Jared popped another spring roll in his mouth, his eyes searching her face. He was as cute as Mike, though in a trendier, Justin Bieber sort of way—not really her type. “A lot of the reporters wondered why you weren’t part of the press junket, too. People kept asking me who would make a better Hanna Marin—Hailey or the real Hanna.” He grinned slyly. “I told them the best person to ask was Hanna Marin herself.”
Hanna stared down at the table. It was a good thing it was dark in the club, because her cheeks were blazing red. She could feel Jared watching her carefully, but it didn’t seem like he was baiting her. Had he noticed Hailey’s pitiful Hanna performance, too?
Suddenly, she felt a rush of uninhibited courage. She scooted closer to Jared and leaned into his ear. “Between you and me? I’d make the better Hanna.”
Jared cocked his head flirtatiously. “Oh really?”
Hanna’s gaze slid toward Hailey and Callum, who were deep in conversation about which New York City gym was swankier—La Palestra or Peak Performance. She glanced back at Jared and put a finger to her lips. Don’t tell. To which Jared pretended to lock his lips and throw the key over his shoulder.
Hanna giggled, and he held her gaze for a moment. Then, all of a sudden, he leaned forward and kissed Hanna full on the mouth. He tasted like bourbon, and his lips felt totally different than Mike’s. A full three seconds passed before Hanna realized what was happening and pulled away, but she’d already sensed a camera flash.
“Yeah!” Hailey called from across the table, her phone raised. “Super sexy! Do it again!”
But Hanna had already drawn back. She wiped her mouth. “What was that for?” she asked Jared, fully aware of her squeaky voice.
Jared crossed his arms over his chest, looking pleased with himself. “Well, now I’ve kissed both Hannas.” He eyed Hailey across the table. “And I have to say, you’re both pretty awesome.”
Hailey threw her head back and laughed. “Jared, you are a trip!”
But Hanna’s cheeks burned. She had a boyfriend. What if this got out? Should she tell Mike this instant?
But when she looked around, no one was paying attention to her. And less than five minutes after it had happened, Jared was talking to Callum about some club in LA like he’d forgotten the whole thing. She felt her heart slow down. Maybe what had just happened didn’t matter in the least. It wasn’t like Jared had dragged her to a back room and torn off all her clothes. In fact, perhaps Hanna should feel flattered that a huge star wanted to give her a harmless little peck.
She sat back in the chair and popped a spring roll in her mouth. There was absolutely no point in telling Mike what had just happened. He’d freak out, after all, and her night would be ruined. All Hanna wanted, she realized, was to have an unforgettable evening in an unforgettable VIP room with unforgettable people. No complications. No scandals. No A. Just . . . fun.
She smiled at the others around the table. The volume on the sound system turned up another notch, and everyone was spilling onto the dance floor. “What are we waiting for, party people?” Hanna said, dropping her fork, taking a final swig from her drink, and pulling Hailey to stand. “Let’s dance!”
And off they went.
14
OPENING NIGHT
On the west side of New York City, in the trendy Chelsea neighborhood, Aria exited a bathroom stall and examined herself in the long, narrow mirror. Her dark hair was pulled off her face, revealing her clean, flawless skin. Her eyes shone, and her naturally-pouty lips looked especially shiny with gloss. She’d bought a sleek, sophisticated black dress for the occasion, pairing it with strappy gladiator heels and a bunch of studded bracelets. She was going for the “cool girl on the town, out for a night of gallery-hopping” look.
Until she pushed through the bathroom door, looked around the gallery space, and remembered. Every painting on the wall was hers. Lots of them had soft gray stickers on them to mark they’d already been sold.
Portraits of random people around Rosewood she’d quickly painted in the last few days were along the far wall. Colorful abstracts lined the space near the bar. The “dark series,” as Aria called the paintings she’d done after Nick’s attack, took up another wall. Each painting was numbered, and a discreet price list was available by request. Aria had been almost too afraid to look at the prices they’d set, but Ella had forced her. Her largest painting, one of her mother laughing, was for sale for two hundred thousand dollars.
It was unreal. As were the invites to underground art parties in Brooklyn, phone calls from indie bands who wanted Aria to paint their next album covers, and the fact that her name, all alone, had become a hashtag on Twitter. As in: Scored an invite to #AriaMontgomery opening tonite. Huge deal!