Page 31 of The Beat Match

His phone rang. He swung his backpack around and fished out his cell. At the sight of Rosanna’s name, he answered. “If you sank another yacht, I don’t want to know about it.”

She laughed. “I’ve been good, Daddy. Promise. But I need to cancel tomorrow’s date.”

He shook his head at the night sky. “That’s twice in a row. I thought we had a deal.”

Last time she’d called to ditch him, Annie had seen Rosanna’s name flash on his phone. Annie had shut down instantly, leaving him in that nasty dive bar staring after her, unsure why everything in him ached. Tonight’s disappointment at her absence made it all worse.

Mumbling registered in his ear, as though Rosanna was talking to someone with her hand over the phone, and footfalls sounded behind him. He turned and squinted down the street, but nothing was there.

“Sorry,” Rosanna said clearly. “Yeah, we still have a deal, but remember that guy I told you about?”

He resumed walking, dropped his voice lower in case someone was nearby. “The indie musician with the pierced face?”

“No, the motorcycle guy. He’s leaving for a cross-country ride. It’s my last chance to see him before he goes.”

The concept of monogamy was so foreign to her she couldn’t even fake date properly. “That’s all well and good, but we need to be seen together. If your father realizes you’re still playing the field, or that we’re lying to him, my deal could fall apart, and your children’s children will be paying for that yacht stunt.”

“You worry too much, Weston. I’ve told dear old Dad we’re taking things slow. He seems pleased about that. Thinks it’s sweet we’re being old-fashioned. You should take Annie out on the down-low. You certainly talk about her enough.”

He thought about her even more. “She’s just a friend. You and I will go out this week. Dinner somewhere romantic but visible. And you will not cancel.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”

Annie, about a million and one times. “Be safe with Motorcycle Guy.”

“You’re sweet, Weston,” Rosanna said quietly. “Too bad you’re not my type.”

It was too bad. If he found Rosanna attractive beyond her visual appearance, he might not spend his waking minutes wishing Annie was in his kitchen, or his living room, his private Falcon Cave, his bedroom, nestled into him, under him, around him, anywhere near him. He couldn’t quit thinking about Leo, either, lately: Weston’s idiotic choices the night he died, never confessing the truth to Annie. The closer he felt to her, the worse the lie seemed. If he liked Rosanna, he wouldn’t be worried about hurting the best person he knew.

He put his phone away, rubbed his eyes. Rosanna would always be a wild card. He needed a backup plan, another way to secure this merger if their fake dating failed.

“Falcon!”

Weston froze. He didn’t turn. Had someone followed his car? Had his driver taken a bribe, told a fan where he was? Hard to believe he’d take the risk when Weston paid him a grand a night for the drive. He contemplated reaching for his mask, putting the stupid thing on. If it got out that Weston Aldrich moonlighted as Falcon, Rosanna derailing the merger would be the least of his problems. Running from this fan was smarter.

But a hand latched onto his arm before he could bolt. He tensed, yanking free of the woman’s grip.

“No, no way. You don’t get to ditch me again.”

Every bone in Weston’s body seized. He knew that voice, but that voice shouldn’t know Falcon. It shouldn’t be anywhere near him. A stranger learning who he was would be trouble. Annie figuring it out? He may as well purchase a headstone now.

The woman—please, God, don’t be Annie—took advantage of his stupor, grabbed his arm again, and spun him around. His stomach dropped.

Annie reared back. “Holy shit.”

He tried to open his mouth, explain about the lies, the DJing, the late-night gigs, but like all Annie-related issues lately, he couldn’t find the words. He was sick about the deception. Angry at being found out. This was worse than any of those grenades, though. In about ten seconds, once she’d recovered from the shock, she’d realize they’d kissed. That he’d kissed her, knowing exactly who she was.

Annie had become a statue. “Holy fucking shit.”

He stayed mute, his heart punching his ribs so hard his hands throbbed.

Seven seconds and counting.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

He should say something, anything. Get ahead of the shit-storm about to unleash. Specifically, her inner pit bull. But Annie poked his face, pinched his cheek, and mumbled, “Not dreaming.”

He laughed.