(The Burke Brother #4)Dirty Tricks - Emma Hart

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Kye

FIVE WEEKS EARLIER

Chelsey slams the door of her apartment and turns to me, her blue eyes blaring in the low light from the lamp on the side table. “Take off your clothes.” I raise one eyebrow. I’ve had the hots for this girl for at least four years, and she thinks that she can tell me what to do? Hell fucking no. I take two steps toward her, closing the distance between us. “No, babe. That isn’t how we do this.” She shakes her head, her giggle a little drunken. “No, it is. We take off our clothes and then we fuck. And then you fuck off.” She giggles again. At least we’re agreed on that point. “Then why,” I whisper into her ear, ghosting my lips across her cheek, “are you still dressed?” She shoves me away and bends forward. She grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it up her body, over her head. It flies across the room and lands on the arm of the sofa. “I’m not.” The words have barely left her lips when she grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me toward her, hesitating for a second before kissing me. She tastes like the cranberry vodka she’s been drinking all night, and the kiss is a useless distraction from her attempt to remove my shirt. I break the kiss, tug off my shirt, then with my eyes burning into her, I wrap my hands around the back of her neck and pull her into me. She melts under the force of my mouth, her nails digging into my arms as I push her back against the door. My cock strains against my zipper, begging me to set it free. She gasps as it pushes against her lower stomach. Hell, I gasp, too. She feels so soft compared to me. Her skin is so smooth, and when I’m done with her, every inch of it will be slicked with sweat. She nips my lower lip and grins. I swing her around and yank her across the spacious apartment to where I assume her bedroom is. She guides me toward the right door and reaches behind her to open it, keeping her eyes on me. She’s surprisingly focused, and when she runs her tongue along her lower lip, there’s no more time for playing. I throw her onto her bed and kiss her feverishly. I guess this is what happens when you’ve lusted after a chick for a long fucking time and finally get her under you in nothing but lacy black underwear. Underwear that’s about to be gone. I kiss, lick, and nip my way down her body, exploring the curvature of her neck with my tongue, teasing her nipples with my lips, until my mouth is level with the waistband of her panties. She gasps as I remove

them, sliding them down her long, smooth legs and dropping them to the floor. Her lips part in a gasp as mine make contact with her wet pussy. She writhes beneath me as my tongue explores the heart of her. Her hands scratch at the bedding, grabbing desperately, her moans getting louder and louder as I edge her closer and closer to orgasm. Fuck, those little moans are driving me insane. I’ve looked at her so many damn times and wondered how she’d sound with her body at my mercy. So many times I’ve wanted to hear the sweet yet desperate cries fall from between those lips because of me. I’m certain she’s on the brink of her pleasure when she abruptly jerks away from me and slides down the bed. Her fingers are at my pants and undoing the fly before I’ve had a chance to comprehend what’s happening. I can’t hold in my sigh of relief as she frees my cock from the restraint of my clothing. I sigh even fucking harder when she closes her sweet mouth around it and sucks. My hands go to her head as she swivels her tongue around the tip of my cock. Fuck, if I’d known this was how my night would end when I approached her in the bar, all brooding and angry, I wouldn’t have spent half an hour weighing the pros and cons. If I knew a blow job was guaranteed, I’d have gone to her sooner. Not that I have a single fucking clue why she was pissed off, mind you. Just figured she needed some cheering up. So here I am. Cheering her up while she sucks my cock like a little champ. Her hand wraps around the base, and I close my eyes as pleasure weaves its way through my body. My dick throbs in her mouth, and I let her continue until every muscle is tight and I can’t take it anymore. I pull her mouth away and reach into my pocket for a condom. Once I’ve got it from my wallet, I roll it on, kick my pants off all the way, and push Chelsey back up the bed. I knee open her legs as she moans “finally” and position myself against her wet pussy. I look into her eyes as I push into her. She’s so fucking tight and wet, and I know this: the way it feels to be hugged by her is like nothing I’ve ever felt. And as I pound into her with my jaw tight and she grabs at me as her back arches, I know this is the kind of fuck that’ll haunt my dreams.

Chelsey

“Johnny, I swear to God, I don’t give a shit if you’re shipping off to the Middle East or to your nana’s backyard, you make one more comment about my tits and I’m going to shove your beer bottle so far up your ass you’re gonna be shitting it out next week.” The black-haired marine holds his hands up and laughs. “Now, Chels, you know me, darlin’.” I give him a pointed look and pause while wiping off the glass. “Exactly. Now y’all take your beers and behave.” Like Johnny Evans and Co. could ever behave themselves. I’m almost certain that he deliberately screws around when he’s on leave to make up for how disciplined he has to be in his job. “Behave . . .” Leila Burke muses, taking a seat on the stool just in front of me. I glance up, and her eyes flit from Johnny to me. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” I hold my hands up to signal my agreement, then reach for a wineglass. “Yeah, I know. But if he’s a prick later, I can remind everyone that I warned him.” “If he’s a prick?” She raises a dark eyebrow. “When he’s a prick. The guy gives Tate a run for his money.” Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Leila, no one gives Tate a run for his money. Not even your other brothers.” I pour her a glass of wine and set it in front of her. “Yeah, I don’t know. Right now, Mom might be winning. She seems to be struggling with the fact that her last baby is looking for a place to live that isn’t his current bedroom.” “Her last baby? Did she forget you?” “Apparently,” she says dryly. “When I left, Mom had Kye cornered and was touting all the perks of living at home. Including home-cooked meals nightly, getting his laundry done, and not having to worry about all the bills. I think she’s trying to scare him into staying.” “Even though Conner can live with Sofie, Ella and Tate can buy their cute little beachside house, and Aidan and Jessie can pretend they’re not living together in the house he’s making an offer on?” “And I can spend three months in Europe. Alone.” I bite down on my bottom lip in a fight to hide my smile. And I know exactly what happened in Europe. . . . “What’s your Dad saying?” “As long as Kye doesn’t knock someone up, he couldn’t give a crap. According to him, Mila is enough baby Burke for a while.” I see his logic. “You didn’t bring Kye with you, did you?” I glance at the door. Leila’s smile is slow and sly. “No. . . . Should I have?”

“No,” I burst out. Wait. No. That sounded desperate. “No,” I repeat, much calmer this time. I grab the cleaning spray from under the bar and squirt the shiny wooden surface. “Why would you bring him?” “I don’t know, Chelsey. Why would I?” I don’t need to look at her to know she’s basically silently peeing herself with laughter. She’s the only person I can’t beat into submission over this whole thing. Sofie, Ella, Jessie. . . . None of them will talk about him to me, but as soon as Leila enters the room. . . . Boom. There’s no living that night down. “Because you’re a sadistic bitch and you take pleasure in my uncomfortableness around him?” “You missed a spot,” she says with glee. “Oh, not on the bar,” she adds when I drop my eyes, “You missed the extremeness of my pleasure.” I roll my eyes and briefly consider throwing the wet cloth at her face. Just for my own amusement. “One-night stands aren’t a crime.” “I know. I had a very fun one with a hot Italian waiter.” “And the Spanish tour guide,” I remind her. “And the English singer . . .” “You make it sound like I whored my way around Europe.” She sniffs, lifting her wineglass. “I went to four countries and slept with only one guy in each. It was a total bucket-list item.” Oh yeah. There was also the French “artist” who she suspected was actually a taxi driver. “Whatever.” I choose to drop the cloth back where it belongs in the sink. “I’m just sayin’ it’s awkward to talk about it.” “Chels, you fucked my brother. It’s awkward even when we don’t talk about it.” I sigh heavily. I’m not going to tell her that the reason it’s awkward isn’t just because I slept with Kye, but because of the way the whole thing went down. Like, seriously. I don’t plan on sharing with everyone I know that the night he and I did the horizontal tango, I was on a mission to get totally wasted because my father had just informed me he’d knocked up his twenty-six-year-old groupie “girlfriend.” His girlfriend who happens to be eighteen months older than me. And he wonders why I have so little respect for him. Long story short, I was already well on my way to my goal when Kye turned up and distracted me. I wish I could say that was the worst part about it, but I’m a really forgetful drunk. I can have three glasses of wine and be hazy the next morning. So . . . Holy shit. It’s embarrassing to even admit to myself. The whole me-and-Kye-bumping-uglies thing is awkward because, well, I can’t totally, completely remember it all. The only thing I have full recollection of is the fact that Kye Burke can lick pussy like a champ. I’m assuming he can probably fuck like one, too, but my vagina and brain are conspiring to withhold this information from me right now. “Earth to Chelsey?” Leila bangs on the bar. “You have a customer.” I blink harshly and escape from my own head, then turn to the woman watching me expectantly. “Sorry, I spaced out there for a moment. What can I get you?” “Are you still serving food?” I glance at my watch. “If you order in the next thirty minutes we are.” “Perfect.” She lays the menu down and proceeds to reel off a food order. I write it down, nodding, and she also gives me her drink order. A few minutes later, her drinks are in her hands and I’ve taken her order to the kitchen.

“You know,” Leila says, shoving her empty glass toward me. “It’s always bugged me how the media never picked up on who you were.” I shudder at the thought. Since I had to spend my senior year of high school on the road after my mom died, my face is familiar to most national media outlets and all the local ones. Sometimes a non-story about me buying coffee or something will pop up, even now, especially when I look a mess. “They never admitted that it wasn’t Aidan cheating on Jessie when they ran that article. At least I don’t think they did.” Something I’m kinda thankful for. “I don’t think Marc knew it was you,” Leila responds, referring to Dirty B.’s ex-manager as she takes back her now-full glass. “If he did, he would have played off your dad’s name until there was a nationwide ink shortage.” I shudder again—except this time it’s worse. “Don’t even joke. I’ve had a shitstorm of calls ever since he announced the baby he’s having with that whore. I don’t even know how these idiots got my number.” “Well, for one, your number is on your Facebook page.” My head whips around at the sound of his warm, husky voice. The laughter laced through his words sends an involuntary shiver cascading its way down my spine. I pause before I respond, my eyes flitting across his face. Scruffy dark hair like he just got out of bed. Baby blue eyes glimmering with amusement. Curved pink lips, set just above a chiseled jaw that’s lightly dusted with two days’ worth of stubble. He looks like he just walked straight off a magazine cover. My stomach flips. “My old number is on my Facebook,” I correct him. I reach for my glass of lemonade and knock it over. Somehow I manage to catch the glass before it hits the floor, but lemonade spills everywhere. “Shit!” Leila snorts, and her brother chuckles. The sound of a stool scraping against the tiled floor tells me he’s fixing to stay, and I can’t avoid him like I have for the past month. It’s surprisingly easy to stay out of someone’s way in this town, even with how small it is. Mostly because you know they’re coming to find you before they’ve left their house, thanks to the Shelton Bay Gossip Grapevine. Obviously, Leila was in charge of this run-in. I put the mop back in the corner and take a deep breath to steady myself before I approach them again. Ignoring Leila’s eyes on me, I look at him. “Can I get you a drink?” Kye Burke meets my eyes and studies me for a second that feels like a lifetime. I lick my lips and his gaze drops for a second. “Dr Pepper,” he answers, bringing his eyes back up again. “That’s her second, and she can’t drive now,” he explains, nodding toward Leila. “Lucky for her, I walked down here.” “Not planned,” Leila deadpans, lifting her glass and finishing it. “But, hell. I’ll have another if he’s offering.” I roll my eyes and grab her glass. Once I’ve filled it, I pull down a pint glass and, at Kye’s nod, fill it with Dr Pepper. He hands me his card. “Her tab, too.” Leila shrugs like the baby sister she is, so I run the transaction through and hand him the receipt to sign. He scribbles on the line, and I shove it into the register without a second thought. “You know, most chicks are thrilled when I give them my autograph.”

