1. Friday

I look downat the papers before me, my long, blonde hair creating a curtain to hide my face as I lean closer. The words "nondisclosure agreement," bolded and in a larger font displayed across the top, stare back at me. I've read through the contract but find myself slightly confused. "This one is quite extensive. Way more than the others. Are you sure this is something I should do?"

Jeremy, my handler at Elite Connections and, after years and years of working together, probably one of my very best friends, scoffs. "This is a real opportunity here, Roberta. I don't think you should pass it up." He taps the papers near the signature line. "You'll make more money in one weekend doing this than you would in an entire month."

"That seems absurd. Almost too good to be true."

"The client asked for an expert event executor. They want the masquerade event they are throwing to be flawless, and they don't want to worry about anything, including and especially any goings-on being discussed before, during, or after the event. Hence the intense NDA." Jeremy shrugs, adjusts his large, black-framed glasses, and smirks. "And thanks to me and the excellent work I've put into you, you're the best triple E this office has."

"Oh, sure, it's all you and not my amazing talent."

"Obviously," he says with another smirk.He's joking. He knows as well as I do that I've risen to the status I have because every party I have executed has been flawless.

"The party is already planned then?"

"Yes, and you'll make sure everything runs smoothly—as usual. And, of course, you'll be supervising the bar and mixology menu and the waitstaff."

"Do I get to pick my staff?"

"We've chosen Nick and Natasha for the bar, Julie as the bouncer, and Timothy and Lucy for the waitstaff."

I smile. "My A-team, hmm?"

"You know I wouldn't ask you to do this one if I didn't think you could handle it."

"But what aren't you telling me, Jeremy?" I narrow my eyes at him and lift my chin. He's being coy, and that isn't his style."You're holding back something, and I can tell."

"I'm not supposed to tell you until you sign on the dotted line."

"I'm not signing until I know what I'm getting myself into. You know that. So spill the beans or find someone else."

He groans, removes his glasses, rubs his face, and then replaces them. All of his movements are far more erratic than usual. "Okay, fine. The client is the biggest pop star on the planet right now, Roberta. Why else do you think this NDA is ten pages long?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I look around the room, fully expecting someone to pop out and yell, Psych! "What are you saying? Are you…" And then the penny drops. "Wait a second. Is this party for Alison fucking Grace?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I mean. It's Alison effing Grace."He whispers her name as if saying it any louder would be a crime.

A single ha! flies out of my mouth. "You're out of your mind. I am not doing this then." I slide the NDA back, and it skids to a stop in front of him. The last time I handled a party for someone the entire world knew, I had to be called into a deposition because someone was stabbed and thrown off the third-floor balcony into the pool. It wasn't my fault and had nothing to do with the execution side of things, but still, I vowed then and there that I was done with young stars who can't handle their fame.

"She specifically asked for you."

I literally feel my mouth drop open. "Shut up."

"I'm being serious, Roberta. She asked specifically for Roberta Baldwyn."

"That makes no sense. How is that even possible?"

"You know as well as I do that the only way she can use Elite is if she was referred to us. Knowing all the details isn't my department, but someone who has previously paid for your services must have referred her. Someone close to her. I'm sure you can figure out who if you just use the brain in that pretty head of yours."

Glaring at what would've been an HR violation from anyone else's lips, I frantically search my memory bank. And then it hits me like a load of bricks. "You don't mean my ex?—"

"Yes."

"That party was years ago, though."

He shrugs. "Alison put her on the reference form."

"Wait, so, how does Alison Grace know my ex?"

"Stop," he says, slicing his hands dramatically through the air. "Don't say another word. It's best for us both if you act as if you know nothing, that you're going into this blind. Okay?" He slides the NDA back to me. "At the end of the day, you have been requested, and I am not going to not deliver. So sign the effing NDA and get on with your life."

"Jeremy—"

"No, Roberta. I am telling you right now that you need to do this."

"I don't need to do this. I don't need the money. I have plenty of money." I'm not lying. I could quit tomorrow and be fine for the rest of my life. "Why was I requested, aside from the thing I'm not supposed to talk about?"

"She said she works better with women. And she also said… she wanted you because you're ‘easy on the eyes.'"

"Jesus." I laugh at his air quotes. "This is a joke, right?" It has to be. I'm not ugly, by any stretch of the imagination, but easy on the eyes? Come on. "There have to be at least three other Triple Es who can do this party who are a lot younger and?—"

"They're not more attractive than you. I mean, look at you." He tilts his head, slides his glasses down his nose, and eyes me. "You're thin, but you have curves. You have an excellent rack." I gasp, and he laughs. "And you don't look a day over thirty-five."

I roll my eyes. "Be serious, please."

"Okay, forty."

"This still makes no sense. I just don't think it's a good idea."

Jeremy folds his arms across his chest. "Roberta, you realize you work for us, right? Not the other way around."

I was being mouthy, and I shouldn't have been. Working for Elite has been a dream come true. I make more money than I ever thought possible, but honestly, I'd been burned in the past and had learned quickly to ask questions before signing my name to yet another NDA for a millionaire who needed someone to pour Cape Cods all night long. "I know; I'm sorry. I don't want another issue like we had with that A-list movie star who thought he could also get in my pants."

"Okay," he says as he walks toward me. He grabs my hands and squeezes them. "I promise you, I will not allow anything bad to happen to you. And you're right. You don't need another issue like that one. The client was livid."

