This was the brunch from hell.

Ella pushed around her pancakes, drowning the coconut flapjacks in a pool of honey. Beside her, Louise was on her third Bloody Mary of the morning. Not because Louise was hungover — Margaux stuck to her guns and wouldn't let any of them go out after the concert — but because she had to listen to Lexi speak.

Ella eyed the girl in question.

There was nothing wrong with Lexi, per se; in fact, if she wasn't feeding Max strawberries, Ella grudgingly admitted that she would probably like her.

But there was something about her voice.

It was so high-pitched. And grating. She felt like her ears were being slowly sandpapered off every time that Lexi spoke.

Okay, so that was mean.

But Ella was allowed to be a little petty this morning. Especially because this brunch was not her idea, and given the opportunity, she might strangle herself to death with one of the monogrammed napkins soon.

Next to her, Oliver shifted.

"Whose idea was this brunch?" he whispered, as if he had read her mind.

Surreptitiously, Ella tipped her head toward Margaux.

"Oh, god," Oliver groaned. "Why would she do this to us?"

"Team bonding, apparently."

"But Vienna's not here," he pointed out.

"I know." Ella continued to mutilate her pancakes. "Lucky girl."

Oliver arched an eyebrow. "Can't we just do a human knot?"

"Don't worry," Ella muttered. "I think Lexi already has that covered."

The girl in question sat on Max's lap, her arms wrapped around his neck in a way that Ella secretly (okay, not so secretly) found inappropriate for an 11 a.m. brunch. She watched, horrified, as Lexi kissed Max's neck. Louise took one look at her brother and immediately signaled a waiter.

"Another drink, please," Louise said, looking green. "Actually, make it a double."

Lexi twisted around in a pretzel formation so that her body was facing them, but her head was fully facing Max. Ella would have been impressed by her flexibility if she didn't feel so ill.

"What did you say she does, again?" Ella asked tightly.

"Back-up dancer," Louise explained, taking a large swig of her next drink.

Of course.

Right. That was it. She couldn't do this.

Before Ella was fully aware of what she was doing, she scraped her chair back, rising to her feet. Seven pairs of eyes snapped to look at her. She was aware that with her jean overalls and frizzy blonde hair, she probably bore a shocking resemblance to Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia, but not in a good way. Meryl looked great in overalls. Ella looked like Corduroy bear.

"I need to go back to the hotel," Ella said, and then desperately attempted to back up her statement. "To lie down. I have jet lag."

Immediately, Max was all concern.

"I can walk you back to the hotel." He shifted Lexi, as if he was preparing to move her. "Let me grab my things—"

"No!" Ella half-squealed. Oh, god, that was the very last thing she wanted: an extended conversation with Max about his new girlfriend. "No, that's okay. It's only five minutes."

"Oh, good," Rory said. "Can you stop by my tailor on the way? I have a jacket that I need to pick up."

"Sure," Ella said.

"And get me a lemon juice?" His expression was hopeful. "For tonight's show?"

Even though that was the very last thing Ella wanted to do, she nodded. "You bet."

Rory went back to his bacon and eggs, looking very pleased. Louise looked like she was coming up with plans to murder Ella via pancake.

"Don't you dare leave me," Louise hissed, grasping her arm. "Ella Walker, I swear to god, if you take one step out of this restaurant—"

"Bye, Lou." She kissed her on the cheek. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

Ella hurried out of the restaurant, pulling on a light jean jacket. It was still odd not to need a winter coat — in Canada, going outside in December without a jacket was akin to suicide — and the blinding sunshine felt inappropriate for her current mood. She took a left at a cheerful shop selling acai bowls, retracing their earlier steps. Two girls on rollerblades passed by, giggling about the concert that evening.

"Do you think Max will wear his leather jacket?"

"Oh my god, I hope so."

"And that Rory. So dreamy."

"I'm more of a Theo girl myself, but I—"

Oh, please no. Ella couldn't take any more. She was scrambling in her pocket for her phone — to dial Sophia or Ophelia or possibly both — when someone called her name.

