Max is waiting at the door when I get there, his face drawn with worry. “It’s not what it looks like.”

I nod and step into his foyer. “Good.” My voice is clear and strong, and some distant part of my mind is just proud that I’m not collapsing in a pathetic heap at his feet, begging him to love me, pleading with him to explain this away. “Because it looks like you’re a lying asshole.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “Hanna, don’t. Okay? You weren’t supposed to see those texts.”

“Oh my God. Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? I wasn’t supposed to see that our relationship is a total sham? That it’s pretend? That you—” A sob rips through my chest before I can finish. It hurts too much.

“But it’s not,” he growls. I try to step around him, but he grabs my hand and holds it tight. “This is real. Nothing about what I feel for you is pretend.”

“But it was. At one point it was.”

“I was an idiot,” he whispers. “Such an idiot.”

“You don’t understand what it’s like to feel like shit about the way you look. You don’t understand what a leap of faith it was for me to believe you wanted to be with me when you could have had any woman you wanted in this town.”

“Meredith and I have a long, screwed-up history, and until things were serious with Will and Cally—”

“Leave.” I point to the door.

“Don’t do this, Hanna. Those texts were from December. That was months ago. You and I hadn’t even kissed yet. I had no idea I was going to fall in love with you.”

“Stop. I can’t do this.” I shake my head. “I have spent too many years of my life hating myself. I can’t be with you anymore. I can’t…” I shrug and tears spill onto my cheeks. “Please leave.”

“I’ll give you time, but please—”

“It’s over, Max. Leave.” I sound wild. Crazed. Maybe I am.

When he walks out the door, I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around my knees as I sob. I don’t need to look at my phone again to remember the texts. They’re branded on my brain.

Meredith: You’re seriously going out with Hanna Fat Ass Thompson.

Max: You’re seriously going to start this conversation by being a bitch?

Meredith: Just tell me how this happened.

Max: It’s a temporary arrangement. She needs a self-esteem boost.

Meredith: I had no idea you were taking charity cases.

Max: No worries, I still prefer blondes.

Meredith: So what’s it like to f**k a fatty?

Max: Don’t be a bitch.

Meredith: He dodges the question.

Max: Trust me, I’m not going to let this charade go that far. She’s a sweet girl, but she’s not my type.

Meredith: Am I your type?

Max: You know you are. But last I checked you were still hung up on Will Bailey.

Meredith: That was so last month. Come over here and I’ll prove it.

Max: What do you have in mind?

Meredith: You. My mouth. More specifically, your dick and my mouth.

Max: Shit. Don’t say that when you know I can’t.

Meredith: You said yourself that your thing with Hanna is just a charade.

Max: I don’t want her hurt. Period. I’ll have to take a rain check.

Meredith: I can keep a secret. I know when to use my mouth. And where.

Max: This is a bad idea.

Meredith: I’ll see you in fifteen, then?

Max: Make that five.

18

WHEN I climb into a cab at the airport and say, “Nate Crane’s house, please,” I almost expect the guy to laugh at me. Instead, he shakes his head, mutters something about tourists, and starts the drive to Hollywood Hills.

“Nate Crane lives right past those gates,” he announces in a bored tone.

The house in question is lit up like Granny’s last birthday cake, and the circle drive has so many high-end cars that it would make the nicest (er, only) dealer in New Hope weep.

“Where ya wanna go next? Eminem’s home isn’t far from here.”

“No. This is where I’ll get out, thanks.”

“You know they don’t just let you come party with ’em, right?”

I smile and hand him cash for my fare. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind but shrugs as I climb out of the back.

When I walk up to the gate, there are two security guards in black suits. Big guys.

“Sorry, ma’am,” a dark-skinned man calls from in front of the gate. “Private party.”

“Keep walking,” his white comrade instructs.

“Yeah, um.” Shit. I didn’t really prepare to face the Men in Black to get to Nate. “I—”

“Jesus, Hanna, girl? Is that you?” The first guy slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers at me over the tops. “What are you wearing?” He nods to one of the other guys then grabs me by the upper arm as the gates slide open.

So I guess I’m going to get in after all, because next thing I know, he’s sitting me in a golf cart and driving me up to the house. Without a word, he leads me out, up the front stairs, and into the house.

“Nate lives here?” The massive marble staircase fills the entryway with all the pomp and circumstance of a grand museum. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead. Somehow, it doesn’t seem fitting of the secretly dorky rocker I know so little about.

The man frowns at me. “What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head. “I can’t have you going back there dressed like this. Not with all those hos hanging around.”

It’s my turn to frown. I wasn’t exactly worried about my ensemble of a T-shirt and jeans when I left my house this morning. I was more worried about getting the hell out of Dodge. Anyway, I’m not here to compete with any “hos.” I just want a chance to talk to Nate.

“Um, do we know each other?” I ask the man as we head up the stairs.

He leads me into an impressive, large bedroom with an even more impressive walk-in closet. “Oh, you think you’re funny and you’re going to act like you don’t know me, huh? Well, play coy all you want, but those girls Crane has over tonight aren’t playing games.”

“What are—” I’m cut off by my own shriek as the man yanks my ponytail holder from my hair and my T-shirt off over my head.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying for what modesty I can.

He wriggles his eyebrows. “Well, at least you wore the good underwear.” Then he’s scanning the closet and I relax. This man isn’t interested in ogling me. In fact, if I had to guess… “Damn good thing you have a g*y man around to dress you tonight, sweetheart. Because them bitches out back aren’t messing around.”

I gasp dramatically. “You’re telling me there are both bitches and hos here tonight?”

“You think you’re cute,” he says, moving his head side to side, “but they’re ’bout to steal your man.”