"I've never been on the sexual relations side of this agency, though. Why did he think I was fair game and that he was going to get somewhere with me?"

Jeremy shrugs. "Because he was told you were a sure thing, apparently." He releases my hands, then flips through the pages of the document to where it is highlighted in yellow. "I remembered that incident, though, and ensured that this NDA specifically states that you and your team are off-limits. Is that better?"

A wave of relief washes over me. Not that I think Alison fucking Grace is going to want to have sex with me, I don't believe that at all, but a clandestine members-only event sounds, well, sort of Eyes Wide Shut–ish, and I'm not exactly sure what will happen. "Okay."

"This is an awful lot of money for three days, Roberta."

I relent, and grabbing the pen on the table, I scribble my signature on the document. "There."

"Good. Here are the details." He exchanges the NDA in front of me for a single piece of paper. "You fly out tonight."

"You mean the party isn't here? In New York?"

"Nope." Jeremy shakes his head and purses his lips. "You read the part here where it said that no one can know where the party is, right? She was particular about that. And that includes you."

"How am I supposed to know what to pack?" I let out a huff, and in response, he taps the paper in front of me. I look down at the line that reads, Please have Ms. Baldwyn pack for autumn weather conditions. "Well, okay then."

"And for the event, she has specifically said you all will wear her prepared uniforms. We took the liberty of sending your team's sizing information to her publicist."

"You knew I was going to accept, didn't you?"

He looks at me, his left eyebrow arched. "I'm no dummy. And neither are you. That's a fuck ton of money, and you'd be absolutely deranged not to take the job. Alison Grace isn't going to burn a bridge like this. I guarantee it."

I check my watch and realize I only have four hours before I need to be at JFK. "Okay, well, I'd better take off. Is everyone else meeting me at the airport?"

"The rest of your team will be taking a separate plane." He shrugs when I stare at him, my mouth agape once again. "I don't know. It's what she requested."

"Wow." I let out a laugh. "This might be the strangest thing I've done to date."

"Yeah, not to mention when you saw someone get thrown off the balcony."

I shake my head as I tell Jeremy goodbye and leave his office. I'm completely beside myself. I've been executing events for more than twenty years, and this will be the first time I know less leaving the meeting than I did going into the meeting. I probably sound like I don't enjoy everything about my job. Or that I'm irritated. Both couldn't be further from the truth.

When I was offered a position at Elite, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. The world I discovered was beyond my wildest imagination.

See, I had never wanted to go to college. I never wanted to be a doctor or a dentist like my parents dreamed. Right out of high school, I started working at a dueling piano bar as soon as I could find a place that would hire me. I figured, Why not? I can sing and play piano, courtesy of my years of drama classes and choir practice. It was one of the best, most fun-filled jobs I had ever had. The best part was I learned how to bartend from this woman, Clarice, an award-winning bartender and mixologist.

Six years later, a man in a black coat slipped me a black business card that simply said "ELITE" and had a phone number to call. I called the number for a couple of reasons. One, I was freaking curious. Why wouldn't I call it? And two? I was broke as a joke. I made ends meet at the piano bar, but barely, and for some reason, a man in a black trench coat seemed like a good lead to follow.

It could have ended poorly.

But it didn't.

The first event I executed, I made more in one night than I did during an entire week. I almost passed out when Jeremy handed me the check the next day. I didn't know what I was going to make. All I knew was I was signing an NDA, and in doing so, I was sworn to secrecy about anything I saw and heard. I didn't take it too seriously at first.

I learned quickly to take every single job seriously. The best part was that I was taken seriously too. I was requested four more times that year for events. The following year, I was booked solid, and I have been almost every single year since. I've moved up through the ranks, too, from simple bartender to expert executor and master mixologist.

It's been wild. Honestly. There hasn't been a single event where I didn't see something I would never forget.

But the point was that I was paid to forget. And I wasn't going to mess that up.

And now here I am, heading home to pack for a three-day event where I'll bring home more money than I typically make in a year.

My life is fantastic, and I love every single second of it.

I won't fuck this up. I don't get starstruck anymore, and I certainly know how to handle myself when it comes to wealthy people who think they're better than everyone else. And I am positive Alison Grace will be just like every other rich asshole I've had to suck up to.

I'll be fine.

* * *

The black Mach-E Alison Grace sent to pick me up pulls right up to the steps of the pop star's impressive jet. Mark, the driver, who had asked me every five minutes en route if I was doing okay, opens the door. When I step out, he asks me one last time. I smile and shake my head because I've already answered him the ten other times he asked.

"It's my job, ma'am," he says with a small chuckle. "Just doing my job."

"You're very good at it."

He smiles at the compliment as he shuts the door behind me, then hustles to get my suitcase.

"Can I ask you, though…" I turn to him. "Do I look okay? I had no idea what to wear." I motion to my dark blue skinny jeans.

His smile is adorable. "You look great, ma'am. I love the black blazer with the Stevie Nicks T-shirt. She'll appreciate that. She loves Stevie."

"Thank god," I breathe out. "Thank you."

He hands me my suitcase. "You pack just like her." He chuckles. I packed heavier than usual because autumn weather can be very unpredictable. I don't want to say that I'm also super-fucking nervous because that makes it seem like I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't, clearly, but I have executed ten times more lavish parties in my lifetime than most people have attended. I know what I'm doing. I just have no idea what I'm doing. If that makes any sense whatsoever…

I'm also sort of freaking out because I'm essentially allowing myself to be kidnapped. I have no clue where I'm going. Neither does Jeremy or the rest of my team. We're trusting this multimillionaire with my life, with our lives. It's out of character for me and seems a little stupid.