“And most girls don’t realize that rock stars are all arrogant bastards.” I smile sweetly. His autograph my ass. Every business owner and bartender in Shelton Bay knows the Burke boys have two ways of signing their name—one is their actual signature, and the other is all fancy for their rabid little fangirls. “And the cell number on your Facebook is your current one,” he shoots back, holding the screen of his phone in my direction. I frown and grab it out of his hand, focusing in on the details. Fuck. He’s right. How the hell did that happen? I’d swear I haven’t updated that for months. “Crap,” I mutter, handing the phone back to him. His fingers touch mine with a warm brush as he takes it. “Internet,” Leila snorts. “Log in once and it knows your life story.” Kye raises an eyebrow and looks at her. “After your walk of shame through Europe, you should make a point to avoid it.” “Look, just because I got laid more than you . . .” He turns his attention back to me. “You can refuse to serve her, right?” “I can, but I’m not gonna lie, I wanna see where she’s going with this.” I lean forward and rest my forearms on the bar. “Lei?” She winks. “Kye, just because I got laid more than you while I was away doesn’t mean I’m ashamed. Maybe I should write about it. I could see doing a book, actually. Young Southern girl travels to Europe and meets sexy European men, then proceeds to get brains screwed out of—” “Please refuse to serve her,” Kye interrupts. “I’m gonna have a fuckin’ aneurysm if I have to listen to more of this shit.” Leila sits up straight, clearly affronted. “What, because I’m a girl, I can’t sleep with people and not care? If I were you, I’d be celebrated for it. Hell, all y’all have been celebrated for it just because you have a cock. If I had one, you’d be high-fiving me.” I purse my lips and slide my eyes to Kye. She has a point. “Sis, you can sleep with who you want. But the idea of some asshole having, ugh, sex with my little sister makes me want to chase him down and rip his balls off.” My gaze travels back to Leila. Good answer. “So? Maybe I’ve wanted to slice the nipples off every chick you’ve ever slept with.” She looks at me. “No offense, Chels.” My cheeks burn. “But I’ve never called you on it,” Leila continues. “Actually,” Kye responds, “you have. A lot. You called me on it after . . . well, Chels.” “That’s because she’s my friend.” “You didn’t call Aidan on Jessie.” “Maybe I like Chels more.” “When did I become the focal point of your fight?” I raise my eyebrows. “Can you take me out of it, please? I’d rather my private life not be common knowledge in town. Because, you know, some of us value our privacy.” That and we’ve managed to keep our little . . . encounter . . . relatively private for a month. Which is unheard of in Shelton Bay.

I don’t have the words to express how much I’d like to keep it that way. Private. Secret. Unheard of except by his family and my best friend. Who is, oddly, probably closer to being my family than my actual family at this point. The hottest rock star of the eighties and nineties, Lukas Young, is my father. Everyone expected me to be someone. To do something amazing. I work in a bar in small-town South Carolina. I’m a simple girl with simple dreams. I just happen to have a complicated past. . . . One I’d prefer to stay there. If it were to become common knowledge that I had my way with Kye Burke one night . . . It doesn’t bear thinking about. I’d be pushed to . . . Well. Do things I don’t want to do. Like . . . be in the public eye. Maybe even follow in my father’s footsteps and sing. God only knows there’s been enough speculation over what my future would hold, especially since I was thrust into his limelight several years ago. “Chelsey?” I snap out of yet another trance at the sound of my coworker’s voice, Clarissa. If she’s here, my shift is over. “Sorry. What?” “You can go,” she says slowly, her eyes dancing between me and the two Burke siblings sitting at the bar. Both of their glasses are empty. “You need a ride?” Kye asks, pushing his stool back but not getting up. “Nah, I’m good. It isn’t raining or snowing. I can walk.” “It’s freezing out there,” Clarissa offers. “Icy as hell.” “I’m good,” I reassure her, tugging my shirt down self-consciously. I glance at Leila. She’s grinning, but it’s a knowing, shit-eating, determined grin. The kind of smile that only a best friend can get away with. Instead of reacting to it, I shake my head, take my register drawer, and disappear into the back room. I sit and count it out carefully, record it, then put the cash in the safe. My coat and scarf are hanging on the peg with my purse where I left them when I arrived, and I wrap up warmly, pulling my gloves from my purse before stepping back out into the bar. Shelton Bay rarely gets snow, but the temperature drops low enough over the winter that you definitely notice it. If it weren’t for the lack-of-snow thing, I’d wonder if the whole town was teleported to the Northeast every winter. Usually you can at least forgo the scarf by late February, but this year the sea breeze is bitingly cold, and leaving the scarf at home is a mere dream. I wave to Clarissa and adjust my scarf so it covers my chin. My purse slips down from my shoulder as I push open the thick wooden door to the bar. The cold air hits me with what seems like a punch, and I wince at its ferocity. So. It really is cold. “Get in the truck,” a voice murmurs, oddly strong. “I’m fine,” I tell Kye, opening my purse and pulling out my gloves. “Come on, Chels,” he groans. “Leila forgot how to handle her wine and is already asleep.” “She’s still jet-lagged,” I say in her defense. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit. It’s freezing and it’s pitch-black out here. Just get in and let me take you home.”

I sigh and finally look at him. As our eyes meet, flashes of our night together play through my mind. “No, really. I’m okay. This is Shelton Bay, not the South Bronx. I can walk home by myself. Besides, I live on the other side of town from you.” Kye looks at me flatly. “Don’t make me drag you into my truck, woman.” “I’d like to see you try.” I yank the gloves over my wrists and turn away. The streetlight illuminates my path, but I’ve taken all of five steps before a hand grabs the back of my coat and drags me backward. A quiet shriek leaves me, especially as I turn and collide with a solid wall of coat and man. “Get. In. The. Fuckin’. Truck,” he growls, pulling me close to him. My heart thuds. “It’s cold and dark, and I don’t feel right about you walking across town by yourself.” “I’m a big girl—” “Trust me, babe, I remember well just how fuckin’ grown up you are. Now, two choices: get in the damn truck, or I throw you in it. Are you gonna come quietly or no?” Asshole. I inhale deeply, purse my lips, and meet his eyes in the dim light emanating from the bar’s neonilluminated front window. “If you think I’m gonna come quietly, you don’t remember a thing, do you?” He smiles sexily. It’s so fucking lazy, and I kind of want to rip it off his face. “There’s nothing quiet about you, Chels. Although if you’re up for a challenge . . .” “Take me home,” I demand. “Preferably before you drop your sister off.” I shove his arm off me and stalk to his sleek, charcoal-colored truck. The engine is purring lightly, and Leila’s face is pressed against a window in the back. Her jaw has dropped, and I’m pretty sure the smear on the glass is from her drool. Adorable. My fingers itch for all of a second before I pull out my phone and snap a pic of Sleeping Beauty. Kye laughs quietly as he opens the driver’s-side door and gets in. I shrug as I hoist myself into the giant vehicle, making sure to tuck my phone back into my purse before closing the door. On second thought, maybe I should keep it in my hand. . . . I all but curl into a ball as he puts the truck into gear and reverses. Leila breathes heavily in the backseat, and I look out the window. It’s nothing more than a flash, but the heat of Kye’s mouth on mine is searing into my memory as though it’s happening right now. I steal a glance at him as he drives. His arms are taut, his inked biceps bulging with every gear change or twist of the steering wheel. He barely seems to notice me as my gaze travels from his shoulders to his fingertips. Every inch of his defined arms are colored in—and of course, I already know each shade. I’ve seen him naked, for the love of God. Kye pulls into the Burke family driveway, putting the truck in park behind his dad’s. Without a word, he gets out and opens Leila’s door. “Hey, asshole.” He jabs her arm. “Bedtime, you drunk fool.” Leila yawns as her brother lifts her out of the backseat and carries her toward the door. “Not drunk,” I hear her protest. She’s been back from Spain a week. I’m gonna agree that she’s drunk, but there’s a definite layer of jet lag, too. Meanwhile, I’m pretty pissed that Kye ignored my protests and I’m sitting outside his house. He comes back in a couple of minutes and gets in without another word. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. One. Night.

That’s it. One I can barely remember. For all I know, Kye Burke has the oral skills of a champion but the actual sex skills of a hunk of granite. If only I weren’t curious to find out if that’s true. Hot damn. Breathe, Chelsey. Just breathe and remember every reason why he’s everything that’s bad for you. “I hear your dad is having a baby.” “Hmm,” I reply, focused on the blackness outside the window. “Hmm?” “Hmm.” Kye exhales a laugh and doesn’t respond. I don’t care. I’m not sure what kind of ridiculous conversation he’s trying to start, but I refuse to discuss my father and my unborn sibling. I hug my purse to my chest until he pulls into the small parking lot of my apartment building. There are just enough spaces for one car per tenant, so when I say he “pulls into,” I mean he drives up right outside the front door. “Thank you,” I offer, darting my eyes to him. “For the ride. It was unnecessary. Especially the whole taking-Leila-home-before-me thing. You know how ridiculous that was?” “Nothing about keeping you safe is unnecessary,” he replies quietly, his eyes never quite meeting mine. “And yes. I realize now how fucked up my gentlemanly efforts are.” “Well. Thanks.” I add it awkwardly, fighting the tinge of amusement at his admission, then undo my seat belt and push the door open. The cold air, once again, hits me in a rush, and I clamp my jaw tightly as I step into the sudden chill. Damn you, stubborn South Carolinian winter. I keep my head down and scurry toward the warmth of my apartment building. “Chelsey?” Kye steps out of his truck. I stop just as I reach for the handle of the main door. “What?” The steps he takes toward me are long and confident. Each stride is full of purpose and certainty until he’s barely inches away from me. From here, his movements are momentarily jittery. “That night.” “What night?” His eyes narrow. “We spent together.” “We spent four hours together. That doesn’t constitute a night, Kye,” I snap. “You should forget about it. I have.” I curl my fingers around the handle as his make contact with my arm. I breathe in sharply and turn to face him. “That’s it,” he says in a low voice. “I can’t. Forget it.” “Then try,” I hiss, trying to tug my arm away. He tightens his grip and steps toward me. His body is a breath away from mine, and I can feel the twitching of his fingers. “I have.” Kye sucks in a breath through his clamped jaw and raises his free hand. His fingertips brush across my cheek, the fleeting touch a burst of heat across my chilled skin. “I’ve tried. Fuck, I’ve tried. But I want you as badly as I did then. It’s fuckin’ insane, isn’t it? It’s been weeks, but I remember the way you responded to me and I crave that.”

“You’re insane,” I confirm. I won’t tell him that my skin is sizzling beneath the layers of this coat or that my lungs are burning desperately, my heart is pounding harshly. He pulls me so close that our mouths . . . God. Right there. They’re right there. One twitch and I’d kiss him. I want to move. Pull back. Shift to the side. Do whatever. Get away. Run. Hide. “That I am,” Kye breathes, his gentle fingertips on my cheek becoming a solid touch of his palm. “I’m totally fuckin’ insane, and I know you hate everythin’ about me, but shit, babe, I want to fuck the hell outta you again.” Everything. Burns. “Keep wanting.” The words are barely a raspy whisper before I tug myself away from him and grab the door handle for real this time, hearing his footsteps retreating. I pull my key from the inner pocket of my purse and unlock the door, stopping when I sense him looking at me. He is. He’s standing by his truck, the light from inside the vehicle and the dull security lights from the parking lot illuminating his distinct yet familiar features. Not sure why, but I call out, “Wanting is all you’re gonna get.” I punctuate my words by storming through the door. The simple move is strengthened by the final bash and click of the door swinging shut. I hold on to that barrier mentally as I drop my purse on the hall table. But I don’t feel safe from his sudden desire. Kye Burke. Wanting me, still. Despite what I said, insanity doesn’t cover it.