"Ella!"

Despite herself, Ella felt her heart lift.

But even as Ella turned around, she realized that the accent was all wrong; it was English, sure, but it was too crisp and clean around the edges. And sure enough, Oliver was jogging toward her, a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He was carrying a takeout box that was leaking honey.

"Pancakes," Oliver explained, offering it to her. "I thought you might want them."

Annoyingly, he wasn't even out of breath.

Then Ella realized the gravity of the situation.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "What if someone sees us?"

She glanced around, as if the paparazzi might jump out from behind the ice cream truck near the beach. And to be fair, they could; she had seen them hide weirder places to get pictures of Rory over the years. He once found them crammed in an Amazon box.

"Why?" Oliver grinned. "Ashamed to be seen with me?"

His voice was teasing, but there was something uncertain about it, too. As if Oliver was a little worried that she might say yes.

"Of course not," Ella said, surprised. "I thought you might be worried to be seen with me."

Especially because she was sure Oliver was used to being papped with Victoria's Secret models and French actresses. Admittedly, Ella wasn't bad looking — okay, well, maybe in this outfit — but she wasn't particularly stunning either.

She was forgettable. And she was okay with that.

Most of the time.

"Are you kidding me?" Oliver grinned for real this time. "I've got a lot of time for you, Ella Walker. You're the best thing I've discovered in the U.S. so far."

"Thanks."

She could feel her cheeks turning red as they fell into step, and she decided to blame it on the early morning sun. It definitely wasn't because Oliver smelled like wood smoke and pepper. Absolutely not.

"So," Ella said, as casually as possible. "How long have Lexi and Max been dating?"

"I'm not sure." Oliver scrunched up his nose. "Three months, maybe? Not long."

Ella's heart sank.

That was long, though, at least for Max. Anything over two weeks was practically an engagement.

"And he likes her?" she asked.

Unfortunately, Oliver saw straight through her little charade. "Do you two know each other well, or something?"

"He's—" Like my brother. Ella couldn't even bring herself to say the words, though. "We grew up together," she said instead. "In Toronto."

"Ah." Oliver's expression cleared. "That explains a lot."

"What?"

Oliver shrugged. "He seems protective of you. That's all."

After that, Ella was careful to steer the conversation to anything but Max; Oliver told her about where he grew up (Devon) and when he started playing bass (age ten — he was obsessed with John Paul Jones from Led Zepellin). And as they tackled Rory's chores, pausing to eat bits of honey pancake outside the shops, Ella was surprised to realize that she was having...

Fun?

Yes. That was the word. Fun.

Miraculously, she and Oliver made it back to the hotel without anybody stopping them for photos or an autograph, and it was only when they were in the lobby that she realized she was covered in sticky honey.

Then Ella looked at Oliver, who had somehow managed to get honey in his hair, and she bit her lip to hide her smile.

"What?"

"It's—" Ella gestured to his hair. "You have something."

Oliver touched his hair with sticky fingers, compounding the problem, and she couldn't help but smile this time.

"I should shower," he said ruefully.

"Me, too."

There was a long pause, and Ella's brain over-analyzed the situation.

"But not, like, together," she blurted. "I mean in separate rooms." Her cheeks were on fire. "Obviously."

"Obviously," Oliver repeated, but he was grinning.

"So, I'll see you at the show later."

She was halfway to the elevator when Oliver called out.

"Ella!"

She turned, and Oliver's smile grew.

"Today was fun," he told her, and it was so similar to what Ella was thinking that she smiled in return.

She took her time in the shower, using the lavender-scented hotel soap to scrub away all the sticky residue from the honey. She shaved her legs and lathered her hair. And then, just for the heck of it, Ella sang, because why not? Louise wasn't home. She had the room to herself.

She could do whatever she'd like.

She picked up the melody of a song that she'd been working on — a Bach-meets-Billie-Eilish kind of mash-up — and Ella was surprised to hear that it wasn't terrible. It wasn't great. But it wasn't bad.

Not that she'd ever show it to anyone. Ever.