I mean, right? Doesn't it?

My bag is taken by someone wearing a white polo with AG inscribed on the upper right-hand side. I climb the stairs into the plane and am met by a large Saint Bernard. Because I live in the world, and have an Instagram account, I know her name is Margot, so I kneel and start to pet her. She's adorable, with the softest fur and most enormous head. She falls onto the floor and rolls over to give me better access to her stomach. I let out a laugh as I pet her. "You're adorable," I say softly as she accepts every ounce of attention I've given her.

"Hey there," a voice says, and it pulls me out of the moment with Margot.

I stand, my voice suddenly caught in my throat. I've met and interacted with thousands of people, most of them wealthy or famous or both, but seeing Alison Grace, with her gorgeous, long, bright blonde hair and striking blue eyes, in person might be the most surreal thing I've ever experienced. She's in yoga pants and her sweatshirt. I don't mean, like, she owns it. I mean, it's her merchandise, with her face on it. It makes me like her even more. I raise a hand to wave in lieu of speaking. I feel like an idiot, but I cannot figure out how to say, Hey there, back. Jesus, I'm going to be fired before we even leave the tarmac.

She laughs and smacks her hands onto her thighs. "Margot, come on, baby. Let Roberta onto the plane." Margot listens, of course, and pops up and gallops over to Alison. She's sitting in one of the seats next to a window, her left leg crossed over her right. "Have a seat, please," she says to me and motions toward the seat facing her. I move through the plane on unsteady legs and take the chair she's offered me. When I sit, my knees crack, and I feel self-conscious. She smiles and says, "I have more aches and pains and cracks and creaks than I can even describe. I get it."

"I have a hard time believing that," I finally say, which makes her smile even wider. "What?"

"I thought maybe you weren't going to talk to me." She shrugs. "Sometimes people don't. It's strange, but I get it."

"Well, you definitely took my voice away at first. I won't deny that."

She leans forward, her oversize sweatshirt hanging almost loosely enough around her neck for me to see down it. "The feeling is mutual," she says, her voice an octave lower than before, and I feel my brow unintentionally furrow. What does she mean? I can't ask, though. That would be rude. "I love your shirt. Stevie is so nice."

I lick my lips and contain my excitement. "Of course. You've met her, haven't you?"

"A few times. She's just as incredible in person as she is onstage." She leans back and fastens her seat belt. "Buckle up. We'll be leaving shortly."

Because I'm the world's biggest dork, and a very nervous flyer, I fumble for a few seconds with the seat belt before I finally get it buckled. Though it's securely fastened, I want to jump out of the aircraft instead. Embarrassment floods my features, especially when I glance at her and see that she's staring at me, a small smile on her full lips.

"Not a fan of flying?" Her question isn't said with an ounce of disrespect, but her inquisitive stare causes my throat to ache.

"Not really, no." My voice sounds far away, as if suddenly I've learned how to throw it. What is going on with me?

Once we're in the air and I stop gripping the armrest like a lifeline, I take a deep breath and try to relax. It's hard, though, with Alison across from me. Her head is leaning back against the headrest, and her eyes are closed. I don't know when she put them on, but she's wearing a pair of headphones now, along with a small smile. I wonder who she's listening to. Is it her? Does she listen to her own music? Or is she listening to a favorite band? Who is her favorite? Would I like the same music as her? Would we have fun at a concert together?

Oh my god. I roll my eyes at myself. I learned very early on that you cannot let yourself get mixed up with the fact that most of these people who hire Elite are famous celebrities. First and foremost, they're ordinary people, just like anyone else. They eat food and go to the bathroom and drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes and fight with their significant others right in front of you. They're just like everyone else.

Except this is Alison Grace. And she's across from me with that pleased look on her face. She's breathtaking as she sits there doing the most normal of things—listening to music, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, no shoes, fuzzy socks, a glass of wine on the table next to her. She is normal. And it's freaking me the fuck out.

Her being normal should calm me down. But it isn't. At all.

Suddenly, she pulls her headphones off and lets out a deep sigh. I'm caught between asking her if she's all right and ignoring her. My better angels get the better of me, however, and I ask, "You doing okay?"

She sighs again. "Yeah, I'm great. How are you doing?"

I want to laugh. All of those sighs and she's great? I wonder what she sounds like when she's doing horribly? "I'm nervous as hell," I hear myself say.

She laughs, a loud laugh that almost makes me jump. "Why are you nervous? Please don't let me make you nervous. I'm seriously no big deal."

It's my turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right? You're the biggest pop star on the planet. You're certainly much more than no big deal."

Her eyes lock onto mine. I can't help but feel a little like I'm under a microscope. It's no secret that she pays attention to details. I want to know what she's thinking and what she's paying attention to, though, because of the two of us, it's me who is no big deal. "I should probably be the one who's a little nervous. Your reputation precedes you, Roberta."

"My reputation?" I scoff. "You're hilarious."

"I'm not joking."

She's not. I can tell by the look on her face. She's all business right now, and I find myself wholly taken by her ability to go from joking around to serious in the span of a second. "How do I have a reputation?"

