Chapter 3

THREE

AMBER

M y bag thuds when I drop it onto the sidewalk.

I choke back the urge to cry as I shift a howling Maddy on my hip.

We're back in the parking lot, and I still haven't found my keys. They weren't in the locker room. Nor on the floor. Or in the trash can by the door. Or on the bench where we waited for class to start. They aren't anywhere. They're just gone .

I pat the pocket on my loose shirt for the third time, but they haven't magically appeared.

With no other pockets or bags, there isn't anywhere else to check. I swallow thickly and will myself to think of a solution, but it's nearly impossible to focus because Maddy is screaming like I'm causing her bodily harm instead of carefully balancing her in my arms.

I try rubbing her back and crooning in her ear. It doesn't work. If anything, she cries harder.

It's almost painful to look down at her splotchy face and her sweaty hair. She's miserable, which makes everything worse. I wish I were better at this.

I'm not an idiot. I knew being a single mother was going to be hard, but nothing could have prepared me for the hopelessness of not knowing how to make her stop crying.

Why won't she stop?

I wonder if I should call the doctor. She doesn't have any signs of sickness, but she's been crying so much the last few days and nights. It can't be normal. Can it?

I start berating myself for insisting on driving us to swim class alone. I haven't gone anywhere without security in years. I haven't driven a vehicle in nearly as long. Is it possible I've forgotten how to be a normally functioning human?

I fear the answer is a resounding yes.

The truth is, I thought I could handle an hour alone with my baby.

Wrong.

Maybe I am an idiot.

I wish my parents were still here. They stayed with me for just over five months after Maddy was born. My mother gave me as much guidance as she could, but neither she nor my father want to spend the rest of their lives surrounded by my fame, let alone join me on tour. I thanked them profusely for their help and convinced them I had everything under control so they could escape the fishbowl that is my life. Thankfully, they can't see me now.

Since crooning isn't making a difference, I switch to a lullaby while crouching down to dig through my bag again. It's useless, but I'm not sure what else to do.

Unsurprisingly, I still don't find my keys.

When I realize I haven't seen my phone, either, I rock back on my heels. I'm not even sure I brought it. I can't seem to function without my assistant.

How pitiful.

I stand up, kick my bag, and then giggle, almost hysterically, as I imagine what would happen if the paparazzi caught photos of me now. They probably won't. Swim class is still in session, so there's no one around, and the only way to get to the pool is through the guarded gate at the bottom of the hill. We're on the property of an elite school, and the head of security assured my manager that they take privacy very seriously.

The prospect of being spotted and filmed should be enough to get me to pull myself together, but it isn't. I kick my bag again and let out an even louder bark of laughter.

Maddy pauses mid-scream, her eyebrows bunching together. I kiss her forehead and she lets out another wail.

I repeat the overly loud laugh and she halts for a second before resuming her crying.

Yep, she definitely wants me to keep going. We can compete—whoever's the loudest wins.

How fun.

When swim class gets out, I'll beg one of the other parents to help me. It'll be horrifically embarrassing, but it's a very expensive and exclusive class, so I can trust them.

Probably. Maybe.

I drop back into a squat and shift Maddy's weight onto my thigh.

She gets a chunk of my blonde hair caught in her tiny little fist and yanks so hard that my head snaps forward. I try to pry her fingers open, but her grip is tighter than the lid on a jar of pasta sauce, and my hair is basically stuck like glue to her sweaty hands.

Just when I think things can't get worse, a masculine voice says, "Is everything okay?"

I dip my head, letting my hair fall forward so it mostly covers my face, and turn to spot a pair of expensive-looking leather loafers a few feet away.

Great. Just great. Not only am I in the middle of a crisis, but now I've got a witness.

I mumble, "Everything's fine."

It's probably too much to hope that he'll believe me. Especially when evidence suggests otherwise.

"What was that?" he says, loud enough that I can hear him over Maddy's screaming.

I drop my head even lower, desperate to avoid giving him a clear view of my face. If he recognizes me, there is absolutely nothing stopping him from taking a picture and selling it to the highest bidder.

My security team could stop him, but they aren't here.

Because I'm an idiot.

"I can't find my keys," I practically shout.

"I could help you look. Or I could hold the baby while you look."

Should I thrust my six-month-old into the arms of a stranger? Probably not.

Does that stop me? Not at all.

I rise and shove Maddy into his chest, careful to keep my hair over my face. He grunts a little as he takes her, and then, in a smooth move, shifts her so she's facing him.

