Crushes are strange things; they narrow rooms to corridors, reduce our senses to just the sound of a deep breath. If this were a movie, the entire warehouse would constrict to show just him and just me, the rest of the crowd dissipating into smoke. I took another breath. I hadn’t realized that I still had feelings for him until this moment.

The room regained noise. The piped-in music, pops of champagne bottles relieving pressure, susurrus of voices, snapping of high heels, and occasional bursts of laughter came roaring back into my ears. “The man we can thank for our album getting shifted to the fast track,” Yumi mused. Jake Jamz had told us that Stephen’s new album wouldn’t be ready in time for the mid-season finale of Sing It, which is why our single—and Gloss—got the promotional slot. It would coincide with our wide release the following week. “Who’s that with him?”

He turned as if he’d heard this criticism, spotted our pointed stares, and held up a hand as if to say hello. A tall, lithe brunette, made taller by stilettos, clutched his other elbow. Yumi raised an arm in return, but by the time I could command my limbs, his attention was back on his date.

Meredith removed herself from the group and came over, following our gaze across the room. “He’s cute, I guess. What do you think, Cassidy?” She was smiling at me, but there was a hint of knowing. I twisted so that my back was to Stephen and I was facing her. While it was excruciating to look at Meredith and her arched eyebrow, it felt safer than to continue staring at the cowboy hat bobbing across the room.

I cleared my throat self-consciously.

“I knew it!” she crowed. “Your face can’t keep a secret. You got to know each other on the set of Sing It, right? Maybe you can make a love connection. I bet Big Disc would love that—keep it in the family, twice the publicity, like Nickelodeon stars do. Or maybe they’d hate it—you know, ‘don’t shit where you eat,’ that sort of thing. Oops, he’s coming this way.”

“Please don’t say anything embarrassing.” I tried to remember what a normal facial expression felt like.

“Ladies,” said Stephen St. James. I hazarded a glance at his face and was relieved that it was mostly in the shadow of his hat brim. The leggy woman trailed behind him, as if in afterthought.

I murmured out a weak hello as Meredith said, “Hi there!”

“Stephen St. James,” he replied, extending his hand.

“I’m Yumi.” Yumi briefly accepted his hand before he held it out to me.

His hand was warm, large. Even though it was dim in the room, I could imagine his perfect, crescent-moon nail beds. I felt a callus on his palm.

He tried to shake off his double-take, but I saw it. “Cassidy! It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah.” My lips stuttered and then stopped. I tried to think of something else to say, but my throat constricted. The brunette filled in the gap by pushing past the wide brim of Stephen’s hat and extending a delicate hand. “Jeannette.”

“She’s a model, was just in Milan.” Stephen regained our attention and stepped closer to our circle, edging Jeannette out. “By myself, I only get to see below the Mason-Dixon line, but maybe Jeannette will take me international one of these days.”

Meredith took that opening. “How’s the tour been?”

“Oh, it’s been wild. I’ve still been promoting my first album everywhere while recording the second. Been all over, lately. Atlanta, Nashville, Dallas. You know how it is.”

“We’re about to open for Illuminated Eyes, which should be cool!” Meredith said, as she reached out and held my arm. “I’m excited to not dance in a mall again, and move on to real stadiums and stuff. Are you touring mostly in the South?”

“Ha, I defy genres, but I’m still a Southern boy at heart.” He grinned, cratering a deep dimple in one cheek. “Though I think our label would like to list me as R&B with a hint of country. Hence the”—he tapped his hat.

“And Jeannette, what were you doing in Milan?” Yumi asked politely.

“Well I—”

“Oh, will you excuse me,” Stephen interrupted, and brushed past us, breaking our circle. I watched as Jeannette smiled apologetically and followed. Stephen grabbing at Jeannette’s delicate hand as they left our group was all I could see before they both melted into the crowd.

“Rude,” Meredith remarked.

“She barely spoke. How can that be rude?” Yumi said.

Meredith glanced at me. “I meant St. James. He didn’t let her get a word in at all. It was just about him, him, him.” She grabbed my shoulders with both hands, turning me toward her. “Never mind either of them,” she said emphatically, but the back of Jeannette’s dress plunging low, showing an intricate mandala tattooed between the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, was now carved into my mind. “Look! We’re at this amazing party that’s being held in our honor and we’re awesome, right? Let’s have fun.”

Rose sidled up and rested her fingertips on my arm, as if in warning. “I hope you’re not just hanging out with one another here; we can do that anytime at the apartment. We’re here to do a job.”

A face in the crowd turned toward me just then, and though it was dark, there was no mistaking that fringe of false eyelashes, thick as a moth’s wings. Her cheekbones, razor sharp, emphasized the hollow of her jaw. I marveled at her face, wishing my own bones would protrude like hers did. Suddenly, my own newfound slimness wasn’t enough.

The woman glided over, gesturing widely with one undulating arm, like she was directing an orchestra. “Ladies,” she murmured.

“Miss Jake,” I said reflexively, gazing at one of the women who had judged me from afar during Sing It.

Emma Jake was in head-to-toe tangerine orange. She wore a crepe muumuu with slick orange pants underneath, glasses with tiny oval orange-tinted lenses, and orange ballet slippers. It was an outfit for an eccentric old woman—or an aged pop star. I supposed that once you made enough money and built up your name, you could wear whatever you felt like without your industry peers judging you.

“Congratulations,” said Emma Jake, her voice lilting slightly, as if she were imitating a British accent. “I persuaded Marsha to let me have an early listen of your album. It’s pure pop magic.”

We chorused our thanks.

Emma waved her hand at us quickly, fluttering it like an energetic bird. “Oh, don’t be sycophants. You are all very lovely.” Here she paused, dipping her orange-tinted sunglasses down the length of her nose. She looked us up and down, taking our image in with calculated interest, before dropping the glasses on the ground and grasping at our arms. “Ladies,” she said in a stage whisper. “You’re going to be big. I have a sense about these things. I knew that that St. James fellow was going to win even before he actually won it. Pardon me, dear,” she added swiftly, tugging on my forearm a little tighter. Her breath smelled like the beach, coconutty—not what I expected. “I liked you, but St. James was going to be the solo star. You see already.”

“Of course, Miss Jake,” I stammered.

We were interrupted by a squeaky male voice ringing out over the speakers. Peter had an awful speaking voice, but he was our manager. Since he was standing on the stage holding a microphone, people stopped chatting to turn toward him. Peter smoothed his suit lapels and straightened and said, “Welcome to the launch party for Gloss! Everyone having fun?” The crowd whooped.