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise the tiniest of degrees. Everything about her and how she's acting has to be from years and years of being in the spotlight, someone else dictating her every move while millions and millions of people watch her take every breath. She's gone from being a teenage ingenue to an adult superstar, the entire time under the scrutinous eye of the press, critics, fans, and haters. The way she is holding herself now is a clear indication that she wants to say something but isn't sure how to without showing every card she's holding. Every rumor I've heard about her starts to percolate inside my barely functioning brain. From how she only dates men who have a sordid past to how she's possibly into women and those men are simply beards to how she may or may not be in the market to adopt a child. Honestly, the rumors are all over the place, and thanks to the grocery store line, I only know about them as headlines on rag magazines.

"Let's just say I do my research before I hire anyone."

"You mean your team does your research."

"No," she says as she picks up her wineglass from the small table next to her. It holds a serving of chilled rosé, and the condensation on the glass rolls over her short nails, painted lavender. I find it funny that even the rich and famous must deal with things like warming chilled wine to room temperature. Not everything is solved with money. "I did my research. I always do."

"Oh?" It's my turn to raise my brows and tilt my head. "Interesting. And what'd you find out?"

"Did you want a glass of wine?" Her question is out of place. A part of me is screaming for some alcohol, but I forbid myself from drinking when I'm on the clock, and technically, the second I signed that NDA, I essentially became her employee.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Water?"

"I will take a water, yes."

She smiles. "But no wine?"

"Nope." I shake my head slowly, never breaking contact with her blue eyes.

She raises her hand and motions toward the flight attendant. "Water for Roberta, please. And I'll take another glass of rosé." She takes a drink and another before the glass is empty. I am staring at her, studying how she swallows and licks her lips after, and I curse myself as I break my gaze and look out the window. "Does everyone call you Roberta?"

I nod before I look at her again. "Yeah, pretty much everyone."

"Pretty much?"

"My mother calls me Robbi." I smile. "My brother calls me Bobbi. I have one person on my staff who calls me Rob, but he's been with me since almost the beginning of my career, so I begrudgingly allow it."

Her face lights up. "Interesting. And I'm assuming I should call you…" Her voice trails off, and she licks her lips.

"Roberta, please."

"Keeping it professional, I see." A lighthearted chuckle escapes just as her new glass of rosé is delivered. I practically yank the designer water bottle from the flight attendant's hands and wrench it open as if I've been in the desert for days. Truth is, I'm finding it hard to keep this conversation going without completely falling apart, and I loathe how it feels. Alison's being way too kind and beautiful for me to hold myself together for much longer. I want to go somewhere else, but where the hell else can I go on Alison Grace's private jet? Unless, of course, there are parachutes, and I can just jump out one of the exits. Doesn't sound like a half-bad idea.

"Am I allowed to ask questions about this event?" I say.

"Will it help you calm down?"

I feel my jaw clench. Being called out by her is as exciting as it is unnerving. "Absolutely," I answer truthfully—why lie about this?

She smacks her lips together and looks away from me, seemingly considering my question. "Then yes. But I may not answer them. If that's okay."

"That's fair."

"Shoot."

"Where are we going?"

She shakes her head. "Nope."

"How many people will be at this party?"

"Twenty-two."

"Anyone else I may know?"

"You definitely know one of them."

"Who?"

"Since it's a masquerade, I will keep that one to myself. But once you figure it out, I'm sure you'll find a way to let me know."

The information I'm getting is not stellar. I am beside myself. Who is she talking about? I don't have a sordid past. I keep my affairs short, simple, and to the point, and I never get entangled with the wrong people. I mean, I try to never get involved with the wrong people. I've had a couple relationships that haven't gone perfectly. Obviously, or I'd be married to the person of my dreams. I thought I had her two years ago, but I was wrong. And then it hits me. "Wait a second. Do you know?—"

"I do." She shrugs. "She's an entertainment lawyer. Of course I know her."

"Shit," I whisper. "That's actually a hilarious story."

"Roberta?" She holds her hand up. "I don't care what happened. It's in the past. And she's not my lawyer."

"Okay." My voice sounds like the wind has been knocked out of me, and, well, it has been.

"She had nothing but amazing things to say about you."

Everything in me wants to ask what she said. What did my ex-girlfriend say to Alison Grace that made my reputation precede me? What the hell did she fucking say? But I leave it at, "Oh?"

"Mm-hmm. Enough good things that I needed to meet you."

"Surely you mean hire me."

"Sure." She rolls her lips inward, hiding what can only be a smirk.

I'm so confused. What the hell is happening?

"Alison? We'll be landing in ten minutes," the flight attendant says as he walks up to us. "You need anything else?"

She shakes her head to his question, never once moving her gaze away from me.

Needless to say, I have never felt so studied in my entire life. I'm stuck between feeling like a fool and feeling like an idiot, which isn't that different now that I think about it. I need to calm down and stop letting my brain get the best of me. Shouldn't be too difficult to do, right?

* * *

We're near Provincetown, Massachusetts. I find it very funny that she didn't realize I would put it together when I saw the Welcome to Provincetown sign at the airport. That and it only took about an hour and a half to get here. I've lived in New York City for a very long time. I know the East Coast like the back of my hand. She clearly didn't dive too deep into the research about me if she didn't put that together.

Her driver is waiting for us as soon as we deplane, Margot trotting directly next to Alison. Everyone who works for her has been spot-on regarding punctuality. That has always been the rumor, that the people who work for her are super professional and, in turn, are treated well, but seeing it in action is another level of encouraging. So far, everything has worked like clockwork, so I'm shocked and intrigued as to why she'd even need an event executor. Which leads me to believe that something wild is going to happen at this party; even with an NDA I'm not sure I'm prepared. Nothing shocks me. Not really; not anymore. But Alison Grace might, and I don't know how to handle that.

