Page 75 of Spotlight Hearts

“Yeah,” I rasp. “Me neither.”

My head spins. My stomach twists again. And suddenly, the whole stupid plan—getting drunk, hooking up with a stranger, pretending Kai doesn’t exist—feels completely impossible.

Because even here. In a random apartment with a random guy.

All I can think about—is him.

I sink down onto the floor, pressing my forehead against the cool cabinet door.

“Rough night?” Tattoo Guy asks.

I let out a weak laugh.

“You could say that.”

He grabs a roll of paper towels and tosses it toward me.

“Next time,” he says dryly, “maybe skip the seventh tequila.”

I snort tiredly.

“Yeah.”

Next time. Like there’s going to be a next time. Because right now, all I can think is that Kai broke something in me. And I have no idea how to fix it.

TWENTY-THREE

KAI

The private terminal at Los Angeles International is too bright, too quiet, and too empty.

We’re supposed to be boarding the jet to Europe in twenty minutes—the start of the overseas leg, the big push after the US tour. Tasha is pacing near the gate, phone glued to her ear. Michael keeps checking his watch and muttering under his breath. Min-ho sits beside me, silent but tense, his usual calm cracking around the edges.

Luca isn’t here.

He hasn’t answered any calls.

Not from Tasha. Not from Michael. Not from me.

I sit with my elbows on my knees, staring at the polished floor, trying to keep my breathing even. My bag is at my feet. My passport is in my hand. Everything is ready.

Except him.

Tasha hangs up and walks over, face tight with frustration.

“Still no answer,” she says. “His phone goes straight to voicemail. Harry’s people say they don’t know where he went after he left the Bahamas.”

Michael runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t like him. Even when he’s late, he at least texts.”

Min-ho glances at me. I don’t meet his eyes. Because I know why Luca isn’t here. And I’m pretty sure it is all my fault.

No, I know it’s my fault.

My phone burns in my pocket. I pull it out before I can stop myself, because who doesn’t love to torture themselves. I open the browser and type in his name, the same way I’ve done over the last week and a half.

The photos load instantly.

Luca outside a club in L.A.—grainy but clear enough. He’s laughing, arm slung around some guy with dark hair and tattoos. Another shot shows him leaning in close, the guy’s hand on his lower back. They look comfortable. Intimate.