Kye

Suspended in the odd area between sleep and awake, the skin-crawling sensation of being watched creeps over me. I do my best to ignore it, but it becomes too much after only seconds. Slowly, I pry open one eye and spy a tiny bright blue pair gazing right at me. Combined with the suspicious weight on my stomach, I know exactly who my alarm clock is today. Being woken up by a silent two-year-old is the freakiest shit ever. “Uncy Kye!” I open the other eye and yawn. “Mila. What are you doin’?” “Mama paint! My play. With you!” She claps her hands and bounces. I wince at the extra pressure on my gut as she comes down. “Sure. Can we play later, though?” She shakes her head, her dark curls flying. “Nonono. Pop now!” I’m gonna put salt in his coffee. Thanks, Dad. “ ’Kay,” I groan. “How about you go downstairs, and I’ll be down after a shower?” Mila pouts and considers this for a moment. Finally, she sighs, nods once, and clambers down off of me. Not without an elbow jab in my thigh that necessitates a strategic move to protect my manhood, though. She stalks in her little toddler wobble to my bedroom door and stops. “Kick,” she demands. I assume she means “quick.” I nod in agreement. Damn, she got her mom’s attitude. No doubt about it. Either I’ve slept in really late or Sofie has had enough of Mila’s “help” repainting the kitchen already. A roll to my side and a glance at the alarm clock confirm the latter. It’s not even nine yet. I open my messages and text Conner. What did she do? He’s replied before I get out of bed. The side of the fridge is now blue. Oops. I snort and pull my bedroom door closed behind me. One perk of my brothers not living here: I can get the shower without rock-paper-scissors to determine the pecking order. I also no longer get stuck with the fucking Star Wars towel. I lock the bathroom door behind me and immediately start the shower. The hot water rushes out, and the steam fills the room quickly. My mind drifts to last night when I step under the pounding water. After convincing Mom I won’t be moving out until we get back from L.A. in a few months—or before we go, just days before Christmas—I followed Leila to the bar. I knew exactly how it’d go down, that

Chelsey would do everything she could to avoid being around me, just like she has since last month, but this way she’d have to talk to me. Jessie warned me, too. Told me I was dreaming if I thought Chels would give me even a second of her day. I reminded Jessie that she once said the same thing about my twin brother . . . and now she’s getting her mail delivered to his house. And even if Chelsey isn’t interested—a point I’m gonna argue, since she blushed like hell last night—I at least want to know why. She couldn’t jump into bed with me quick enough last month, but not in the way any of our fangirls would. No, she called the shots. She told me when, where, how hard, what position . . . At least she tried to. She was putty in my fucking hands the second my lips touched her. My cock twitches with the memory of our one night together. How easily she responded to my movements, how tightly her pussy clenched around me, how hard she grabbed me, how deeply she took my cock into her mouth . . . Fuck. This isn’t helping me. I scrub my hair harshly, wash out the shampoo, and kill the water. My cock is only semihard, but it’s noticeable when I wrap a towel around my waist. My brothers might not live here, but my sister does. And this ain’t something she needs to see. I brush my teeth, staring at myself intently in the mirror to avoid thinking about . . . Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbang. “Uncy Kyeeeeeee!” Thank you, Mila. “What?” I yell around my toothbrush, for the first time maybe ever thankful to be interrupted by her. Toddlers might be creepy alarm clocks, but clearly they have their uses, like interrupting dirty thoughts and bringing you back to Earth. “My pay!” she demands. “You so!” I spit out frothy toothpaste. “Okay, I’ll hurry up. Ask Pops to make me coffee.” “No,” she huffs. “Do a-self.” Guess I’m doing it myself, then. I wait until the tiny steps clunking against the hardwood floor have disappeared down the stairs and silence reigns, dart back into my room, and get dressed. I know for a fact that Aidan planned on doing nothing but listen to Jessie brainstorm color schemes for the front room today, so if I’m on uncle babysitting duty, his lazy ass is joining me.

I grab my keys off the side table and run downstairs. Mila is sitting in the middle of the living room floor with Dad, absently grabbing at a bowl of grapes while scribbling on some paper. “Ah, Pop. Noooo! Ed! Ed!” “Hey, Mila!” I call, immediately drawing her attention. “You wanna go see Uncle Ads?” “Uncy Ads?” she gasps, dropping both the crayon and grape she was just holding. “Yeahyeahyeah!”

I glance at Dad. “We’ve got her seat, right?” Dad nods. “In the garage.” He gets up, and when Mila sees him pause to catch his breath, she runs over and hugs his leg. “ ’Mon, Pop.” She smacks a kiss against his knee and runs to the garage. Dad smiles and pats her head by the door, his wrinkled hand resting on the top of her head as she looks up at him adoringly. When did my dad get this old? He disappears into the garage with her and I shake off the last thought. He isn’t old. He’s getting there —but he isn’t there yet. Another ten years and I’ll give him the “old” button for his birthday. I wait by my truck until Dad carries the seat out. We’re all pros at installing them by now, so Mila’s sitting snug in the backseat with her bunny within minutes. Dad waves, knowing I’m deliberately heading to Aidan’s place. Surprisingly, he’s outside when I get there. “Dad called,” he grunts as I pull up to the curb and pause. “Said you had Mila.” He nods toward the house. I turn my truck into his driveway and inch up until I’m just behind his. “Yeah. Sofie and Conner had a blue fridge by eight,” I explain. He laughs and opens the back door. “Been busy, Mila?” “My paint!” she shrieks, grinning. “My lub boo paint.” Aidan glances at me, pausing before he unbuckles her. “You didn’t bring paint, right?” I shake my head. “None here. Unless you already got some inside.” His inhale is sharp, and twin intuition tells me he wants to run into a brick wall repeatedly. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Just fuckin’ don’t.” “Dollar!” Mila yells. “Go ask Jessie.” He points at the house, and Mila runs through the open front door. He turns to me. “Who the fuck knows the difference between scarlet and fire engine? Or coral and salmon?” “That’s red and pink, right?” “Precisely. It’s fucking red or it’s fucking pink. Get whatever shade of that shit you want. I don’t care.” He takes another deep breath. “Chelsey has been here for two hours and what was formerly my living room is now a goddamn DIY paint store swatch wall.” I pause. “Chelsey’s here?” “Yep.” Aidan smirks. “And she ain’t happy with you.” “Take a chick home, and she hates your guts,” I mutter. “Fucking women.” “Dunno. I stopped listening when she told Jessie you wanna fuck her again.” “I do.” Ads stops, his eyes flashing with laughter. “So fuck her.” Twin brothers: pains in the ass, but always good for a moment of understanding. “You wanna have a little chat with your girlfriend so she’s on the same wavelength?” Jessie steps out of the front door, the sun glinting off her bright red hair. She narrows her eyes as she looks between us. “The same wavelength for what?”

My brother turns to her. “The wavelength where you get to pick between powder blue and teal, sunshine.” “It was turquoise and teal.” Ads holds his arms out. “See? I’m fuckin’ useless.” “Hmm.” Her eyes flick to me, her lips twisting. “Kye, what do you think? Teal or turquoise?” Yeah, I’m busted. “Isn’t that a trick question?” I answer. She crooks her finger in my direction. Aw, shit. That’s never good. “C’mere.” “Nah, I like it here.” “Pussy.” Aidan snorts, so I give in and walk toward her. Jessie Law is a force unto herself, and I’m not afraid to admit I’m slightly scared of her. She hooks her finger around the neck of my shirt and leans forward. “You wanna fuck my best friend?” she asks. “That was to the point,” I mutter. “Kye.” I remove her finger from my shirt and step back. “What’s it gotta do with you?” “Absolutely nothing.” She grins. “I’m just damn nosy.” I shake my head and push her to the side so I can enter the house. Faintly, I can hear Mila chattering about Bunna the rabbit, and the dolly she had to leave at home. She swiftly moves on to Doc McStuffins and Squeakers’s latest adventure in the bathtub. I lean against the doorframe and watch as she regales Chelsey with tales of her fictional friends. None of the words make a lot of sense if you’re not familiar with her babble, but I follow her perfectly. Something about Goofy mixes in with Jake, and my lips twitch. Chelsey, for her part, is leaning forward and listening intently. She nods and gives an “uh-huh” at the appropriate moment. Her smile is wide, and as Mila gets too excited and throws her arms up, Chelsey reaches forward to stop her from falling backward. Mila pauses, then bursts into laughter when she realizes she’s safe. Her tiny blue eyes find mine. “Uncy Kye!” she exclaims. “My ’kay.” I sweep her up, much to her amusement. “Well, ain’t that good?” “Uh-huh,” she agrees. “My pay?” “Outside?” “Uh-huh.” “Sure.” I put her down and she runs back toward the front door. I watch her for a second and hear Jessie pretend to chase her down the path that leads to Aidan’s spacious backyard. Chelsey’s eyes burn into the side of my head, and I turn to her. Sweet fuck, I wanna grin just to piss her off. “What?” “What are you doing here?” Her voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and she clears her throat. “My brother lives here,” I say simply. “What are you doing here?” “My best friend lives here.” Her jaw clamps shut, and her eyes harden. “We’re at an impasse.” I wanna laugh, but I fight it. Fucking hell.

Chelsey takes a deep breath and looks away. “How much longer until I move about this town freely and don’t have to worry about you?” Now I let myself laugh. “Until last night, you hadn’t seen me for a month.” “It was the best month of my life.” She gets up and attempts to walks around me. I shoot an arm out toward her. “Do you mind?” she asks softly, glancing at my fingers wrapped around her slender arm. “I have to get ready for work.” “What’d I do to you, Chels?” She hesitates for a moment, her fingers twitching where they’re resting against my elbow. Slowly, she brings her eyes up to meet mine. They’re hard but hesitant, the reluctant glint in them oddly softening. It goes against her general demeanor. “Nothing,” she whispers, the word slicing through the tight silence lingering between us. “Nothing.” With that final word, she shakes me off her and turns away without a backward glance. The chill she leaves in the air is stronger than the wind filtering through the front door toward me. Fucking damn. Of course my cock would stir at the mention of her name. It never was very damn sensible. A heavy sigh sounds from behind me. “Oh, Kye.” Jessie touches my arm. “What’d you do?” I hold my hands up, shrugging. “I don’t know. I was me?” Her lips twist to one side. “Could be better, could be worse.” “Thanks. I think.” “You’re welcome.” She laughs. “I don’t know what to suggest to you.” “Isn’t she your best friend?” I raise one eyebrow and focus on her. “Aren’t you supposed to know everything about her? That’s how chicks work, right?” “Kind of,” she hedges. “But I’m not her only best friend, you know? She has three others.” “In other words, I’m on my fuckin’ own.” A tiny cough echoes from the doorway, and we both turn to Mila. Her hand is outstretched, and she makes a gimme motion with her fingers. One I’m very familiar with. “Dollar,” she demands, deadly serious. I sigh, pull my wallet out, and hand her a dollar bill. “Tankoo,” she says, grabbing the crinkled bill in her fist and twirling away back outside. Who knows what she actually does with those things? All I know is that the kid must be the richest two-year-old in the state. Hell, the country. “What are you gonna do?” Jessie asks, smoothing her bright hair away from her face. “About Chelsey?” I shrug a shoulder. “I was kinda hoping you could get her drunk as soon as possible, because when she’s drunk, she likes me. Not to mention that she—” “Please stop talking. I don’t want to know what she does drunk.” I laugh. “Guess I’m gonna go piss her off until she finally agrees to a date. How hard could it be?” Jessie half-grins, a knowing glint in her eye. “Take what you think and times it by ten,” she says dryly, moving back toward the front door. “You’re halfway there. She has a heart of stone.” “Like you, then?” I call as she disappears. “Fuck you, Kye!” I laugh as the littlest has the final word. And, yep, it’s “Dollar!”

I pull up outside TJ’s Tavern, the bar Chelsey works at, and walk toward the door, glancing to the side as Tate falls into step beside me. “Man, I tell you, Ella realizes I’m here and not getting Mila’s Christmas present like I promised I would and she’s gonna twist my balls into fuckin’ next week.” “Someone’s gotta be my wingman.” I push the door open. “And since my twin’s girlfriend has his balls in an iron vice, it’s you.” Tate groans. “In my next life, I better be an only damn child.” He leans against the bar and turns his eyes toward me. “Hey, hasn’t Chelsey been avoiding you?” “Avoidin’ is a real strong word.” “And entirely accurate,” Chelsey interrupts, a dry tone to her voice. I offer her a slow smile as I turn my attention fully to her. Her long blond hair is pulled back from her face in a ponytail, although her bangs are escaping in wispy tendrils that she pushes out of her eyes. “What can I get you, gentlemen?” “Gentlemen?” Tate drawls. “Now, Chelsey, darlin’, you had your chance with this gentleman . . .” Chelsey leans forward, flattening her hands on the bar, and grins. “I see you already found Mila a Christmas present.” Tate returns her grin. “All right, all right. It’s only December twelfth. The damn tree ain’t even up yet. I’m not buying shit until that happens. But I’ll take a Bud, thanks.” She rolls her eyes then turns away. She bends to the low fridge and pulls out the deep-brown bottle of beer. Fuck, that’s a nice ass. “Tate Burke, you’re lucky I’m best friends with your girlfriend or your balls would be her next plaything—and not in a good way.” She deposits the bottle in front of him to the tune of his chuckle and turns her attention to me. “Kye? What do you want?” “A date?” Tate snorts. “December twelfth,” she shoots back. “There. Now what to drink?” Smartass. “Bud, I guess.” “You guess?” She raises an eyebrow but turns anyway. She’s bent down and has just opened the fridge door when she stops and peeks over her shoulder at me. “You only said that so you could look at my ass, didn’t you?” Double smartass. “Nope. Didn’t notice it.” She slams the fridge door, pops off the bottle cap, then slams the bottle down in front of me. “That’s four dollars, please.” I give her my card. She snatches it out of my hand and turns to the register. “Good effort, bro,” Tate offers, and I can’t decide if he’s serious or not. “Few more of those conversations and she’ll be begging you for another night together.” Chelsey smacks the card onto the bar along with a receipt and a pen. She cuts her eyes to Tate as she says to me, “Sign. Thank you.” I take the pen with a sigh and scrawl on the line. “Thanks, asshole.” Tate shrugs, lifting the bottle to his lips. “You made me wingman. Never promised I’d be a good one. I’m still gonna get laid at the end of the evening.” “And Mila’s Christmas present?” “Didn’t have it in stock.”

