything she lingers over are shots of people together. People laughing, holding hands, fighting, kissing. They’re not posed, or at least they don’t look posed. They look real.

  “Why those?” I ask, expecting a brush off.

  But when Charlie speaks her voice is soft, sincere, “I’ve got this project I’m thinking about— profiles of adopted kids and their families. I want to do a range of families, all over the country, and a range of ages, from babies to adults with their own kids.” She peeks over her shoulder to see what I think, then abruptly looks away and puts the photographs back. “It’s silly. Sentimental, if I’m kind about how I portray them. And if I’m honest instead of kind … families aren’t perfect, but they don’t deserve to have their failings exposed to the world.”

  “It’s not silly,” I say. I know why the subject matters to her. Charlie is adopted. She loves her parents, but I know there were times as a teen when she wondered why? Why was I given up? Why was I picked? “You’re looking at who makes a choice to add someone to their family. And how it affects the person after they’re chosen. If anyone can be kind and tell the truth at the same time, it’s you.”

  Charlie smiles at me, tentative and vulnerable, and I feel like I just hung the sun.

  I gesture to the photos, “Pick the one you want. I’ll get it for you.” Project Friendship is finally taking off.

  “Nah, I can shoot better than this,” Charlie says.

  “Hey,” the vendor says indignantly.

  “Then pick something else,” I say, indicating the rest of the market. “I’ll give you anything.”

  “Why do you want to give me something?” Charlie asks, her eyes piercing.

  Because back then, I couldn’t.

  But instead I shrug, “It’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  That was the wrong thing to say, because Charlie turns away and starts snapping photos of the night market as it closes down. She’s looking at anything but me.

  “What do you want to do next?” I ask, trying to get her attention back. Trying to win back the ground I’ve lost.

  “Aren’t you tired yet? It’s after midnight.”

  I shake my head emphatically.

  “Um …” Charlie lowers her camera, thinking. When she looks up at me, her smile is wicked. “Fortune telling.”

  “Oh come on, it’s a waste of—”

  “You just said money was worthless, so …” Charlie shrugs, looking particularly impish.

  “That isn’t what I said,” I grumble, but I follow her out of the market and back toward Jackson square.

  We fall into step with each other easily. I’m not sure why that surprises me. The first time we ever fit together was when we were walking home together.

  And then … well, there sure as hell were other ways we fit, too.

  I cut her a glance. I wonder if we’d still fit together. Or if it only felt so good back then because I didn’t have much else to compare it to, and she had literally nothing to compare it to.

  Our footsteps fall heavy in the silence.

  “Why did you apply for this job?” I ask.

  “Why did you break up with me?” Charlie asks, and I stumble.

  It’s been ages since that fight with Charlie’s parents, but I can still hear her mom crying, She’s going to drop out for you! What makes you think you’re good enough for her?

  “Oh you know,” I say, “a crippling case of low self-esteem. I wasn’t good enough for the great Charlie De Luca.”

  I can hear the bitterness in my own voice.

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic about it,” Charlie says, and her sudden coolness is like a stab in the gut. “It’s not like it matters anymore. I’m just asking.”

  I look down at her in disbelief. She has to be fucking with me. Charlie’s close to her parents. They must have told her some time in the last ten years.

  Right?

  It slowly sinks in that I’m wasting my time. There’s no way we’re friends by morning. I’m going to have to call Zane and beg.

  Suddenly, I just want this night to be over. I’ll call it off as soon as we finish with the fortune teller.

  There are several fortune tellers set up around the edges of the green park at the center of Jackson square. Charlie picks a woman with lots of candles and a giant pink parasol.

  The woman has two camping chairs set up in front of her table, and the woman gestures, “Take a seat, take a seat.”

  We do, even though the chair is too short for me and my knees end up by my elbows. Charlie snickers and snaps a picture, undeterred by my glower. I am really, really not in the fucking mood.

  “So how does this work?” I ask the fortune teller.

  She reels back in the face of my grumpiness.

  “Well, you get three questions. We can do three questions each, or three questions together. I ask the cards and interpret the answer. I ask for twenty dollars, but of course you’re welcome to give more if you’re pleased with your experience,” her voice is soothing but husky, like if a chronic smoker decided to make a meditation video.

  “So tell me, what questions lurk in your mind tonight?” she asks.

  I glance at Charlie, who’s still hiding behind her camera. “You go first,” I say.

  “No, you,” she says.

  “You’re the one who wanted to do this,” I mutter.

  “That was before … nevermind,” Charlie lowers her camera and faces the fortune teller. “Can you tell me about …”

  The fortune teller taps her cards gently, “Many people have a question they think they should ask. But often it’s the simple, ordinary question that’s bothering you that you most need an answer to.”

  Charlie shakes her head, “You can’t answer that.”

  “Try me,” the fortune teller says, with only a hint of exasperation.

  “Fine,” Charlie says, leaning back and throwing her hands in the air. “Tell me why he broke up with me.”

  I sit up indignant, but the fortune teller passes the cards to Charlie—something about getting her energy on the cards—then takes them back and starts laying them out in a complicated pattern.

  The fortune teller starts pointing to cards, telling Charlie things about symbols and Hanged Men and Cups of Wheat. It all sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me, and apparently it does to Charlie too, because she cuts through and says, “Yes, but what’s the answer to my question?”

  “Short version? He had a broken heart.”

  I stiffen. That’s … uncomfortably close to the truth.

  Charlie is looking at me speculatively. Like maybe she’s seeing me for the first time.

  And I don’t like it at all. This whole wanting to be seen was a horrible idea. Friendship was a horrible idea. I shift uncomfortably in the tiny chair.

  “Ok, here’s my question. W
hy is she being such a pain in the ass?”

  The fortune teller rolls her eyes, “Because you broke her heart, and she’s got a backbone. But sure, let’s ask the cards.”

  There’s more shuffling and New-Age terminology I don’t give a crap about. Then the fortune teller, flips a card over and pauses.

  “Huh,” she says.

  “What?” I ask.

  The fortune teller looks up at Charlie, “You’re carrying something heavy. Not in the past. Now.” Then the fortune teller looks at me, “Don’t trust her until she sets it down.”

  This time it’s Charlie’s turn to shift uncomfortably. And for some reason it makes me want to defend her.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be telling us good things so we’ll tip you?” I ask.

  “You’re going to tip me anyway,” she says.

  “Because you were so helpful?” I ask scornfully.

  “No, because you’re a rich rockstar trying to impress your ex,” she says. “My niece loved your concert by the way. Can I get an autograph for her, when we’re done?”

  Charlie snickers, and I hear her camera shutter click again. She’s retreated back to where she’s comfortable: behind a camera, mocking me.

  I dig out my wallet and pay the fortune teller. Charlie gets another photo of me signing an autograph for the woman’s niece.

  Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe trying to get Charlie to actually see me was a waste of time. We’re not like that anymore. Trying to tell the truth at this point is just picking at a scar that’s there for a very good reason.

  The fortune teller counts her money, then gives me three dollars back.

  “I only answered two questions, and I feel bad leaving you both out of sorts. Go split some beignets at Cafe du Monde,” she nods to the white building with an open courtyard on the far side of the square. “Welcome to New Orleans.”

  6

  Charlie

  He had a broken heart. I asked the fortune teller why Finn broke up with me because I figured whatever bullshit she made up would goad Finn into correcting her, and giving me a real answer.