It"s funny because I wouldn't call myself a huge fan. I like her music, sure. I think her songs are great. But I've never been someone who immediately gets her album or sings all the lyrics to her songs.

Which is why it's weird that I'm so taken by her. I can't stop looking at her out of the corner of my eye as we sit next to each other in the back seat of the Escalade.

She clears her throat. Margot is sitting on the floor of the car, her head resting on Alison's lap. Her ears perk. "Do you mind if I ask you to turn off the location tracking on your phone?" She pets Margot's head after she has positioned herself so she can be as close to Alison as possible without actually sitting on top of her.

"I already have, per the NDA."

"Wow, you have? That's… wow. Thank you."

She seems genuinely surprised, as if I'm one of the first people to take that legal document I literally signed my name on so seriously. I pull my phone from my carry-on messenger bag to show her and notice I've missed fifteen calls and have fourteen new text messages. Now's not the time to check it, but what if it's an emergency? "Good lord," I whisper. "Is it okay if I check these calls and messages?"

She tilts her head, a forlorn look on her face. "Roberta, you're not my employee. You're allowed to continue with your life if you need to."

"I'm sorry." That's literally a first for me. I have always been perceived as the employee. Why would I assume it's going to be any different now?

"Don't apologize," Alison says as she places her hand on my knee. "I just… I don't want you to think you need my permission."

I don't respond. I'm not sure how to, anyway. I've never heard a negative thing about her, but for some reason, I am being super awkward around her, as if one false move will have her throwing me out of the car Mission: Impossible style, tucking and rolling onto the pavement.

The messages are from my team. The voicemails as well. All of them are freaking out that they are going to meet Alison Grace. I send a simple Calm down, all of you text and remind them to be professional. All I get in response are GIFs of being excited from each of them. They're all younger than I am—not by much, but still—so it doesn't shock me that they will have a hard time handling themselves.

What am I saying? If I'm having a hard time, of course they're going to have a hard time. I'll need to cut them a lot of slack.

We drive through the outskirts of Provincetown before we take a turn down a winding road. Before I know it, a view of the Atlantic Ocean opens in front of my eyes. As many times as I've been on the coast, this has got to be one of the most breathtaking views I've ever had. "Wow," I breathe out after I get out of the car and take in the ocean.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's breathtaking." I look to my left, where she's facing the water, the wind blowing her hair and the October sun catching all the highlights just right. Her sunglasses are on top of her head, and her eyes are closed. For the longest time, I always thought she was simply cute. She has always seemed so much younger than I am, and thinking anything else felt like I was crossing a weird pervy line. But she's in her mid-thirties now, and I must admit, her beauty is striking. "You're a very lucky lady."

"I've worked my ass off for this." She shrugs. "It's been a long journey."

"I'm sorry." I apologize because I feel like I'm discounting her hard work. "I should have said you're a very talented lady to be able to get to this spot in your life." I hope I didn't offend her. "Because damn, this is amazing." I notice that I'm still clutching my phone, and one of the lines in the NDA said that I'd eventually have to relinquish it, so I hand it over to her. "Here you go, by the way."

"I may regret this, but you can keep it. I trust you for some reason." She smiles. "And how will your staff communicate with you until they get here?"

"True," I mumble as I slide it into the back pocket of my jeans. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says, barely audible over the ocean breeze. "Come on, let's go see the house." She turns, and when she does, she grabs onto my arm. It feels like we've done this a thousand times. I kick myself when that thought enters my brain. I cannot allow myself to get swept up in her. Not only is she most certainly my employer right now—even if she says she's not—but she's also too young and not interested. Oh, and most importantly, she's the most famous person maybe ever. Not to mention that I've gotten swept up before and it did not end well. For anyone involved.

Oh my god, I'm talking myself in circles. I have got to stop letting all of this get to my head. I'm so much more professional than my brain is allowing.

As we step over the threshold into the foyer of the house, my breath catches. It is… wow. It's incredible, an older Cape Cod–style home that she has clearly had renovated and added onto. She thankfully kept a lot of the charm of the crown moldings, the arched entryways, the original wood floors. The decorations are meticulous and tasteful. She has a good eye. Trendy, not elaborate, with just the right amount of class for the crowd she rolls with. I wonder if she decorated it or if she hired someone to do so. I've met quite a few A-list celebrities who enjoy doing their own decorating. I kind of feel like maybe she's one of them because this place feels very much like her. And the way her shoulders relaxed as we entered was an indication that she feels at peace here. I can understand why.

The wing of the house where my team and I will be staying is off to the right, through a set of huge, reclaimed barnwood sliding doors. "Your room is here," she says. "The rest of your team's rooms are through those doors. This wing has six bedrooms. Unfortunately, there are only three bathrooms over here, though, so you all will have to share. I apologize in advance."

I laugh when she flips on the light switch for one of the bathrooms. It's enormous. It has a gigantic walk-in shower, a claw-foot tub, two toilets, a bidet, and two sinks along the wall. "Um, I think we'll all manage just fine."

"I know, but I really would rather no one have to share, y'know what I mean?" She sounds so sincere. It's been so long since she's had to share anything I'm sure, especially a bathroom.

"I promise, Ms. Grace, we'll all be perfectly content with this living situation."

