Page 43 of Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree
“I shouldn’t have punched Milo. The asshole may deserve it most of the time, but not today.”
“No, not today.”
“What? What do you know that I don’t?” Because after almost thirty years, his tone tells me more than his words.
“Milo isn’t interested in Lilah—”
“He flirts with her all the fucking time. Tell me another fairy tale.”
“How about the one where Milo and Chloe slept together in San Francisco?”
It takes a minute for his words to sink in.
“Milo and Chloe what? Didn’t she just graduate from college? Fuck, is she even old enough to drink?”
Chris winces. Probably because of the thirteen-year age gap between Jessie and him.
“I mean, didn’t we already tell him Cornerstone employees were off-limits? Again?” Because of course Milo would need more than one warning not to fuck with women who work for our label. It was obvious to all of us the day Chloe was introduced.
Hence the—ignored—reminder.
He shrugs. “He says she’s different. She’s the girl he’s been talking about for the last few months. The reason he doesn’t go out anymore, the reason he cut his hair. Apparently, she told him the day before the concert that she didn’t find long hair on guys attractive.”
Milo’s haircut threw us all. The man has had a man bun since before they were popular. Then, the night of the concert, he walked in with his neck on display for the first time since, well, ever.
“He did that for her?”
Chris nods. “Supposedly.”
“Fuck. I guess I owe that asshole an apology, then.” I already knew that, but to admit it out loud sticks slightly.
“He’s not the only one you owe an apology.”
Lilah.
I drop my head into my hands, my focus trained on the pattern of the rug under my toes.
“She’s not Taylor.”
My head snaps up, my gaze colliding with his.
“I fucking know she’s not Taylor.”
My ex-girlfriend roofied one of my best friends and pretended to sleep with him, all because I broke up with her. I was her free entry into the hottest industry parties and the platinum credit card she used at all her favorite stores—and those weren’t Target or H&M.
“Fuck,” I groan and collapse back against the pillows. “How pissed is she?”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Yeah.”
“Fifty.”
“Fuck.”
“You pretty much called her a whore, Ev.”
“I know.” I rise from the couch and pace a small square in my living room.