I shake my head. Last fucking time I bring my big brother for some goddamn moral support. I’ll come alone next time. In all honesty, I didn’t expect a date out of it. I just wanted to see if she’d be as much of a bitch to me as she claimed she’d be. She has been, but shit, I thought she’d be a little nice, considering the time I showed her. No, I’m lying. After her hellish response to me at Aidan’s, I knew she’d be like this. She’s deliberately standing at the opposite end of the bar, her back to me. The end of her ponytail is swept over her shoulder, but a few light strands of her hair are glinting off the back of her black shirt. She jerks her head up and laughs at something the middle-aged guy she’s serving has said to her. Her laughter is bright and slightly wild. Fuck me. I’m jealous of the way a fifty-something man can make her laugh. “Is it too early to say you’ve got it bad?” Tate asks, setting his empty bottle on the bar. “’Cause you’ve been starin’ at her for at least five minutes, and she’s looked at you at least ten times.” I grab my beer and finish the last of it in one mouthful. “Yeah, way too early.” “You’re still fuckin’ lookin’ at her.” His hand connects with the back of my head. “Let me guess, you’re gonna leave without another word, aren’t you?” “You bet.” I stand, sliding my empty bottle across the bar, eyes still on her. “And I’ll be right back here tomorrow.” He shakes his head as he follows me out, but as I leave, I feel her eyes on me, and the loud scrape as she removes our bottles lets me know she’s been watching me. And I will see her tomorrow. We’re not done with this yet.

Chelsey

Just because my father was a lying, cheating asshole (and probably still is), doesn’t make it okay for me to be an asshole to people in his profession. Seriously. This is why I’ve made it a point to avoid Kye ever since that night. Even if I have been tempted to go for round two so I can quench my own curiosity on exactly how great the guy is in the sack, I know it’s not a good idea. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by the Burkes. I know how charming and sweet every one of them can be on a good day. And I know how totally dangerous they are on their bad days. Getting involved with Kye, even just for another few hours, is a ridiculous idea. Getting involved with him for that one night was a ridiculous idea. I don’t think I was thinking straight. Hell, who am I kidding? It’s been weeks, and I still can’t be in the same room as him, so it was the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever had. I groan and drop my head into my hands. What was I thinking? Oh, that’s right. I was thinking my dad just knocked up some chick young enough to be my sister. I was thinking I’d had enough of being stalked by the media for my opinion. And, apparently, I was thinking that the next logical step would be to fuck a famous guy. So stupid. So, so damn stupid. Why did no one stop me? Why did no one warn me about how damn persistent and relentless a Burke can be? Over the last few months, they’ve been picked off one by one. But watching Kye come into my bar every day makes me think that perhaps the boys did the picking. July was Conner. August was Tate. October was Aidan. And now Kye seems to be intent on being December. Good for my girls. They’ve managed to snag three of the most eligible bachelors in South Carolina, possibly even the whole country. I just don’t want the fourth. I don’t want my life played out for the nation’s media to pick apart. I don’t want a life that tells me my dress is too tight, that I’m showing too much cleavage, that I look too fat, that I’m too skinny, that my purse is scuffed, that I wore these shoes—the horror—yesterday. What a goddamn crime. It’s been three days since I saw Kye Burke again for the first time since our night together. Three longass days of him showing up wherever I am. First, he was here at work, then he was at Jessie and Aidan’s. Then he was back at the bar with Tate, and despite my best efforts to ignore him, he was back here yesterday, too. Even though I made Clarissa

serve him all night, it didn’t make a difference. His eyes still followed me. They still burned deep holes into my back. They still sent shivers across my skin whenever our gazes accidentally met. I still felt and saw and heard every single movement he made. And now, it’s night four of his appearance at the bar, and I’m certain I can hear every breath he takes. Of course I’m imagining it, but that doesn’t make the imaginary breaths any quieter, it makes them louder, because all I want to do is listen to see if they really are echoing off the exposed brick walls. Instead, I reel myself in and throw another log on the fire before closing the potbellied stove’s iron door. I put the mitt my boss insists I use just under the bar and shut down the bar door. Well, I call it the bar door. I’ve worked here for a year and still never bothered to learn the name of the piece that goes up and down so we can get in and out. I wonder briefly if Kye has remembered there’s more than one bar in Shelton Bay. Or if he cares. Or if he is just really, really determined to get that date with me. It’s not fucking happening. A whistle sounds behind me and I turn, almost dropping the glass in my hand. The second my eyes meet his, my stomach drops. “You there, babe?” “Lights are on but I’m not home,” I reply, putting the glass back on its shelf safely before I give him my full attention. And my full attention he commands. Can’t get Clarissa over here fast enough to get me out of talking to him. Kye is leaning on the bar, his forearms crossed. The simple position makes his upper arms strain against the white cotton of his T-shirt, and his tattoos seem incredibly bright. I’m almost ashamed to say that my eyes trawl the various lines of the ink coating his skin before they finally travel up to his face. “Earth to Chelsey.” His eyes flash with amusement. “What?” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “How long until you finish?” I glance at the old clock hanging on the wall. Ten minutes. “An hour,” I lie. “Can I have a Pepsi, then?” “No, sorry. I can refuse to serve anyone.” “Doesn’t that just apply to alcohol?” His smirk has me caught out. Okay, so technically I could refuse him the Pepsi, but I don’t have any grounds to. I sigh in resignation and reach back toward the shelf. “Ice? Lemon?” “Yes to all.” Of course. Another sigh and I fix him the drink. Our exchange as he pays is wordless, and he’s seated before he’s even dropped his change into his pocket. I’d bet anything the dollar bills he just shoved in his ass pocket are Mila collateral. Those guys probably have to make sure they’ve got ones at all times. The kid caught me out three times while I stopped by Sofie’s yesterday. Okay, six, but I gave her a five to give up after the fourth time, and apparently she thought it was worthwhile. Turns out it was—she got herself nine bucks for six cuss words.

And two of them were “damn.” And I didn’t even know she was around for the other four. Toddlers can be freaky quiet when they wanna be. For all intents and purposes, Mila Burke already has quite the business model going. “Chelsey?” Clarissa says my name with a lot more amusement than she did a few days ago. “You can go now. Shift’s over.” “Ah . . .” I glance at Kye. I’m pretty sure he’s pretending not to look at me. “Are you sure? It’s pretty busy?” My coworker glances at the tatted-up rocker before her gaze trails back to me. “Oh, I’m sure. You go on ahead.” “I hate you,” I hiss, poking her arm on my way past her. “Love you! Get home safe!” she responds with an extra-loud laugh. So much for girl power. With a heavy sigh, I wrap my woolen scarf around my neck and shrug on my coat. My purse is the last thing I grab, and even as I pull it onto my shoulder, I pause. He’s going to be waiting, isn’t he? Oh, get a grip, Chels. You’re not a teen waiting to get a prom date. You’re twenty-fucking-four. I shiver as soon as I open the back door that leads to the parking lot. I parked right by this door earlier, so I have a brief sizzle of hope that I’ll get into my car before he catches me. That sizzle fades when I see the tall figure leaning against the hood of my car, arms folded and halfilluminated by the security light. Rain is starting to fall in a light mist that’ll soak you before you realize. I’m briefly distracted by the silvery glints of the tiny raindrops falling past the orangey light. “Aren’t you cold?” I ask him, looking at his bare arms. “I don’t feel the cold.” He smirks and pushes off my car. “I want to talk to you.” In the faint, gauzy light, I can only just make out the blondish highlights running through the top of his hair, the part that’s combed back from his face casually. “Really? You being here four nights in a row just didn’t clue me in to that.” I hit the Unlock button on my key fob so I can throw my purse into the front seat. Kye follows me with his eyes. “Do I need to show up tomorrow?” “Didn’t you get my sarcasm?” “I got it and gave it right back, babe. Did you miss mine?” I purse my lips and avoid his eyes. “I’m tired.” He chuckles quietly. “Then, yep. I’m gonna turn up here and bug your tight, fine ass until you go to dinner with me.” “Nope.” I slam the passenger-side door shut and walk to the front of the car. My plan is flawed, because he’s no longer touching my car, but he’s standing right in front of it. He sweeps his arm around and catches me into his hard body, and oh, this I remember well. There’s no way I could forget the solid, strong grip of his arms wrapping their way around me, or the overwhelming heat of his skin brushing across mine. “Yep,” he argues. “’Cause if you don’t . . .” “You’re gonna bug me tomorrow,” I sigh. It’s really hard not to grab him, wrap my hands around his broad shoulders. The light rain has his white T-shirt teasingly see-through.

“And the next day. And the next,” he breathes into my ear. “And the next . . .” “You’re a persistent little dickhead.” He stops for a second before he throws back his head and laughs. Loud. Each deep rumble of amusement creeps its way across my skin until every part of me is tingling with the richness of the sound. “I’m not exactly sure how to respond to that.” “Good.” “So you’ll come for dinner?” His tone is so teasing and his grip so playful that there’s only one response, despite my mind telling me to refuse. “I guess so.” “You don’t sound real enthusiastic. I like women I take out to be excited.” I roll my eyes, extract myself from his hold, and throw my arms into the air. “Oh my God! Please! I can’t wait!” My high-pitched, excited tone is deliberate, and I try so hard not to laugh at the fight he’s waging with his grin. “What?” “All right, then,” he murmurs, still battling his smile. He tugs me back against him, one hand curving around the back of my neck. “You workin’ tomorrow?” “Tomorrow night? No. I finish at four.” “I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress . . . well, female.” I laugh. Kye presses his lips against my forehead, and my giggle dies in my throat. The simple touch has warmth spreading out from it, and I still as he lingers there. It’s so light that by the time he distances himself from me, I have to wonder if it even happened. “Seven. Tomorrow.” Something tightens in my stomach. “Okay,” I whisper back to him, afraid that if I speak much louder my voice will crack. All I have to do is go to dinner, right? That’s it, and then he’ll give me peace again, right? But even I know I’m a total idiot if I think that. I know what a dinner date leads to—especially if your date is a Burke brother. Kye walks across the faintly lit parking lot to where his charcoal Ford truck is tucked into the corner. My eyes follow him until he opens the door and salutes me playfully. I shake my head and get into my car. My keys go in instantly to turn on the heat and the radio and wouldn’t you know but the low hum of Dirty B. singing on my radio drowns out the acceleration of his truck. I change the station before I shut the door and rev my own engine. A date with Kye Burke. Goddammit, Chelsey. Idiot.

If the last three hours have been anything to go by, short of a sudden and debilitating stomach bug, I’m not coming up with a reason to cancel my date with Kye Burke. Rain lashes against my living room window. From upstairs, I can see the impact it’s having on some of Shelton Bay. There are huge puddles on the roads, trees are swaying in the wind, and people are getting soaked just running between their car and their house. I rub my hand down my face. It’s been this heavy for two hours now, and my phone has already flashed once with a storm warning. If the forecast is to be believed, tonight our little seaside town will be pelted

with a huge-ass thunderstorm and tomorrow the temperature will drop to thirtyish degrees, perfect conditions for an ice storm. At the very least, we’re getting rain for the next week. I’ve already changed twice, from a dress to jeans. My shoes have flipped from stilettos to heeled boots, and I’ve added a blazer to the combination. I’m kind of thinking a wetsuit would be better at this point. Thunder rumbles overhead, and I jump at its intensity and look at my ceiling. A bright blue-white flash of light confirms that it was thunder and not my neighbor moving his furniture around again. The wind howls, and I hug my jacket tighter to me. My level of desire to go out in this is at approximately zero. More thunder sounds, the lightning flashing at the same time, and the rain seems to get even louder. I watch it pound against the window for a few seconds until the drops turn to tiny hailstones. I grab my phone and text Kye. It might be a good idea to reschedule . . . He responds by calling me, and I hit the Answer button. “Hey.” “Hey . . . I was about to call you. The restaurant called, and it sounds like the storm is messing with their power.” “Ohhh,” I groan. I’m out of candles. Dammit. If I paid less attention to Facebook and more attention to my weather app, I’d have known this was coming in before I got home and the rain went crazy. “Is yours still on?” he asks. “Yeah,” I answer as another clap of thunder crawls across the sky. “But if power is already tripping, then I’m probably . . .” I stop as my lights flicker. “Ignore that. My lights are now storm-drunk.” His warm laughter does nothing to alleviate the fact I’m about to be plunged into total darkness. “All right. You have flashlights? Candles?” “I have a flashlight but no batteries, and negative on the candles.” “Do you have food?” “No, I regularly don’t eat.” I squeal as my lights cut out and lightning flashes. Fuck, it’s like I stepped into a horror movie. “I think my power just died,” I whisper, as if there really is a mass-murderer hiding in my kitchen. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, per se, it’s just that I’m . . . wary of the dark. “Yeah, ours just cut out briefly.” I hear shuffling and a door closing. “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes, okay?” “You don’t need to . . .” “Chelsey, you’re in your apartment alone with no light except for the phone you’re talking to me on. Shut up, find snacks, and I’ll see you soon.” I sigh heavily, resigning myself to the fact that this date is happening whether I like it or not. “Okay.”