“He’s not my man.”

The man rolls his eyes and waves away my objection. “This!” He pulls a bright red dress from the rack and offers it to me.

“Whose clothes are these?”

“Well, they’re Janelle’s, of course. Now get changed and walk by that boy before he does something he regrets. I don’t know what you did to him, but he’s been in a bad way since he got back here Friday night. Drinking, partying. Hiding from something.” He raises an eyebrow and gives me an unimpressed once-over. “You know what you did.”

“Actually, I—”

“Change. Then meet Jamaal in the bathroom to freshen that makeup.”

He’s halfway out of the closet when I ask, “Who’s Jamaal?” It’s only one question of the approximately 1700 that are floating around in my mind right now, but since I’m supposed to see “Jamaal” next, I guess it takes priority.

The man stops, turns, and glares at me. “I thought you were clean, girl? You know that’s why Janelle liked you. None of the drugs and bullshit. Now get changed and meet me in the bathroom.”

“Jamaal!” I hold my breath. Could this flamboyant man be such a walking cliché that he speaks of himself in the third person?

The man stops and turns. “Yes, princess?”

I grin. I can’t help it. I like this guy. A lot. “I don’t remember you.”

He snorts. “Don’t be a bitch. Nobody forgets Jamaal.”

“No, I…” I shake my head and bite back my laughter. “I don’t remember much of anything from the last year. I had a head injury, and I have amnesia.”

His big brown eyes grow impossibly wider. “No shit?”

“No shit,” I say solemnly. “And the more I find out about what I’ve forgotten…” I swallow, struggling to verbalize the strange but undeniable impulse that brought me here. “The more I learn, the more I realize I need to spend time with Nate before shutting him out of my life.”

“Why would you shut him out? That’s crazy talk,” he says. I hold up my left hand, and Jamaal draws in a long breath, his nostrils flaring as he presses his hand to his chest. “Who gave you that pathetic excuse for a jewel?”

“Does the name Max Hallowell ring any bells?”

He shakes his head and makes a tsking sound. “You don’t remember Nathaniel? Truly?”

Nathaniel. I like that. Fits with the comic book T-shirts and Hulk tattoo. Nathaniel. “When I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t remember him at all. Now I only remember bits and pieces. I just want him to talk to me.”

He hums, noncommittal. “Change and meet me in the bathroom.” With a flourish, he shuts the doors behind him and leaves me alone in the brightly lit closet.

I like Jamaal enough that I decide to follow his directions rather than questioning him. I strip out of my clothes and pull the red dress overhead. It’s too small for me, but he chose a dress that stretches nicely, and after a bit of yanking and tugging, it covers my h*ps almost respectably. I spot a pair of matching red heels on the shoe rack and grin when I see that they’re my size. I might feel uncomfortable in this dress, but I love shoes. I’ve always loved shoes. Shoes always fit.

My phone buzzes in my purse and I pull it out to see a new text.

Nix: You need to call me. STAT.

I don’t want to talk to anyone from home right now. I can’t handle the sympathy I know they want to deliver.

When I exit the closet, I don’t have a chance to look for the bathroom before Jamaal is whistling at me—à la calling Fido, not à la catcall—and waving me into another room.

I gasp as I step into the glitzy bathroom. Glitz is the only word for it. Marble and glass, mirrors and crystal. It’s a large, shining space that’s too over the top to belong on anything but an episode of Cribs.

“If you’re going to stand there with your mouth hanging open, at least turn to me so I can touch you up while you gawk.”

I obey, and Jamaal’s large hands begin applying mascara, blush, and lip gloss in a rather expert way. When he’s done, I can only blink at myself in the mirror. In less than three minutes, he managed to transform me from Plain Jane to one of the LA-caliber women I saw milling at the airport.

“Wow.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s hurry down to the pool and find that fool man of yours before he does something really stupid.”

“He’s not my man, Jamaal.”

He snorts in reply and leads me back out into the hallway, but instead of taking the stairs that brought us up here, he leads me to the back of the hall and opens a door to a small, narrow set of stairs.

“Be careful in those heels.” When we hit the bottom, Jamaal points the way toward the back door. “There you go, kiddo. He’s out there making an ass of himself.”

I study the large French doors and the scantily clad women beyond. Some of them are dressed like I am now, in dresses and heels. Others are in bikinis and sarongs. Others still in bikinis and heels. Because bitches and hos, I guess.

They’re all painted and more beautiful than I will ever be without surgical enhancement. Knowing I’m going to step out there like I’m one of them makes my stomach cramp painfully.

“You’ve got something none of those women have,” Jamaal says from behind me, as if reading my thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“A mind of your own, kid. Why do you think he likes you so much?” He tilts up my chin and studies my face in the light. “You really don’t remember? That’s not just a bunch of bullshit?”

“I really don’t. Did I come here a lot?”

He shrugs. “A couple of times.”

My gaze drifts back toward the door and the music trickling in from outside. Someone screeches, and I hear a splash.

“What am I going to do if he won’t talk to me?”

Jamaal shrugs. “Janelle will call. We’ll get her to help. He can’t say no to her.”

Right. Janelle. The woman whose clothes I’m wearing. “And who’s Janelle?”

“Janelle Crane? How hard did you hit that head?”

He walks away as the name clicks into place in my mind. Janelle Crane. The actress. I struggle to keep my jaw hinged as I look down at my dress. I’m wearing Janelle Crane’s dress. Janelle Crane’s shoes. Holy. Shit.

“Martini?”

I jump at the voice. A woman is standing next to me with a tray of martini glasses filled with light pink liquid. “Um, no thanks.”