I drop back to my knees and frantically search through my bag—even though I know my keys aren't there. Why did I bring such an enormous bag to swim lessons? And why do I keep looking inside it?

I send a prayer into the universe. Keys. Phone. Either will do.

Nothing materializes. Stupid universe.

Suddenly, I realize Maddy isn't crying, and my head snaps up. I brush the wall of hair off my face. The sight that greets me is astonishing. The man's knuckle is wedged between Maddy's gums, and she's gnawing on it like it's the best thing she's ever tasted.

I gawk at the impossible.

My keys. My phone. My distress. Everything is forgotten. Because I'm transfixed by my daughter's wide-eyed delight.

"I think she's teething," the man says softly.

I snap out of my daze, suddenly aware that I'm staring at my daughter as if seeing her for the first time. "Teething." I try to hide my surprise as I rise to my feet.

He studies me steadily, and if he recognizes me, he's kind enough to keep it to himself.

"I think so. Her chin is covered in drool and her bottom gum looks a bit swollen. Plus, she seems pretty happy now that she has something to chew on."

A strange mixture of relief and disappointment bubbles up inside me. I'm pleased he knows how to soothe Maddy, but I'm embarrassed that teething didn't even occur to me. Why is nothing about raising a baby intuitive?

"I'm impressed," I tell him.

He shrugs casually, as if he hasn't done the incredible.

With my daughter chewing on his finger, he couldn't appear less threatening, and I have an irrational urge to start asking him every baby-related question that pops into my head.

Because that wouldn't be weird.

I study him carefully, as if I can figure out his baby whispering secret just by looking at him. His button-up shirt and pressed chinos are understated and give him an average guy vibe that I don't encounter very often. Musicians, dancers, athletes, celebrities—we're all trying to make a statement. But this guy, with his tidy haircut, smooth-shaven cheeks, and calm voice, doesn't seem like he's trying to garner attention.

His lack of artifice is as odd as his easy confidence. Who is he, and why is he here?

And why did he think Maddy might be teething?

Does he have kids of his own? Younger siblings?

Is he a genius?

He can't answer questions I'm too embarrassed to ask, so I'm left with no choice but to speculate. I can't seem to pinpoint why I'm so desperate to understand him—maybe it's because I don't know anyone other than my mother who can pick up a baby and simply know exactly what to do.

I give a little shake of my head and try to focus on my current problem.

I open my mouth to confess that I'm stranded just as his gaze flicks to Maddy. He smiles at her, and my heart melts at the expression on his face. It's almost affectionate. He obviously likes kids and isn't intimidated by tears. Maybe the universe was listening. It didn't give me my keys, but it did deliver him.

"Do you know a lot about babies?" I blurt.

"I have a bit of experience," he responds as the breeze ruffles his brownish hair. He's handsome in a nondescript sort of way. A bit taller than me. Lean, but not skinny. Eyes that might be brown, although I think I spot a hint of green, too. With the sun behind him, I can't quite tell. Is it strange that I'm focused on deciphering his eye color?

"Well, you certainly know more than me. Maddy looks happier than she's been in days."

His lips turn up. "Don't take it personally. Teething can make babies quite fussy."

What an understatement.

I'm surrounded by people all the time. How is it that none of us considered Maddy might be teething? I guess it would've helped if someone in my entourage had kids.

This whole morning has been an unwelcome reminder that I need to find a nanny, like, yesterday . If I would stop rejecting candidates, I'd already have one.

"Did you find your keys?" the man asks as the silence stretches.

"Ugh…no. They aren't here." I nudge the open bag at my feet. "And neither is my phone."

"Is this your car?" He uses his pinkie to point at my Range Rover. "Because if it is, I think I know where your phone is."

I follow the direction of his pinkie, and yep, my phone is sitting on the dash. Because that's a great place for it to be.

My hands fly to my face, and I rub my eyes.

Operation Independent Mom: massive failure.

"I'd give you a ride, but I don't have a car seat," he says. "Is there someone you can call?"

There are lots of people I can call. My assistant. My manager. My head of security. My driver. Teddy. Scratch that—I can't call Teddy. If I call him, he'll think I want to get back together. Which I don't. Ever .

The guy shifts Maddy into the crook of his elbow so he can dig his phone out of his pocket. "You can use mine," he says as he extends it toward me.

I reach out but then hesitate. My phone has all my numbers programmed into it, and I can't think of a single one off the top of my head.

I don't even know my number.

Operation Take Care of Myself: also a failure.

"I don't know anyone's number," I admit.

"Oh, well…that makes sense," he says slowly. "You could…call your label?"