My buzzer rings, making my heart thump so hard it almost jumps out of my chest. Holding my phone in front of me, I move to the buzzer and say, “Yes?” “Let me in, I’m fucking drowning.” Kye. Obviously. I press the buzzer then wait for his knock, then I unlock the door and open it slowly. I can’t see his expression in the pitch-blackness, but I can see the amusement glittering in his bright eyes. “Let me in,” he repeats. “Come on, I’m burning my fingers!”

“Your . . . Oh.” I look down and step to the side. How did he get a pizza? “I called before their power died and paid over the phone.” He sets it on the table with a flourish and puts a backpack down next to it. The zzz of a zip fills the air, and he fumbles for a second before extracting something. One click and a yellow beam of light shines from what is obviously a powerful flashlight. “Here.” He holds it out to me once I’ve relocked the door. “Shine it in this bag a second.” I take the heavy black flashlight from him and follow his instruction. Thank God there’s finally a bit of light in this apartment. From the bag, Kye removes a smaller flashlight, a pack of matches, and several tea candles. “Mom was using the holders already,” he explains, flicking the other flashlight on and shining it at me. I squint, and he grins. “Do you have any?” I shake my head. “We could use a couple of plates?” “Good thinking. Get some and I’ll start lighting them.” I leave him to his matches and guide my way across the kitchen to get some plates. I grab my egg cups, too. What? A holder is a holder, right? The way Kye raises his eyebrow when he sees them proves me wrong. “Egg cups?” How does Kye Burke know what an egg cup is? “Won’t they fit?” I ask. He shakes his head slowly, thinning his lips into a reluctant smile. “No.” “Oh.” I blush and grab them again. His laughter rings out as he sets candles on the small plates and carries them into my front room. He sets one plate on the windowsill and one on the coffee table. Then, leaving one on the kitchen island, he takes another through to the bathroom. My apartment is now bathed in a dim golden light. It’s almost romantic.

Kye

Chelsey Young has the girliest fucking bathroom I’ve ever seen in my life. The shower curtain has flowers on it. The bath mat is pink. And don’t even get me started on the shelves—I live with a chick and I’ve never seen that many fucking products or creams or whatever the hell they are. I back slowly out of the bathroom and find her opening the pizza box. She’s got the flashlight shining on it, and when she drops the top of the box down, she tucks her long blond hair behind her ear. It’s only now I notice what she’s wearing—bright red sweatpants that are closer to leggings and a gray hooded sweatshirt. “You weren’t planning on wearing that to go out with me, were you?” “No. I was going to wear jeans and boots. But since we’re here, I’m wearing sweats and fuzzy socks. Is that a problem?” I drop my eyes to her ass. “Not with those sweats. You realize they’re pretty much skintight, right?” “Yeah, I know.” She exhales a breath that sounds a lot like a sigh. “But they’re fleece-lined and really, really warm.” “I never said I was complainin’, babe.” She finally follows my gaze and looks over her shoulder. I chuckle and look up just as she rolls her eyes. “You didn’t have to come over, you know.” She puts a slice of pizza onto a small plate. “I would have asked my neighbor for a candle. Or probably grabbed my Kindle and gone to bed.” “Liar. You would have played Candy Crush.” I grab a pizza slice and tear a bite off the end, grinning. She perches on a stool and knocks her foot into my shin. “Shut up.” She looks down, but there’s a smile on her face. “I mean it, though. You didn’t have to do this. Thank you.” “Are you actually being nice to me?” I raise my eyebrows, and when she glares up at me, I tug on a lock of her hair. “If I left you here in the dark with no hot food after I promised you dinner, I’d be a fuckin’ dick, wouldn’t I?” “Oh gosh. I feel so much better now,” she retorts dryly, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Someone alert the press—Kye Burke can be a gentleman!” Fighting my own laughter, I lean forward. “I’ll have you know that my mom raised a gentleman where I’m concerned. Fuck knows where she went wrong with my brothers.” Chelsey claps her hand over her mouth as she laughs. Her laugh quickly turns to a cough, and I pat her on the back until she’s breathing again. “Couldn’t you have waited until I swallowed?” My cock twitches, and I bring my eyes to hers. “Swallowed, huh?” She opens her mouth to reply but quickly closes it again. “Yeah. ‘Swallowed’ was the wrong word.”

I raise one eyebrow. Fuck yes it was the wrong word. Now I’m imagining her . . . well. Swallowing me. “And it’s still coming.” I adjust my pants as my dick pushes against them. Fucking hell, Chelsey, stop talking. “I just need to shut up,” she finally blurts out. “This is so awkward.” “You’re telling me,” I mutter. I shove the last piece of pizza crust in my mouth, and doing my best to ignore the hardening of my dick, I reach into the bag again. “Will this make it less awkward?” I set a bottle of Jack Daniel’s next to the plate of candles. Chelsey looks from the bottle to me and shakes her head slowly. She chews, then swallows and focuses on the bottle. “I’m pretty sure adding alcohol to this mix is the worst idea ever.” “What else do you suggest we do?” I lean against the island, staring at her. “There’s no power, which means no TV and no Wi-Fi to stream Netflix on anything with battery. You’re stuck with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a few rounds of Never Have I Ever. Or you can just take your clothes off and let me fuck you right now.” She chokes again and bangs her fist into her chest. With watery eyes, she meets my gaze. “I’m sorry?” she squeaks out. Lightning illuminates the apartment, and my lips curve up at her wide-eyed expression. “You heard me, babe,” I say in a low voice, keeping our gazes locked. “Jack and a drinking game or we fuck.” Her tongue darts over her lips. “You can’t fool me, Kye. I know that the alcohol and drinking game are an unnecessary prelude to the sex you’re obviously planning on having.” “So you’re sayin’ we can skip the game and get straight to it?” She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and hesitantly turns her attention to the bottle. The candlelight flickering against the glass casts a hazy glow over her, and she takes a deep breath. I can see her thinking it over. “No,” she finally says, turning back to me and tilting her head to the side. “Let’s play.” She hops up and grabs the bottle and her plate. “Get the pizza,” she demands, putting her stuff down on the coffee table. She walks back past me and rummages in a couple of cupboards. A packet opens and what sounds like chips are emptied into a bowl. I grab a second slice of pizza as Chelsey sets down the bowl and a jar of salsa and removes two shot glasses from her pockets. “Prepared,” I note. “Bar training?” She shoots me a hard look and opens the Jack. The cap clicks as she breaks the seal, and I watch as she pours the two shot glasses to the brim. “Never have I ever been forced into a ridiculous date against my will.” I take another bite of my pizza. I’ve never been forced into a date. Doing the forcing is my job. I hold up the last bite of my pizza before eating it. I wonder if she knows what she’s getting herself into with this game. There’s a reason I bought the big bottle of Jack. “Never have I ever . . . been drunk.” We both take a shot, and she scoffs while she pours the next two. She picks her glass up between her fingers. “Never have I ever . . . had a crush on a teacher.” Chels follows the shot down with a salsa-loaded chip and pours another one. She didn’t even fucking wince. Shit.

We both drink. “Who’d you have a crush on?” I ask her immediately. “The science guy in high school. With the glasses,” she admits, grimacing. “You?” “Miss Baker.” I refill the shot glasses. “She was the only reason I didn’t fail math. I’m pretty sure I never would have showed up senior year if she wasn’t my teacher.” Chelsey snorts. “I remember her. I think she hated me, and she never had me in her class. She was a bitch.” “I like bitches.” I grin widely, and she stops, a chip half-dipped into the salsa jar. “Never have I ever slept with a bitch,” she immediately says. I bite my tongue and consider this. While my history isn’t as . . . prolific . . . as Tate’s or Aidan’s, there’s definitely a bitch or two in there . . . and so is the most recent one-night stand. As the girl opposite me lifts her lips to one side and glances at my still-full shot glass, I reach for it. Fuck it—Chelsey Young is a bitch. After all, she did arrange the pie to the homecoming queen’s face in senior year. She did make sure the quarterback of Shelton Bay got his ass handed to him by taping half-naked pictures to our lockers that same year after she discovered he was sleeping with a nerd from our science class. Shit. I’m disinclined to refer to her as a bitch given the fact her bitchy actions have been revengeful. I guess she just happens to embrace her bitch more than most people. As proven by the chip that comes flying at my face to the tune of her giggles. I smack my lips together and wipe the salsa from my cheek. “And that’s why I took the shot.” Her laughter only increases, and she covers her mouth with her hand, glancing up. “I know.” “Next,” I demand, putting the bottle back down. The rain transforms to hail once more, and it batters the window, so I raise my voice over the almost deafening sound. “Never have I ever done anal.” Neither of us moves. “Never have I ever run through the street naked,” she throws out, following it with a sigh and taking the shot. She puts the glass down and glares at me. “Drink up, hot stuff. I know for a fact you have.” I wink and drink. “Never have I ever . . . had sex in a public place.” She purses her lips and takes a swig from the bottle. “Fuck it,” she mutters, pouring a shot after with a tiny wince. “Never have I ever been to a strip club.” When I don’t drink, she frowns at me. “You haven’t?” “Nope.” I pull my glass toward me, a warm sensation settling in my lower stomach. “Never have I ever performed a sexual act in a car.” I drink. She doesn’t. She shrugs. “Never have I ever joined the mile-high club.” Neither of us drinks. “Never have I ever kissed a girl.” Obviously, I drink, but I almost spit it out when I see Chelsey down her shot. “What?” she asks, shuddering and setting the glass down. “I’ve kissed a girl before. It’s not uncommon.” “All right.” I lean forward, my cock twitching with this information. Is it bad I have a flash of a vision of her making out with a faceless, nameless chick? Fuck, no. Not at all.

“All right what?” Chels asks. She unzips her hoodie and drops it on the sofa next to her. “Game-change time.” I take a chip, and, with my mouth full, say, “Truth or Dare. You can refuse to answer or do it, but every time you do, you owe . . . a sexual favor.” “You’re kidding, right?” she moans. “I’m already more tipsy than I should be for a first date. Never mind a first date in the dark! Who knows what I’ll do if sexual favors are brought into the mix.” I grin. “I know. Especially when your date has to sleep over.” She slams her hand into the sofa cushion next to her and frowns at me. “You sneaky little ass wad!” The subsequent pout of her lips really ruins her supposed anger. I wiggle my eyebrows, move the pizza box onto the floor, and pour two shots. “Okay, babe. Are you starting this?” Chelsey pauses, drops her eyes to my pants, and smirks. Or, more accurately, she drops her eyes to the bulge in my pants. I shift and rap my knuckles against the coffee table, pulling her gaze back up. “Pay attention.” “I am,” she says sassily, tugging on her tank until just a bit more cleavage shows. She knows exactly what she’s doing. So do I. Bitch. “Truth or dare?” she asks. “Dare.” She licks her lips again. “I dare you to play this game without your shirt on.” I shrug and pull it over my head. “Truth or dare?” Her eyes comb over my torso. “Dare.” I shoot her dare back at her. She takes a deep breath but pulls her tank off and throws it on top of my shirt on the floor. The dark bra she’s wearing hugs her tits perfectly, pushing them up and together. I want to haul her against me and explore that perfect cleavage. I opt for a second dare. Her second one is just as forward. “Take your pants off,” she demands. I clench my jaw together as I stand and remove my jeans, kicking my shoes off before the denim fully falls from me. “You know that if you want me naked, we don’t have to play, babe. I’m ready for you.” She grabs a shot glass and downs it. Her blond hair flies, seemingly white in the flash of lightning that fills the room. “Truth,” she says before I can ask her, pouring another shot like she knows she’ll need it. I edge toward the end of my seat and look her in the eye. “How badly do you want to come over here, pull down my boxers, and ride the fuck out of me right now?” Her chest visibly heaves, and her inhale is loud enough that I can hear it over the hail still hitting the window. She doesn’t answer. She drinks. “Truth or dare,” she asks, her voice scratchy and breathy. “Dare.” Her lips part. “You like your dares.” I want to see how far you’ll go, I want to tell her. I want to see how dirty you’ll make your dares before you’ll answer my question. “I dare you . . .” she pauses, looking once again at my erection. “I dare you to touch yourself.” I raise an eyebrow and lay my hand over my cock.