After about thirty minutes, Ella hopped out of the shower, pulling a towel around her body. She was still humming as she walked out of the washroom, walking into her room to find—

"Holy shit!"

Ella gave a little screech, stumbling back a few feet. Max, who was lying comfortably on her bed, looked at her in amusement.

"That's a good song," he said. "Who wrote it?"

"Max!" Ella tugged her towel tighter around her waist. "You can't just break into people's rooms!"

"Seriously," he said. "Was it Adele?"

"How the hell did you get in here?"

He tapped his chin. "No, wait, let me guess; it's an Andrea Bocelli remix."

"This isn't funny!" She glared at him. "I'm serious, Max."

Ella wasn't sure how scary she looked, standing in front of him in a fluffy white towel and smelling of lavender, but fortunately, Max sat up soberly.

"Easy." Max held up his hands in a "I-come-in-peace" gesture. "Louise gave me a key. She figured you wouldn't care."

Ella was going to kill her.

"I just wanted to check on you," Max continued, clearly oblivious to her inner turmoil. "You seemed upset at breakfast."

That, Ella thought, was the understatement of the century. "Can you turn around?" She made a little spinning gesture with her finger. "I'm going to put on clothes."

Max's expression changed. It was as if he had only just realized that Ella was in a towel, and his gaze darted to her chest, where water droplets were pooling in her collarbones and dripping towards her stomach. His eyes went dark.

"Yup," Max said hoarsely. "Turning around."

He faced the opposite wall, his spine stiff and straight. Ella fumbled blindly in her suitcase, cursing herself for not unpacking like Louise, and grabbed the first things that she could find: jeans, a faded white t-shirt, and white socks.

"Sorry about earlier," Ella muttered. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I should have told you about Lexi."

Ella pulled on her jeans viciously. "She seems nice."

"Yeah, she's..." Max hesitated. "Well, she's Lexi."

For the first time that Ella could remember, there was a long, awkward pause between them. Max broke first. "Oliver seems to like you," he said. "He wouldn't shut-up about you on the way home from the restaurant last night."

She paused in tugging her top on. "Really?"

"There's nothing going on between you, right?"

"No," Ella said, which was technically true; there was nothing going on between them yet. And anyways, even if there was, it was none of Max's business. "Okay, you can turn around now."

Max did so slowly, as if he was bracing himself for the possibility that Ella was lying and he was about to see her naked. She scowled at him, irritation pricking at her skin.

"You know, some men would consider it a privilege to see me naked."

Max looked horrified. "Elliephant, I practically raised you."

Ella expected the words to sting, but she didn't expect them to cut her quite so much. She turned to the mirror, pretending to comb a snarl out of her hair.

"You're right," she said evenly. "You're basically my brother, aren't you?"

She was half-hoping that Max would flinch, or show some sign that the words hurt him, but he just shrugged and said, "Rory certainly thinks so."

"You should go," Ella said, mostly because if Max spent a second longer lying on her bed and talking about how he was essentially a parent to her, she was going to scream. "You have a run-through soon, right?"

And an appointment to stick your tongue down Lexi's throat.

Okay, so the last thought was unfair, but Ella couldn't help it; she wasn't in a charitable mood. Max nodded, rising to his feet.

"You'll stop by the dressing room before the show?" he asked.

He sounded so hopeful that — even if Ella wanted to — she wasn't sure that she could say no. "Of course." She kept her eyes fixed on the mirror. "I'll be there."

It took her a moment to realize that Max was hovering near the door.

She arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I've just realized," Max said. "That song you were singing in the shower. You wrote it, didn't you?"

Ella froze, her hands tangled in her hair. She caught Max's eyes in the mirror, and she felt like her lungs were being crushed. Oh, God. He knew. She had never been good at hiding her feelings — especially not from Max — and now they were written across her face like music notes, easy to read and play with.

"Don't tell Rory," she said. "Promise?"

For a long moment, Max looked at her. Then he sighed.

"You're incredibly talented, Ella," he told her. "I wish you'd realize it."

And Max shut the door behind him.