He knows who I am. It's not surprising, and honestly, it was na?ve of me to think he might not recognize me.

There's nothing I can do about it now, so I smile weakly and shake my head. I'm definitely not calling my label. There are more leaks in that building than a strainer. The last thing I need is for this to become news.

"I guess I could call my parents." I start to dial my childhood phone number when I remember that I gifted them a twenty- one-day Mediterranean cruise for their anniversary. They won't be home for two more weeks. Sigh.

I tip my head back and wrack my brain. There must be another number in there somewhere.

Slater Jones.

My high school boyfriend is now a professional football player. I used to dial his number every night when I was a teenager—my parents wouldn't let me have a cell phone. I hold my breath, enter the nine digits I'll never forget, and bring the device up to my ear.

It rings and rings and goes to voicemail.

I relax when I hear Slater's voice on the recording, but don't bother leaving a message—I wouldn't answer an unknown number either. Instead, I hang up and send a text: This is Amber…I need a favor.

A second later, the phone vibrates in my hand.

"Amber?" a high-pitched voice says as soon as I answer.

"Who is this?" I ask suspiciously, hoping it's Slater's girlfriend but not willing to assume. With the way my luck is going, someone could have stolen his phone and they're the one calling me back.

"It's Ellie," she confirms. "Slater's filming a commercial. He was supposed to be done thirty minutes ago, but they're running late. What's up? Why are you calling from a random number?"

"Funny story." I laugh unconvincingly. "I took Maddy to swim class this morning, and I locked my phone in my car—and then I lost my keys. Or, I lost my keys and then locked my phone in the car. I don't know. The order isn't important."

"You're alone ?" She says it like she can't believe I took Maddy by myself.

It's hard not to be offended by her tone—I mean, I get it, but also, I'd like to be the sort of person people regard as competent.

"Yes. I thought I could handle it. The pool is exclusive, and the property has security." As I say it, I wonder if I should have thought to walk down the winding road to the entrance gate and ask the guard for help.

Too late now.

"Oh…I didn't mean to insinuate…" She trails off. "So, you're stranded?"

"Yes," I admit in defeat.

"I guess I could come and get you? I don't have a car myself, but we're still in L.A., and a service is waiting to take us to the airport. I think I could get them to bring me to you instead." She pauses. "Although, it might take a while to get to wherever you are."

"No. No. I don't need you to come get me. I know you're heading to the airport this afternoon. I just need you to check Slater's phone and see if he has the number of anyone from my team."

"Any thoughts on who I should look for? Brian?"

"Yes." Does my oldest friend have my manager's number?

Gosh, I hope so.

I glance over to where Maddy is still happily gnawing on the stranger's knuckle. Who is this guy? And why is he being so nice?

Because I'm Amber Hope.

"Brian Geary?" Ellie asks.

"Yes." The tension releases from my shoulders. "Can you send me the number?"

She's silent for a second. "Done. Whose phone are you using?"

"Oh…uh…someone who stopped to help."

"A stranger?" Her voice rises a bit. She's probably thinking that while he might be a stranger to me, I'm likely not a stranger to him. "If you want to call me back after you talk to Brian, I'll be here. Or, if you need anything, I can..." She trails off again.

She's the sweetest thing, and I'm not just saying that because she has every one of my songs memorized. I'm saying it because she makes my best friend happy. I love Slater like a brother, and she accepts my relationship with him without jealousy—even knowing we dated in high school.

Also, she doesn't hold it against me that I begged Slater to pretend to be Maddy's father. I was a mess, and she could have judged me.

"I think I'll be fine. I'm going to call Brian and he'll send someone to get me right away."

"Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks, Ellie," I say before hanging up. I make eye contact with—I still don't know his name. "I'm going to call my manager."

He nods, like waiting for me to get my shit together is no big deal.

I have a quick conversation with Brian, where he promises to get me and Maddy as soon as possible. Afterwards, I shore up my courage and say, "It seems like you already know who I am."

His eyebrows raise slightly. "The whole world knows who you are."

He's not wrong, but I appreciate him not being weird about it, so I force a laugh. "I really appreciate your help. My…uh…manager and security team are on their way. When they get here, my manager is probably going to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement. He's protective of me, and it's important that Maddy's shielded as much as possible from the public eye. I don't want her to be news more than she already is…and, uh…this whole morning has been embarrassing, and?—"

"Ms. Hope," he interrupts. "I'm not going to sell you out. I'll sign whatever you need me to sign, and you can even hang onto my phone until someone gets here to pick you up."