“No,” she whispers. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth. “I dare you to take them off and then do it.” Tension crackles through the air as it hits me that she just answered my question without me even asking it. And that I’m going to be naked while she’s still pretty much dressed. She better pick a fuckin’ dare for her next answer. I lift my hips and pull down my boxers. I make sure to keep my eyes on hers the whole time as I reach down and wrap my fingers around my cock. Chelsey swallows and reaches for a shot again as I slowly stroke myself. “Truth or dare.” I force the words before she can take the glass in her hand. She pushes her tongue into her cheek, then answers. “Dare.” I still. “I dare you to remove those fucking sweatpants and come here.” “That’s two.” “Look at me and tell me I look like I give a single fuck.” She agrees with a tilt of her head and stands. Her fingers hook in the sides of her sweats, and my fingers twitch around my erection as she pushes the red pants down her legs to reveal a thin, dark thong. Hesitation stills her, but she peers up through the curtain of hair separating our gazes. “Here.” My eyes explore her body. Fuck, she’s sexy. “I swear to fuckin’ God, Chelsey,” I growl. “Get your damn ass over here right now, because if I have to get up, you’re gonna know about it.” “I dare you to prove it.” This is said with a sassy, teasing smile and a tiny peal of laughter as she turns. I yank my boxers up and go after her, snatching her delicate wrist before she runs into her room. She half-screams as I twirl her into the wall and, unable to resist any longer, crush my mouth to hers. She holds me instantly, her fingers diving into my hair and holding it tightly as our tongues battle each other. Her tiny whimpers are like music to my fucking ears as she arches her back into me. I pull her away from the wall and back into her front room. She bites the inside of her cheek, breathing heavily from just the kiss, and grabs my waistband as I guide us to the sofa. “I asked you how badly you want to ride me. You have five seconds to answer before I do it for you.” Her eyebrows shoot up at the same time she yanks my boxers down. Once again, my cock springs free, and she pushes me onto the couch. I grab her tight ass as she climbs on top of me and looks down, her hair falling around us. “This badly,” she answers, kissing me and reaching between us. She tugs her thong to the side, grabs my cock, and pushes herself down on it. I groan as her tight wetness surrounds me. She hisses out a long breath and gets to work. Her hips grind against me, and heavy, labored breathing is punctuated by desperate kisses. I remove her bra without a single complaint. Each time she drops down onto me she takes me so fucking deeply I’m afraid I’ll come with each movement. It doesn’t take her long to pick up speed, and I groan into her neck while digging my fingers into her ass. Chelsey’s moans get closer together and her inhales more gasping, and since my body is now tighter than her pussy, I still her hips and slip down an inch so I can drive into her instead. She cries out as I slam up into her. Her tugs on my hair only egg me on, and I take one of her nipples into my mouth while I fuck her. My balls tighten and it takes everything I have, absolutely fucking

everything, to hold it in while she reaches her peak. When she tips, I let myself go. Fuck.

I groan as pain slices through my neck and dissipates into my shoulder blades. It feels like someone has removed every bit of muscle in my upper back and replaced it with granite. Once again the subtle feeling of being watched creeps over me and I lift my head toward the kitchen. Chelsey is leaning against a corner of the counter, a bright red mug in her hands. Her eyes are skirting from me to the television, lingering longer on the glaring screen than on me. I guess the power’s back on. I ease myself into a sitting position and wince when my ass cheeks stick to the leather sofa. Of course I’m still fucking naked. Why would I have thought to put my underwear on right after she slammed her bedroom door in my face? Apparently that’s how she repays a guy for one hell of a damn orgasm: she relegates him to the sofa . . . alone. I glance around the floor for my boxers, and after finding them halfway under the coffee table, grab them. The sofa cracks as my ass lifts off it, and a tiny scoffing sound travels across the apartment. I cut my eyes to her as my lips quirk into a tiny smile and stand to pull my underwear up. She keeps her eyes firmly on the TV, but her jaw tightens. I fold the blanket I slept under before I grab my jeans and put them on. “Mornin’.” Chelsey sniffs and lifts her mug. “You got coffee?” She nods in the direction of the coffee machine and wraps her other hand around her mug. “Fuck, are you always this happy in the morning, or are you just really damn excited today?” Finally, she focuses her attention on me. Her eyes narrow, the gray smudges beneath her eyes making them seem darker than normal. “I’m only halfway through my caffeine hit. I suggest you shut up before I show you the real meaning of fucking happiness.” Fuck me. Chelsey is a damn ogre in the morning. Yo, Shrek—Fiona escaped, man. Take her back. I pour a mug of the dark brown liquid from the pot and add two spoons of sugar to it. Then sip. Chelsey curls her lip, glaring at my mug, then looks away again. “I have to leave for work in forty-five minutes. You should probably drink that and go.” “Just drink and go, huh?” “The only reason you didn’t go last night is because Jack got the best of us and the power was still out,” she retorts, straightening. She drains whatever’s left in her mug and slams it down onto the draining board. With a flick of her hair, she stalks past me. I watch her, sipping my hot coffee slowly. She’s wearing nothing other than a tiny pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Her tits are just as fucking perky as they were without her bra, and I know she skipped that, because I can see the points of them pressing against the shirt. “Oh.” She turns by her bedroom door, grabbing onto the frame. I have no idea whether it’s deliberate or not, but the shorts are so fucking short that I can see the damn curve of her ass cheek. “It occurred to me

this morning that we were both careless in not using protection last night.” She pauses, and I inhale sharply. “But you should know I haven’t missed a pill in five years. I’m also clean. I’m assuming you are, too.” “Well . . .” I smirk. “I did shower before I came over.” “Kye.” “I was just as drunk as you, but I’d never put you in danger, babe. I’m cleaner than a fuckin’ virgin.” That she could assume even for a second I’d have sex without a condom if I could give her something. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with the world if that’s even an option? “Good.” Chels swallows and drops her eyes. After a second, she brings them back up to me. “So. See you.” With those final words, she slams her bedroom door shut again. A part of me is itching to stay here, but if she really does have work, I’m just wasting my own damn time. Not that I believe her. Her work shift is clearly a plot to get me out of her apartment . . . but that’s fine. Because she can get me out of her apartment, but she can’t get me out of her life. After the sex we had last night, I have no fucking intention of letting that happen.

Chelsey

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What is wrong with me? There has to be something. Sure, Kye, come right on over and let’s drink Jack Daniel’s and play Never Have I Ever in the fucking dark! Who the hell gave me my brain? Can I request a transplant? ’Cause, guess what? I’m a forgetful drunk, but that only applies when I’m actually drunk. Not when I’ve consumed pizza and chips and shots. No. I can remember it all. I can remember the funny way he chased me. The way he spun me into the wall and kissed me until we needed air. I remember the way he pushed me back and had his way with me, how he dominated every inch of my body that he touched. I remember how we came together until it felt like we were suffocating. It’s worse this way. Now I know what I had and what I could have. What the universe is offering me. He was gone this morning. After I lied about starting work early, he was gone. The only thing he left behind was the chill of his absence. . . . And a sock. I run my fingers through my hair and drop my forehead to the table. “What do I do, Jessie?” My best friend of a lifetime smacks her lips. I know without looking at her that those very same lips are tugged into an I told you so kinda smile, but that her eyes are reflecting the sympathy she really feels. She’s the one person who knows how my upbringing affected me. She’s the only person in my life who understands how fame, long-distance relationships, and the rockstar lifestyle grate on me. She’s seen the tears and the fights and the humiliation. She was the first person besides me to see my mom cry. We were six. Jessie Law is undoubtedly my rock. She could just as well be my soul mate. She’s the only person who will knock sense into me. . . . If there’s any sense left where a Burke is concerned. “Kye is . . . special,” she says slowly, grabbing a chip and chewing it slowly. “He isn’t like the others.” “So you say.” Jessie shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Chels. Sofie knows him the best. They’ve been best friends for years.” Of course—Kye was a block in her relationship with Conner. . . . And in Jessie’s with Ads. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was the manwhore he disputes being daily.

“Maybe you should talk to her,” she suggests. “Sof will know what makes him tick. She’s like a Burke brother interpreter.” I raise an eyebrow. “What am I supposed to do? Just rock on up to her house and demand she tell me everything she did to snag Conner? When I don’t want to even snag Kye?” Jessie rolls her eyes. “Of course not. You’re gonna go and find out what you have to do to make Kye leave you alone.” “You’re smiling.” “It’s a supportive smile,” she says, looking down, giving me the impression she knows more than I do. Which she probably does. “Come on. She’s home with Mila while the guys do some songwriting thing. I don’t know.” So reassuring. I sigh and follow her downstairs after grabbing my things. Sometimes best friends are pains in the ass, no? Especially when they seemingly know things you only wish you could know. I slide into Jessie’s car and slam the door shut behind me. I’m not going quietly. I hope she knows this. Frankly, if she doesn’t, she’s not my best friend. Ugh. I’m such a fucking diva. And I say “fuck” way too much. Fuck it. Who cares? Chelsey Francesca Young, rein your ass in. Why’d I have to use my own middle name? God. I think that’s enough to show how badly he’s screwing with me. Fuck Kye Burke. Fuck all the Burkes. Except Mila. No one touch Mila. That kid is cute as hell. “If you keep thinking, I’m gonna punch you.” Jessie glances at me as she passes the Burke household. “I swear to God, Chels. Pull yourself together.” “There’s nothing to pull together. I’m fine. I just fucked the guy I promised myself I’d never fuck again, but I’m totally okay.” My best friend takes a deep breath, and when we pull up outside Sofie’s house just minutes later, she reaches across and thumps my arm. I narrow my eyes at her as I get out of the car. It didn’t hurt—her tongue is sharp but her upper body strength leaves plenty to be desired—but still. I guess I did deserve it, but whatever. Jessie knocks on the door and Mila’s face appears immediately at the living room window. Her tiny cheek is flat against the glass, her nose squished sideways, but she’s grinning. The front door opens and Sofie glances between us. “Uh-oh. Unplanned visits from the terrible twosome are never good.” I curl my lips to the side. “Shut up. I’m here under duress.” Sofie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Duress, huh? Jessie?” Jessie smiles sweetly and shrugs a shoulder. “Desperate times and all that. We need your help.” “Kye’s still bugging you, isn’t he?” Sof sighs and steps back into the hall. “Come in. Mila’s due for her nap now so we can talk.”

We follow her inside, and Mila screams with excitement when she sees us. Sofie crashes her dreams by scooping her up and grabbing her dolly. “No nap!” Mila shrieks. “No nap!” Without a word, Sofie carries her upstairs and sets her down. The whole time Mila shouts the same words, only broken by the theme song of a kids’ TV program. A door closes, and the sound of Sofie coming back downstairs follows. “Sorry about that,” Sofie says. “Coffee?” I shrug. “Sure.” We all make our way to the kitchen and Sofie shuts the door when Mila gives the most devastating high-pitched scream I’ve ever heard in my life. I look up at the ceiling when she follows it with another equally eardrum-bursting cry. “Is she . . . okay?” Sofie looks at me with a small smile on her face. “Daddy isn’t here,” is her simple answer. “She rarely naps anymore, but it’s important for her to have quiet time. For me, too,” she adds. “She’ll cause a fuss for a couple of minutes then realize I turned her TV on and give up. I’ve got an hour on a good day, but it means I can load the dishwasher without her putting the dirty cutlery back in the drawer at least.” And that sentence right there says how different her life is from mine. An hour of nothing to me is time to read, maybe order and eat a pizza, take a bath. . . . To Sofie, it’s loading the dishwasher. If she’s lucky. Sometimes parents don’t get enough credit. I glance at the dishwasher. “Do you need to do it now?” Her eyes follow mine and she waves a hand. “It’s okay. I’ll do it when Conner is reading her a bedtime story.” Jessie reaches down and opens it, and I grab the silverware basket. “What are y’all doin’?” Sofie says, her voice just above a whisper. “Your dishwasher,” Jessie answers. “If we’re monopolizing your time, the least we can do is empty and load your dishwasher.” “What she said,” I add, opening and closing the drawers until I find the one with the tray holding the cutlery. “Y’all are crazy.” Sofie sniffs, and when I look up, she refuses to meet my eyes. “Now get on with it unless you wanna scrub my toilet, too.” “You’re welcome, doll,” I snort, knowing how much this small thing means to her. I can’t imagine how hard it is to have a terrorizing two-year-old running through your house while you try to tidy up. Aren’t two-year-olds basically tiny human tornados? “Thank you,” she says softly, shooting us both a fond smile. She sets mugs of coffee down on the counter next to us and leans against the stove. “Okay, now tell me why you’re here.” Jessie hooks a thumb over her shoulder and shuts a cupboard. “Dumbass fucked Kye again and wants to know how to get rid of him.” “Holy shit, Jessie!” I snap, slamming the cutlery drawer shut. “Spit it right out, why don’t you?” “You did what?” Sofie coughs, setting her mug down and smacking the heel of her hand against her chest.