"Please, call me Alison," she says, and my eyes lock onto hers in the mirror's reflection above the sinks. She shrugs. "Everyone else does."

"I'll try to remember that."

She clears her throat, as if doing that will eliminate the awkward tension that has existed between us since the second I boarded her aircraft. "Okay then," she starts, then turns and leaves the bathroom, pulling her shoulders back as she does so. "Your team will arrive tomorrow at noon. I apologize that they aren't here tonight, but the flight plan wasn't filed in time. Believe me, I am not happy about it. I didn't want you to think I was doing this to have you all to myself, which wouldn't have been a bad plan, but…" She laughs, and I can't help but gawk at her. "You know what I mean?"

No. No, I don't know what you mean, Alison. Jesus Christ. "It's not a problem at all." I fold my arms across my chest to stop myself from fidgeting. That means I'll be here all by myself tonight. With her. And it does feel like it was on purpose, which, why is that freaking me out? "They've already been briefed, so they'll be ready to get to work when they arrive."

"If you don't mind"—she looks at me—"dinner will be served at seven. We can go over the event notes then."

"May I ask?" I say as I step forward. She, either knowingly or not, takes a slight step backward, though, and it makes my stomach tie into a knot. "Is there a reason your event planner isn't going to be here? It's customary that an event planner executes the event they planned. I don't want to step on any toes."

"When you get to this level"—she motions to herself—"you learn quickly who you can trust and who you can't. She can plan the menu and the decorations perfectly, but I don't trust her to keep her mouth shut. And for this party, it's imperative. It's easier this way."

"Gotcha."

"You'll understand more once we start talking about the event." She gives me an encouraging smile. "See you at seven." And then she turns and leaves me standing there, wondering the entire time what the hell I've gotten myself into.

* * *

After I unpack, I take the hour and a half I have before dinner to freshen up. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and apply new makeup. I touch up the curls in my hair and spray it with a finishing spray that I absolutely love. I roll my lips together after I put on my MAC lip gloss. I look good. I know I do. But something about this entire day has me second-guessing everything about myself, including and especially how I look.

I throw on a new pair of skinny blue jeans and a black sweater I pulled out of my closet that still had the tags on it. My reflection in the freestanding full-length mirror looks pretty good. I don't know what my hair stylist did this time, but my hair's caramel color is perfect, and the lighter pieces surrounding my face make me look maybe a few years younger. I'm going to have to give her an even bigger tip next time.

"You look good," I whisper. This job has given me a lot of self-esteem I wouldn't have had otherwise, but right now, I actually believe what I'm saying. I actually do look good.

As I walk through the house to the dining room, I try to clear my mind of whatever expectations I've gathered in an attempt to pull myself together. I don't know anything about what's going to happen tomorrow night, except that it's apparently a masquerade. And even if I did know more than that, my role wouldn't change. Period.

The dining table stretches from one end of the room to the other. It's one of the most massive tables I've ever seen. After a quick count, I see that it seats twenty-six. She said twenty-two would be in attendance. That's good. It won't be too cramped. I take a walk around the table and scan my surroundings. The paintings on the walls are gorgeous. I stop and admire one of an autumn scene, and a woman's face is etched into the colorful leaves.

"The artist is local. It's actually based on one of my songs," Alison says from behind me, startling me. I don't jump, but I do gasp, and she lets out a small chuckle. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay. I get a little jumpy every now and then. This painting is incredible." I don't ask which song because I'm ashamed that I don't know her catalog well enough to know right off the top of my head.

"I saw her unveiling of it on TikTok and made my publicist go buy it. River said the artist almost cried because she recognized her. I felt bad. I should have gone and bought it myself." The sadness in her voice is heartbreaking. I wonder how often she can't do something as simple as buy a piece of artwork. She can't, I'm sure, because she's one of the most well-known faces on the planet. Doing her own shopping doesn't happen. How frustrating must that be, to constantly have to allow someone else to do those things for her? These revelations are leaving me feeling some type of way. I long to get to the bottom of that sadness and the forlorn look on her face from earlier.

"You actually scroll on TikTok?"

"I do. Why? Is that funny?" The smile that appears on her face is stunning. It makes me feel not as bad for finding the idea of her scrolling on social media amusing.

"I just, I don't know. You seem like you're far too busy for that. I mean, aren't you?"

She nods. "I guess you're right. You'd be surprised how cathartic it can be. Of course, social media isn't always kind, but thankfully I've curated a nice algorithm. It's a lot of videos of myself to be honest. I guess that makes me sound sort of conceited, doesn't it?"

"You have every right to be, honestly."

She shrugs. "Oh, well. Anyway, have a seat so we can go over this." I follow her to the table and sit a few seats from where I think she'll be sitting, but she notices and chooses a chair directly next to me. It's smooth, her change in direction, and I want to commend her for not being nearly as uncomfortable as I assumed she'd be. There's something so adorable about her. She's all arms and legs, and a stiff breeze would probably blow her over, but seeing that she has a small amount of game makes her incredibly endearing. She turns on the iPad Pro before her and clicks through to a slideshow. Why am I not surprised? I hide my smile as she starts scrolling through the beginning slides of the masquerade theme, complete with dozens of pictures. There's the name of the company decorating. The dress she's planning on wearing. The uniforms she's picked for my staff and me. "I hope this is okay. I wanted you all to be comfortable."

I take in the outfits: black tank tops, white suspenders, black skinny slacks, black patent leather oxfords. "We will most definitely be okay in this."

