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“Tals, you need to look at the news.” Her voice is rigid.

“What? Why?”

“There are photos of Tate online and more speculation about why he canceled the tour.”

I roll my eyes. “What’s new? You saw the crowd of girls mauling him last night. One of them was bound to upload something.”

“No. Not from last night.” She pauses. “In the hospital in Santa Clara. The photos back up the claims he’s an addict, and people are saying he canceled the tour to check into a rehab facility in Tennessee.”

I’m already putting her on loudspeaker and typing in Tate’s name in the search engine. The first hit makes my stomach clench. Pale and lifeless, Tate lies with an oxygen mask hanging from his face. This must’ve been straight after he arrived at the hospital. He’s still in his jeans and T-shirt, blood lining his lips from when he bit his tongue.

What weirdo would take this?

Country wonder child can’t hack the fame.

Tate Brooks turned to the bottle. Or worse?

My hands shake as I scroll to another article.

These are worse than the rumors that surfaced when he first canceled, and with the “photographic evidence,” every news outlet and gossip column is talking about Tate’s fall from the top.

There’s one photo that makes me want to be sick. Outside his tour bus, at the bottom of the steps, Tate lies in a heap. This must’ve been where he had his seizure. He’s lucky he didn’t hit his head or worse. His team stands over him, trying their best to block the flash of cameras. Pictures from last night are circulating, and fans are predicting he’s broken out of rehab to drown his sorrows in a Tennessee distillery.

Shit. They’ve named Iris Meadows.

“Talia, are you there?” I’d forgotten Harriet was on the phone.

“Who would take these photos?” I minimize the app, unable to look at the images anymore. “This has to be illegal. God, all the horrible things they’re saying.”

Once word spreads about where he was last night, hordes of flashing cameras and photographers with no boundaries will be on our doorstep.

“Harry. I have to go.”

“Call me back if you need anything.”

“Tate!” I shout as I storm out of my bedroom.

He slept on the couch last night, but he’s nowhere downstairs. I’m out of breath when I sprint back up the stairs, then I hear running water coming from the en suite in his bedroom.

“Tate!” Without thinking, I fly through the door.

Two things make me forget why I barged in here. One: he’s only in a towel, standing in the middle of the bedroom. Rivulets of water trickle down his chest and disappear into the dark-blond happy trail. Carved beautifully, lean muscles lead to a tapered waist, where the fluffy towel is doing a terrible job at hiding what’s underneath.

And two: there are music notes inked across his left rib cage.

“You have a tattoo?” I blurt.

He doesn’t bother hiding his near-nakedness. “My eyes are up here.” He smirks. The hot water has left his skin flushed, nothing like the ashen color in the photographs, reminding me why I’m in here.

“Where’s your phone?” I search the bedroom.

“It’s charging in the living room, why?”

Without answering, I sprint back downstairs. Tate follows, wearing an amused look. I snatch his phone up off the couch and key in his passcode before shoving it in his face. “Eighty-seven missed calls is why.” He frowns, and before he can ask what’s going on, I pull up one of the articles. “I’m going to presume most of those calls are from your momma or manager after they saw this.”

All humor dissolves. Tate’s jaw grinds as he scans the screen, his fists clenched tight around the towel as he holds it in place. “Fuck.”

“Who would do this?”