I blink at him in astonishment. It isn't like I'm not aware that there are decent people in the world, but I've come to expect that everyone wants a piece of me. Why isn't he asking me for something in return for his silence?

"Thank you, Mr…" I still don't know his name.

"Nolan Byrne."

"Mr. Byrne," I repeat. And then I just stand there, because I have no idea what to say next.

I interact with strangers all the time. Meet and greets. Fundraisers. Special events. Fans. I'm known for being approachable and friendly. And yet, standing next to Nolan Byrne while my daughter chews on his knuckle is somehow outside of my comfort zone.

Maybe it's because this morning has been such a disaster. Or maybe I've forgotten how to engage in small talk with anyone who isn't paying money to chat with me. Double sigh.

"You want me to take Maddy back?" I suddenly ask. It's probably odd that he's still holding her.

The edges of his mouth tilt upward, and the hint of a dimple appears on his cheek. "She seems comfortable, and I don't mind keeping her, but obviously you can take her if you want."

He starts to shift her toward me, but before he can extend his arms, I hold up a hand. I'm not sure I'll be able to handle it if he gives her back to me and she starts crying again.

I might start crying, too.

Wouldn't that be great? It'd be like a symphony of distress.

"You can keep her for a bit. She seems to like you." I smile like it doesn't bother me that he got her to stop crying without laughing hysterically. It isn't like I want to highlight the fact that I'm a mess today.

Nolan interrupts my spiraling brain. "Do you have any teething rings or toys in that bag?"

I'd rather not admit that I don't have anything kid-related with me, but I can't conjure a toy, so I confess, "I don't. I have quite a few hair products. And some makeup. But no toys."

His eyes crinkle. "Guess we'll stick with my knuckle."

"Thank you," I say again. Something about his relaxed manner gets me to admit, "I didn't expect swimming lessons to be such a failure."

He cocks his head to the side. "She usually likes the water?"

"She does. She goes in the pool all the time. But?—"

"This pool is too cold," he finishes for me.

"Right? Why do they keep it so cold?"

"It has something to do with optimal temperature for exercise, I think."

Brian's red Tesla careens into the parking lot and screeches to a stop behind my Range Rover. The doors fly open and Brian, my assistant Mina, and two of my security guys tumble out.

Brian and Mina beeline toward us while one of the guards stops at the Range Rover, holds up a key, and then reaches out to smoothly open the door.

When Mina reaches us, she tuts like she can't believe I'm stranded in a parking lot. "I told you not to go without your security. Can you imagine what your parents will say when they find out?"

I point at her and, as sternly as I can, say, "You will not tell my mother."

She smirks at me. She's totally going to tell my mother. I rub my forehead.

"Who are you?" Brian asks Nolan, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"A good Samaritan, obviously." I drop my hand and affect a breezy smile. "Mr. Byrne stopped to see if I was alright and allowed me to use his phone to call you." I omit the fact that I had to call Slater first. I'm embarrassed enough as it is.

"Mr. Byrne," Brian says, tapping on the tablet clutched in his hands. "Thank you for your assistance. I'm Amber's manager, Brian Geary. I hope you realize her privacy is of the utmost importance?—"

"Brian," I interrupt, unwilling to subject Nolan to Brian's entire speech. "He already told me he won't sell me out. He let me hold his phone the whole time, and he figured out why Maddy is so fussy."

"I appreciate all of that," Brian says, his gaze softening. "You know it would still be best if he signed an NDA."

My shoulders droop. "I know."

"I don't mind. Truly." Nolan chuckles. "It isn't even the first one I've signed today."

I don't have time to parse out what he means, because he deposits Maddy into my arms, takes his phone back, and accepts the tablet Brian thrusts in his face. Thankfully, Maddy doesn't start crying now that she's back in my arms. I shove my knuckle in her mouth just in case.

"If you'd like a copy, I can email you one," Brian says when Nolan's done.

"I think I can survive without a copy." He hands the device back to Brian. Then, he turns to me. "Ms. Hope. Maddy. It was a pleasure."

"Umm…yes. Thank you," I stammer.

He nods, pivots, and starts to walk away.

"Thank you!" I shout again. He waves over his shoulder and keeps walking.

I'm so confused. He didn't ask me for anything . Not even an autograph, or a selfie. I don't want him to leave without me giving him something in return, but I can't imagine chasing him down and handing him one of the signed photos in my bag. He'd probably think I was crazy.

If he hadn't stopped, I'd be—I don't even know. I feel like I owe him. Maybe I could send him a gift?

I make a mental note to ask Mina if she has any ideas when we get home.