With one final glare at Jessie, I look down at the basket in my hands. “I, er . . . might have slept with Kye again last night.” And what a fine fucking night it was. At her inquiring look, I explain how we went from dinner at a restaurant to a romp on the sofa. The story is interrupted intermittently by giggles, mostly during the explanation of the Never Have I Ever game. I laugh myself a few times, too, because hey—some of the questions were kind of crazy. Sofie sighs heavily, a smile lingering on her lips. “Do you want the truth?” “That’s why we came,” I answer. I have a horrible feeling I know exactly what she’s going to say. She tucks her light blond hair behind her ear and meets my eyes. They’re full of a look that hovers between sympathy and amusement, and my stomach drops at her gaze. “You won’t get rid of him,” she says after pausing for a moment. “If there’s anything I’ve learned about the Burkes in my lifetime, it’s that if they want something or someone, they’re relentless.” “I hear ya,” Jessie mutters. “Chels, I know you won’t like it,” Sof continues, “But Kye will pursue you until he decides otherwise. If he really, truly wants you, he’ll boomerang back every time you send him away.” I exhale slowly, taking hold of my mug. “Even if I tell him I’m not interested?” “Girl, you were screwing him not twenty-four hours ago. That shit don’t wash with me, never mind him.” “Fuck,” I mutter. Damn you, greedy pussy! “So basically, I need to book a last-minute trip to the Caribbean?” “Are you takin’ me?” Sof asks. Jessie laughs and nods. “No. I’m going to rent a hut and hire a cabana boy and a ten-foot-high barbed-wire electrical fence to keep Kye Burke out.” Sofie’s answering laugh is loud and sweet. “Chelsey, listen to me. I’ve been to heaven and hell with those guys—all of them. They’re relentless, sure, but they’re respectful. They’re forceful but sweet. And, by God, they can be the biggest pains in the ass I’ve ever met, but when they love . . .” She takes a deep breath and looks down. “When the Burke boys love, they love with everything they have and are. When the Burke boys love, they love forever.” I set my mug down softly, feeling both her and Jessie’s gazes settling on me. “That’s the problem. The last thing I want is a Burke to fall in love with me.” “Hello,” Leila sings, the front door opening and closing. “In the kitchen,” Sofie calls, putting her mug in the dishwasher and grabbing some cleaning spray from beneath the sink. “Hello, slutbags.” Leila grins. She focuses on me. “Hello, Queen Slutbag.” “Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, draining the last of my coffee. “What?” she asks innocently. “Kye came in earlier all ‘Me Kye, me slam cupboard. Me caveman, me stomp stairs!’ ” “Don’t blame me for his temper!” “Dude! You banged him and made him sleep on the sofa, and he’s super pissed. Took me an hour to convince him not to march his ass around to your apartment tonight and go all whatever it is my brothers do when they’re pissed. My romances call it ‘going full alpha.’ ”

“Okay, stop.” I look at her, doing my best to ignore the way her eyes are the exact same shade as Kye’s. “It doesn’t matter. Last night was . . . a mistake. Another dumb drunken mistake.” Leila scoots past me, and her blue eyes find mine as she pulls out the old pod from Sofie’s coffee machine. “Just as well though, right? They are only here for a couple weeks before they go back to L.A. Come December twenty-second, they’re gone, per their contract. It’s just a few more weeks.” Sofie picks at the hem of her shirt, and Jessie focuses on the trampoline that’s visible through the kitchen window. My heart thuds, and I deliberately force myself to shrug both shoulders in nonchalance. “Exactly. Leaving is the best thing he can do. I don’t care.” One perfectly shaped eyebrow curves upward, and Leila’s lips twist into a smirk that reeks of her disbelief. “We’ll see.”

I want a kitten. Or a puppy. Or something that can fill the empty hours in my apartment. Just not a boyfriend—that’s a little too much. In the last twenty-four hours the temperature has dropped another few degrees and the weather stations are forecasting ice storms. If there’s anything I hate more than thunderstorms, it’s ice storms. I’d rather my power be knocked out than my car be iced over until next spring. I shouldn’t be surprised that the Burkes are leaving town again so soon. What I am surprised about is that they’re leaving three days before Christmas—three days before Conner’s first Christmas with Mila. Sofie said she wasn’t planning on taking Mila to California over Christmas since her brother has leave from the army, so would Conner really leave her? And while I know Ella has plans to go with them, would Jessie? I know the answer to that. No. Jessie would never leave her parents and Sas over Christmas. Not this soon into her relationship with Aidan. And why the hell would Kye pursue me when he knows he’s about to leave? My aversion to rock stars is hardly a well-kept secret. My attraction to one may put a kink in that aversion slightly, but it’s still there. I have no intention of ever attaching myself to a gentleman in the same profession as my cheating asshole of a father. I know it’s wrong to assume, but it’s so easy to distrust. After all, I did spend a year with him on tour. I experienced his revolving door of groupies firsthand. I saw how many women he “wham, bam, thank you ma’amed” in that short time. I still bear the scars of seeing scantily clad chicks barely older than me stumbling out of the tour bus the morning after a show. Sometimes, two or three of them fell out. I only just stopped having nightmares about those particular scenarios. I groan and bury my head in my hands. I feel like I’ve done that a thousand times in the last few days. This stuck-in-limbo thing makes me feel like I’m sixteen again and wondering whether or not the cute boy at the back of my math class thinks I’m pretty, or whether or not my on-again-off-again jock boyfriend will ask me to the prom. A part of me wants to storm into Kye Burke’s house—after knocking and greeting his parents, of course —and demand he tell me exactly what he thinks he’s doing with me.

The rest of me wants to barricade my front door, call in sick to work with the flu, and hope he forgets about me. Both are totally viable options, and it’s the epitome of girl problems, isn’t it? We always come up with multiple scenarios, wondering and worrying about what’s going on, whereas guys just go with whatever pops into their head. But no, no. Let’s take our estrogen-filled asses and let’s think every single fucking thing through until we’re miles away from the original thought. You know what? Fuck this. I’m gonna do the guy thing. I grab my keys and phone, and, still in my yoga pants with my hair bumpy from its scruffy workout knot, I run out of my apartment. The slam of the door echoes down the hall. It’s raining again, and having forgotten my coat, I have no choice but to suck it up and run down the length of the parking lot. I’m only marginally wet when I reach my car, and I shake my head when I settle into it. “Brrrrr.” I shiver as the slight chill rushes through me and turn up the heater. I make it to the Burke family home in only a few minutes. I guess everyone is off the roads in anticipation of the ice storm that’s been forecast for two days now . . . and hasn’t happened. Typical. The driveway has three trucks in it, and when I pull up behind the one I recognize as Kye’s, I hesitate. My fingers hover over the keys as it runs through my mind whether or not this is a good idea. No, it isn’t. I should leave. But then the front door opens and Mrs. Burke brings out a trash bag. I take a deep breath and watch as she takes it to the can and drops it in, then turns. “Chelsey?” Shit. I kill the engine and tuck my keys into my palm. “Hi, Mrs. Burke,” I say, getting out of my car. “Is . . . uh, is Kye around?” Her mouth breaks into a wide smile, one that’s reflected in her eyes, and she ushers me toward the house. “He sure is, doll. Why don’t you come on in and get yourself something to drink? You look like you got caught in this here rainstorm.” “I have a habit of not checking the weather before I leave.” I shrug. I’m not lying, after all. I just left in a super rush. “Well,” she says, tucking her arm around my shoulders. “Come in and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee. How’s that sound?” “Honestly? Really good.” I laugh, and her own warm chuckle fills the hallway. “Now you go take a seat in the kitchen and I’ll see if that boy is out of his bed.” She points toward the doorway that leads to the kitchen. I nod, unwilling to argue with her, and shuffle into the kitchen. “Kye!” she yells, going up the stairs. “Kye Burke!” I grimace. This wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I was planning. I mean, it’s fucking eleven a.m. Why is he still in bed? “What?” I hear him groan. “Get your ass outta bed.” Several knocks on the door sound. “You’ve got a visitor.” “Mom, I was up all night working. I’m tired. Tell them to come back.” “Oh, yes, I’ll tell her to leave. She’s only soaking wet from the damn rain, but let’s consider your lack of manners! I didn’t raise you like this, Kye Burke! Get your ass outta bed and down those dang stairs and

pretend to be the gentleman I know you can be!” “Wait, she?” he replies, and a floorboard creaks. “Who is ‘she’?” “Chelsey Young,” Mrs. Burke replies almost smugly. “And she just heard all of this.” “Fuck it!” I cover my mouth with my hand and look at the table. I’m barely perched on the edge of a chair, but this table is large enough to feed five hundred. Even with the fresh flowers in the center and mugs set out in front of every chair on top of a soft white tablecloth. Mrs. Burke’s laughter follows her into the kitchen. She settles her eyes, bright blue like Kye’s, on me, and grabs the mug in front of me. “So, coffee?” “Please.” I edge onto the seat fully and rest my forearms on the table. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, “Does he always sleep this late?” She rocks her head side to side. “Always? No. But I happen to know that last night when he claims he was working, he was actually playing PlayStation.” She shoots an amused half-smile over her shoulder to me. “So he can play that card with me all he likes, but I heard him cussing out some Hungarian guy at two a.m.” The thought of Kye Burke, multimillionaire, world-famous, much-beloved guitarist playing PlayStation at two in the morning has my lips splitting into a wide grin. And, dare I say it, my stomach flutters. How many people in his position do that? “So,” she continues, “Cream and sugar, darlin’?” “Yes, and no, thank you.” “Got it. Where was I? Oh, that’s it.” She bustles around the machine, taking the milk from the fridge. “I think he’s feeling a little lost since all his brothers moved out. He and Aidan used to play together when they thought me and their dad were sleeping.” She sighs, and with a fond glimmer in her eyes, sets the mug full of hot coffee in front of me. “I do miss them.” “I’m sure you do,” I say softly. “But the peace has to be nice, right?” She merely winks as footsteps thunder on the stairs. Leila comes flying into the kitchen and looks at her mom. “I heard Chelsey was here?” “I said that minutes ago. You’re slippin’, girl,” Mrs. Burke responds. Leila spins. “Hey! What are you doin’ here?” More thuds on the stairs. “Not everyone comes here to see you, Leila.” “How about you bite me?” Leila snaps back, fiddling with the coffee machine. “Did I hear Mom say you just got outta bed? Up all night playing Battlefield again, nerd?” Kye’s nostrils flare, and he frowns at his sister. “I wasn’t playin’ Battlefield! I was workin’!” Bright blue eyes rimmed with long eyelashes cut to me hesitantly. I lift my mug to my lips to hide my smile but keep my eyes focused on Kye. “Morning, lazy.” His expression softens—but only a little. “I’m not lazy. I’m exhausted.” Leila snorts and pulls her mug from the machine. “Your kind of exhausted is like a hangover; it’s selfinflicted, so if you think you’re getting any sympathy, you can kiss my squat-toned ass.” My smile simply grows, so I sip my coffee before he notices. “Do you have to be so fuckin’ vulgar all the time?” “Says the guy who just said ‘fuckin’.’ ”

