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Twenty minutes pass, and the dull sound of pop music muffles between us. A very rare appreciation for him sparks slightly at the idea of him being considerate enough to play music I like.

Not that I’d ever let him know.

When he pulls into the empty parking lot, the familiarity of what’s behind the small building makes me feel lighter again. My mind drifts from its place in the passenger seat, back to Star Studios.

I really miss coaching.

Over the middle console, a fully inked arm hovers over my lap. Enveloped in his large hand is a singular key on a green plastic keychain.

“The place is all yours.”

Keeping my head low, I can’t help but study the intricate detail of his forearm. Angel wings of all different kinds fly up his skin. Cursive quotes flow seamlessly, and so many different varieties of clouds and airplanes.

His ink is detailed so beautifully.

“Like what you see, baby girl?”

My eyes trace a quick path up his arm, right into his brown eyes before my amazement freezes over.

“Not really.”

I jerk the key from his hand, leaning forward and grabbing the door handle before pushing it out.

“I’ll probably be here late— Don’t wait up.”

The thought of being somewhere secluded and alone makes my teeth chatter. Small flashbacks begin, but I try pushing them away so they don’t take over. It’s no use. They’re hidden in the shadows to remind me just how fast life can change.

“I don’t know the kind of men you’ve dated, but I’m not leaving you alone in the middle of the night. I’ll be right here when you’re finished.”

A playful wink rises the left side of his face, and I fucking hate how the tightness in my chest eases at knowing he’ll be right outside the door.

He’s just like the rest of them.

I repeat the mantra to myself as I open the door to the studio. Bright fluorescent lights are already turned on. The smell of freshly cleaned wood wakes up my senses as I drop my bag just inside the door.

I can’t help but take it all in. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the evening trickles in, making my view cloudy and unclear.

He certainly kept his word. This place is remarkable.

Before I can give unnecessary amounts of credit to my fake boyfriend, I trot onto the dance floor. Kneeling, I pull my notebook from my bag to go over my notes from the plane, when I notice the chair in the corner of the room.

As I approach, my throat goes dry. An iced matcha latte with what looks like strawberry puree is sitting beside a designer workout bag.

What the hell?

I smell the top of the drink—checking for poison, of course. When the milky tea touches my tongue, I can’t help but moan with pleasure.

It’s been days since I’ve eaten anything for pleasure, aside from the two bites Jett forced me to take after the club, and that damn sandwich I still shamelessly think about. After the pasta bar, the only thing that’s been catered is low-calorie foods and salads. I’ve been starved for pleasurable foods.

Though, I have to admit, not eating before or after practice is more doable than I thought. And it comes with quite a buzzy feeling once you ignore the growls.

When I finally reach into the bag, warmth scatters from the top of my head to the tips of my fingers. Buttery-soft material dances on my skin as I pull out the most beautiful emerald-green pair of baggy joggers and a matching bra top.

When I yank them from the bag, a hard piece of cardstock and a plastic keychain falls to the floor.

Sofia,

I like it when you wear clothes I pick out. Plus, green is my favorite color—fun fact about your boyfriend. And another keychain for your collection.