"My team took the liberty of getting everyone's sizes. Their uniforms are pressed and in their rooms." She swipes to another slide. "Here is where you come in." She taps the cocktail list. "I'd like all the cocktails to be of…" She pauses, shakes her head, and smiles. "I'll just say it. Of a sexual nature."

"Okay, I can do that." I smile back. "You realize nothing you're saying is throwing me off, right? This is not my first rodeo."

"I know, but it's my first time hosting arodeo, so to speak. So I'm a little nervous."

"I got you, I promise. You won't have to worry about a thing. You hired me to worry for you." I turn so I'm facing her. "A sexual nature? So drinks like Sex on the Beach?"

"Yes, but also more that are dirtier."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Screaming Orgasm."

She breathes in so fast that she starts to cough. "Excuse me?"

"It's the name of a drink," I say with a laugh. I reach over and pat her back as she coughs. "You okay?"

"You caught me by surprise."

"Sorry." I gently rub between her shoulder blades before removing my hand and focusing my attention on the iPad. "I'll come up with a list. Sound good?"

"Sounds perfect." Her voice is shaky, and it pleases me beyond explanation that I was able to shock her. She reaches forward, her hand shaking the slightest of amounts, and swipes the screen. "You're going to see a lot of familiar faces tomorrow. Your whole team will. It is of the utmost importance that nothing leaves the property."

Just as she says that, a tall woman with the most jet-black hair I've ever seen comes sauntering in carrying two pizza boxes and a bottle of wine. "Oh," she says. "I arrived just in time."

"Impeccable timing as always, River." Alison leans back in her chair. The relaxation River brings to the room is impressive. "Roberta, this is River, my publicist."

"Hi," I say as I stand and extend my hand. "Nice to meet you."

River's firm handshake would have been intimidating if I wasn't prepared for it. Luckily, I know exactly what to expect from women like her. "Alison has gone over the party with you then?" She flips open the pizza boxes and plates two pieces for Alison, then hands me an empty plate and tells me to help myself. She pours the wine and passes the glasses to us, never asking if we want it or not. I don't have the heart to tell her I won't be drinking it. "It's going to be a very hush hush event that I'm still not sure we should be doing."

"Don't say we, River." Alison sighs. "She just doesn't understand. I spend my entire life in front of cameras. I'd like to have this night at my own home and be able to just be myself."

"I do understand that, Alison. I'm worried. That's what you pay me to do."

"See?" I say as I playfully nudge Alison. "You pay people to do the worrying for you."

"Exactly." River smiles before she takes a sip of her wine. "So, no cameras, no cell phones, no paps, and under no circumstances will anyone be admitted that isn't on the list. I've already hired sharpshooters to nail any drones flying over."

I let out a laugh, but then River glares at me. "Wait, you're serious?"

"I'm very serious. Listen—what's your name again?"

"Roberta," Alison answers for me, and it makes my heart skip a beat.

"Listen, Roberta, this could cause a ripple that would have disastrous effects."

"It'll be fine." Alison takes a huge bite of pizza and chews, chews, chews, swallows, before she finishes with, "And if it's not, oh well." Her tone of voice and how she sort of says it under her breath has my brain working overtime. What does she mean, "Oh well"? I'm not supposed to ask questions, or I would. Like, what the hell is going to happen at this party? Do I need to be concerned? Is this going to be a rich people fight club? Because I've been hired to handle one before and it was definitely not my jam.

"It's not ‘oh well,' Alison. I sometimes think you don't take this seriously at all." River practically downs her entire slice in a single chomp. "You need to remember this doesn't only affect you."

"Oh my god," Alison says under her breath. "You're not seriously having this conversation with me. I've been performing since I was sixteen, River. You've been my publicist for nearly twenty years. I'm not stupid, nor do I not take this seriously. I know what I've built, and I'm not ready to let it crumble to the ground. Just stop. Please."

"Alison, this party could?—"

"River, I swear to god." Alison didn't smack her hand on the table, but the way she laid it flat was enough to make even me shrink. And I had nothing to do with this conversation. "I know what I'm doing. And I know what I'm getting myself into."

"You didn't when you decided to get mixed up with Max North, and you know I was right about him."

River isn't backing down, and all I want to do is crawl under the table to escape the awkwardness. I've had just about enough, truthfully, and the one sip of wine I've downed isn't nearly strong enough to take the edge off.

"Jesus." Alison groans and looks at me. "Roberta, how much do you want this conversation to continue?"

I've just taken a bite of pizza myself, so I'm not prepared to respond. "Uh?—"

"Not at all, right?" Alison winks. "See? River, you're making my guest very uncomfortable."

"You hired her, Alison. She's going to side with you no matter what."

"Actually," I start after I finally swallow my bite of pizza. "I feel like Alison knows what she's doing. I mean, look at her. She's coming off the heels of the most attended tour in the history of the world." I let out a laugh. "Of course, I have no idea what this party even entails, so maybe I should ask before I side with—" I stop abruptly when Alison glares at me. It's not a mean glare. It's joking, which causes my heart to flatline. I don't want to believe it, but I think she's flirting with me, and it's a thousand times more intoxicating than that whole bottle of wine would be. "I mean, yeah, Alison is right."

The smile that spreads across her face is gorgeous. "See, River? Everything will be fine."

"I'm always outnumbered when you start smiling at the girls, Alison," River says with a laugh. Alison joins in as she pours herself more wine. Her laughter makes it surprisingly less weird, even though her comment has my brain functioning at Mach speed now. What does she mean, smiling at all the girls? What the hell is going on? Are all the rumors I've heard actually true? No way. That can't be possible.

"I'm just joking around." River's voice when she says that is not at all serious. I know people. I've essentially been paid to read body language and tone of voice for the past twenty years.

"Tomorrow will be an exciting party, Roberta," Alison says softly. "I should probably tell you now and prepare you." She clears her throat. "I'm into women. And I obviously cannot come out. If I do, it would probably do devastating things to my career as well as inadvertently out every woman I've had sex with. This party is a way for me to have the fun I want to without being ostracized. Everyone attending will be in the same boat, which is the reason for the extensive NDA."

She isn't looking at me, but I am 100 percent looking at her. I haven't been able to take my eyes off her since she started speaking. Her demeanor, the way she seems relieved and also worried, how she's holding her hands in her lap, the bobbing of her foot. I want to touch her, tell her it's okay and that it would never change my mind about her. I would be her fan regardless, even though I wasn't her fan to begin with. I feel ashamed suddenly that I could have been liking her and loving her music for the past however many years, and I've been asleep the entire time.

"That makes a lot of sense," I say softly, hoping she notices I am not at all surprised or upset by this new information. "And you know my team is the most trustworthy team you'll ever do business with."

"It'll get out," River says. "I'm already prepared to do cleanup of the entire weekend. My team is ready." She shrugs. "It won't be the first time or the last time, unfortunately. I just wish Alison here could be out and proud." Her voice is laced with sorrow, and for the first time, I actually trust this woman. I hate to admit I was irritated with her at first, but after hearing how she said that, she really only has Alison's best interests at heart. "Maybe one day, right, sweetheart?"

Alison's eyes have filled with tears. I wish I could describe what my heart does upon seeing that, but I literally have no words. Everything just stops. I want to hug her, tell her it's okay, tell her that on the other side of hate is love and acceptance and happiness. "Yeah, one day." She doesn't believe her own words. That much is obvious. "So, anyway, your job tomorrow will be to execute the party and make sure that there are no cell phones, no cameras, and no one sneaking into the party who hasn't been invited. It's only my closest friends, but you know how that goes."

Yeah, I do know how that goes. I clear my throat. "Will you have someone here that you'll be, y'know, with or whatever?" My question is coming across as way too jealous, even if a part of me is, for some stupid reason. I mentally smack myself. "Just so I know who to look out for. Does that make sense?"

Alison's left eyebrow arches. "It does, yes. And no. I do not."

"Oh, okay."

River leans forward. "It'll all go as planned, I'm sure." She pats the table and stands. "I'm going to head out. I'll be here tomorrow at four. Okay?"

"Sounds good. Don't forget to take Margot with you."

"I won't." She points at Alison. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you, too, River." Alison has stood and is around the table hugging River now. The way River smooths her hand over Alison's back has nothing but affection tied to it. These two have been a pair for the better part of almost two decades. They understand each other, and it's refreshing to see.

We watch River leave, a silence settling between us that has me wondering what the fuck I should say next. After a full minute of nothing but me debating whether or not I should try and escape—because what if I fuck this up?—Alison looks over at me. She doesn't say a word, just stares.

"What?" I ask when my eyes lock onto hers.

"You being hired? It wasn't by accident."

My mouth is as dry as the desert. "Excuse me?"

"I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well, okay?" Alison reaches over and covers my hand with hers. And that's when I decide I'm in way too deep. Jesus Christ. I watch her leave before I look around the room, completely bewildered. What did she mean by that? I should have never taken this job. I should have told Jeremy to shove it, to give it to another event executor who wouldn't be freaked the hell out by the sheer possibility that a super-mega pop star may or may not be into them. That entire sentence has me stifling a maniacal laugh. It's the craziest thing I've ever thought.

When I make my way to my bedroom, I sit on the bed and take about ten deep breaths, enough that I'm feeling light-headed afterward. Enough that when there's a knock at my door I almost jump out of my skin. I shout, "Come in!" so loudly that I could have awoken the dead. Needless to say, when the door opens and Alison is standing there, I feel my entire body flush with heat. Of course it's her. Who the hell else would it be? "Hi. What's up?" I sound breathless. I am breathless. But, damn, how I wish I sounded smoother.

"I wanted to check on you." She shrugs as she leans against the doorframe. "I realize I dumped a lot on you. It's not always the easiest when I'm honest with people. Especially someone I've just met." Her face is completely free of makeup. She looks angelic. "Are you okay?"

I nod. How am I supposed to answer when my brain is misfiring?

"You sure?"

I force myself to focus, to take oxygen into my lungs, which have decided to fail me miserably tonight. "I'm good, yeah."

"You realize I signed a contract, too, right?" she asks after a brief silence. "I know you are off-limits."

I let out a laugh. "I'm off-limits?"

"I even put it in the NDA, per your handler." She tilts her head. "Are you saying you're not off-limits?"

"Alison," I say softly. I'm so beside myself that even my astonishment seems misplaced. "You could literally have anyone. I should be the last person on your radar."

"Well, you aren't." The tiny smile that appears on her perfect lips causes my stomach to bottom out. "The last person, I mean. At all." She lifts her chin. "Get some sleep." And she disappears, leaving me sitting there with absolutely no idea how to handle anything, no idea what to think, and no idea what the fuck is going on.