Mrs. Burke presses her fingertips to her forehead and shoots a look to me. “Chelsey, I don’t miss them. Not at all. Not right now anyway. These two are bad enough.” “Hey!” Leila protests. “I’m a fucking delight!” Kye snorts. “When your mouth is shut. Now move your ‘squat-toned ass’ because I want coffee, and you’re in the way.” Well then. “Mom, are you gonna let him talk to me that way?” “Mom, Kye’s being mean to me,” Kye mutters in a high-pitched tone. “Mom, Kye made me move. Mom, I’m lucky Kye didn’t put me through a window.” “Holy shit,” I breathe. “How old are you?” Leila smirks triumphantly. “See? You’re awful.” “Both of you!” I protest. “I feel like I’m back in high school just watchin’ y’all.” Kye takes his mug and looks at me. “The most pathetic thing is that this is nothin’. All five of us together . . .” “It’s a zoo at feeding time,” Leila finishes. Mrs. Burke takes a deep breath and looks between them. “All right. Chels, I’m real sorry you have to see me mama their asses, but here. Leila, you’re comin’ shoppin’ with me. Kye, you have to get the tree like you promised.” “Mom,” Kye groans. “I hate those tree lots.” “Christmas tree?” I sit up straight. “I love Christmas tree shopping.” “Even in the rain?” he asks me, his lips curving. I look out the back door. The rain has fizzled out to barely a slight drizzle, and I shrug. “Well, no.” Apparently Mrs. Burke notices it, too, because she turns to me with a smile. “It’s stopping.” “For now . . .” I pause as it sinks in. I’m getting backed into a corner here, aren’t I? “Who knows when it’ll be back? We all know winter is freaky here.” I glance at Leila. Help me out here, girl. “Wear a jacket,” the traitorous bitch suggests, an evil gleam in her eye. “It’s not like you’re working today, right?” “I . . . right.” Kye catches my eye, and I can’t decide if he’s laughing at me or celebrating the fact his family members have unwittingly forced me into it. At least his mom did it unwittingly. Leila knew exactly what she was doing. “All right then,” Kye says, pausing to drink the rest of his coffee. “I guess I better get ready.” I roll my eyes. I guess he should.

Kye

There’s a little niggle in the back of my mind that tells me I shouldn’t be as amused at this turn of events as I am. It took everything I had not to burst into laughter in the kitchen as the realization crept its way over her beautiful face. She was stuck with me, shopping for a Christmas tree. Thank you, Mom. “This isn’t a date,” Chelsey snaps, stalking toward my truck. “Before you get any ideas.” I pull the front door shut and jump down the porch steps. “Didn’t even cross my mind, Chels.” “Pfft.” She folds her arms and stares at me. “Seriously, it didn’t.” I hold my hands up and stop in front of her. Her eyes narrow into thin slits, and her gaze holds a serious chill. I run one hand through my hair and sigh. “You don’t have to come.” “What?” Her eyes widen after only a few seconds. “You mean . . . you’re not gonna make me?” I shrug. A few strands of blond hair sweep down and cover Chelsey’s eye. I reach out and gently push them back. My fingers linger on her cheek for a second, and my lips tug to one side when she doesn’t move away. “Nah. I’m not gonna make you. It’s just Christmas tree shopping, babe. It’s not like you’re gonna be able to lift it into the truck anyway, are you?” Her brows pull together. “That’s beside the point. Your mom and Leila just backed me into this, and you have a chance to torture me for hours on end at a tree lot. And you’re telling me I don’t have to suffer? That I can go home and eat chips and do nothing but binge on Netflix?” “That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you. But just remember this when you need your own tree and have no one to put it on the back of their truck for you.” She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and takes it between her teeth. “Hmmm.” She steps to the side and looks at the back of my truck. “Can you fit two trees in there?” “Depends how big they are. . . .” She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side. “This could be a real dumb question, but what are you doin’?” With a huge sigh, Chelsey turns to me with a resigned look in her eye. “I’m actually considering killing two birds with one stone and doing this, then getting you to take my tree to my apartment. Will you carry it up the stairs, too?” “Sounds like you’ve put a ton of thought into this.” “I’m a quick thinker.” She shoots me a sassy smirk.

I rub my hand across my forehead and lean against the truck’s door. “What’s in it for me? If I take your tree right into your apartment and set it up for you?” One of her eyebrows quirks up. “The thrill of knowing that you’ve helped out a poor, single woman? And that she might be nice to you for one day?” “How about a date?” “What?” She blinks quickly. “A date? Again?” “Yeah.” “Because it ended really well last time,” she drawls. “I thought it did.” I grin slowly and reach out to tug on a lock of her hair. Instead of pulling, though, I twirl the soft strands around my finger and move closer to her. “You could say it ended with a bang.” Her cheeks flush. She focuses on a spot on the ground, but she can’t hide the way her gaze flits back to me. Fuck, she’s so adorable when she’s embarrassed. I’ve learned that she rarely lets her emotions show, so when she does, it’s nothing short of fucking incredible. “Fine,” she whispers, still looking down. Her chest heaves as she takes a deep breath. She reaches forward for the door handle and presses her body against mine. A tiny squeal leaves her, and I take the chance to wrap my arm around her slim waist. She tenses at my touch, but she exhales slowly, the warm gush of air crawling across my neck. We stand there for what seems like the longest minute ever, pressed together, my breath teasing hers, and her trying her hardest not to touch me back. Eventually, finally, one of her fingers hooks through one of the belt loops at my hips. “I’m teasing,” I whisper, dipping my head. “You want a Christmas tree, then, babe, I’ll get you a Christmas tree. No date needed.” Chelsey shakes her head. “No. You said a date. I’ll give you one. As long as it doesn’t involve a bottle of Jack and my powerless apartment.” “How about a bottle of vodka and my bedroom?” I grin as I offer it. “Because . . .” “No.” She laughs and steps back, pushing her hair from her face and meeting my eyes again. The dark blue hue of her eyes is bright, and she hesitates with a small smile. “Just . . . a normal date. Even if I hate every second.” “Okay.” I open the passenger-side door. “We’ll come back to this discussion after today. Get in and let’s find us some Christmas trees.” Chelsey hesitates for all of a second before she climbs into the cab of my truck and reaches for her seat belt. The door shuts with a resounding slam, and I climb in the driver’s side. I tug my keys from my pocket and shove them into the ignition, then hand Chelsey a stack of three CDs. “What are these?” she asks, spreading them across her lap as I reverse in silence. “CDs,” I answer simply. “No iPhone hookup in this thing? And what’s wrong with the radio?” I bite my tongue and swerve onto the clear main road. Chels reaches for the radio button on the dashboard, and of its own accord, my hand reaches out and bats hers away. “I don’t listen to it,” I answer and turn onto the road that’ll guide me out of Shelton Bay. “The stations are obsessed with us. I prefer not to listen to us once we’ve released a single.” She rests her hand on her lap and looks down. “Have you never listened to yourself?”

I shake my head but leave it there. No—I haven’t. We haven’t, not really. Background noise is the extent of our perusal of our own abilities. Once it’s recorded and deemed good enough for the album, we don’t hear it again. We’ll sing it, but we won’t listen to it. We’re humans just like everyone else. We can listen to a “perfect” song and find a hundred shortcomings. That strum on the guitar could have been harder. That note could have been held longer. That segment could have used an extra drum beat. We’re not perfect. We know it. We just don’t need reminding every time we get into our cars. “Then . . . this one.” Chelsey puts the disc into the CD player, and the first thing that comes on is Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” “You’re kiddin’ me.” Her response is a sweet smile that almost alleviates the pain of this song in my truck. Almost. “Fine,” I grumble. “We’ll listen to Christmas music.” “We are Christmas tree shopping.” She laughs, and, as if the sudden upbeat smacks her around the face, she sways side to side. When I glance at her, she merely smirks and returns my look out of the corner of her eye. Hers is just filled with a ton more laughter and amusement than mine is. She shimmies her shoulders with the smallest of giggles and leans across the center console. And she opens her mouth. And she sings. She sings like she’s been singing nonstop for years, like every note is as simple as hopscotch. Chelsey Young sings as if she’s an angel that’s been dropped from the sky with no other purpose than to do what she’s doing right now. Holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I had no fucking clue she could sing. I had no fucking idea she could make a two-decade-old song sound brand new. I swallow hard and take the turn toward Percival Town, where the tree lot is. The song ticks over to “Last Christmas” by Wham!, and I beat my fingers against the steering wheel. She’s stopped singing although I wish she’d continue. I wish she’d take this song, too, because I bet she could sing it to perfection. When she doesn’t sing along to the chorus, I do. My voice is rusty, to say the least. Despite my attempts to sing every day, it’s not the exercise my vocal cords are used to, because more often than not I forget. Singing’s something I do for work, not for fun. Although I sure miss the fun part. Glittering blue eyes cut toward me, but I continue to sing, letting every note roll off my tongue like it’s made to be there. “This song is depressing,” Chelsey mutters. “Mariah’s is much brighter.” I turn into the tree lot and meet her eyes. “You want me to sing that?” She’s quiet as I pull into a spot and put the truck in park. The quick shake of her head is the only indication I have of her refusal, so I take it and jump onto the graveled parking lot. The crunch that mirrors mine seconds later tells me she’s out of the truck, too.

I’ve been coming to the Percival Town tree lot for as long as I’ve been alive. At least as long as I can remember. One year, Dad tried to bring home a tree from another lot. Ten minutes later, he was pouring gasoline over it in the backyard and setting it on fire at Mom’s orders. That was the day we learned that it was Percival Town tree lot or bust. Chelsey shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt and hunches forward. The wind here is damn cold. I don’t hesitate before unzipping my hoodie and draping it over her shoulders. “Here,” I say, stepping back from her. “You looked cold.” She glances down at my sweatshirt. “I’ll warm up in a minute.” “Obviously. You’re going to be wearing two sweatshirts.” “I’m okay.” She pulls mine off and hands it to me. “Put the sweatshirt on, Chels.” I run my gaze up and down a tree and move on. “I don’t need it,” she argues, jogging after me and shoving it into my hand. I move before she lets go and touch the branch of a tree. “Just wear it. I’m not cold anyway.” She lets out a scream of frustration. “You’re so stubborn!” This from the one refusing to accept a stupid sweatshirt. My fingers curl around her wrist, and I pull her against me. She gasps as we collide, and I snatch my hoodie from her hand. “Put. The. Damn. Sweatshirt. On.” She sighs loudly, and with a glint of resignation in her bright blue eyes, snaps, “Fine.” I release her to hold the sweatshirt open, and she turns and wrestles her arms in. I move in front of her and grab the bottom of it, fixing the zip and tugging the pull up, like I would for Mila. “There,” I murmur. “That wasn’t hard, was it?” She opens her mouth but ultimately settles with a head shake. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, and slowly, she lifts a hand to my arm. I drop my gaze to where she’s touching me. Her finger trails lightly across my tattoos, pausing at the bright green stopwatch. “Why the watch?” Her voice is soft, barely audible over the whine of the wind rattling through the trees. I stretch my arm out and twist it so the watch faces up. My skin tingles as she traces the perfectly round circle. “Time is something you’ll never get back. Live in the moment and don’t worry about anything past right now, because for all you know, something amazing could be waiting for you.” She nods slowly and glances at me through thick lashes without a lick of mascara on them. “Wise words.” A chill whispers across my arm as she drops her hand. “Your arms are cold. Take it back.” She grasps the zipper pull, but I reach out and still her hand with mine. “I’m not cold,” I lie as another breeze sparks goose bumps on my arms. “Keep it and let’s find the right trees.” “I . . . Okay,” Chelsey gives in, finally, and turns her head. “I like that one,” she says, pointing to a tree around five feet tall and three feet wide at the bottom. “Nah.” I shake my head. “It’s too skinny. You need a tree with a bit of ass.” Her eyes glitter as a small laugh escapes her, and her cheeks pink as that small laugh evolves into something that warms me. She laughs bigger than I’ve ever heard her laugh before, and she covers her mouth with a hand tucked into the arm of my sweatshirt.

I lift my eyebrows, grinning, as she leans forward and rests her forehead on my chest for a long moment. “You all right, babe?” She shakes and stands upright, looking at me, and although she’s no longer laughing out loud, every single giggle is dancing in the brightness of her eyes. “ ‘A tree with a bit of ass,’ ” she quotes. “Where the hell did that come from?” “The lack of the tree’s ass, for one.” I point at it. “Look. It’s too skinny. You need it to be bushy. It’s not a Christmas tree without it.” She presses her lips together, and with a tiny nod, walks backward slowly. “So you like ass and bush. Noted.” It clicks. “Only on trees! Wait! Fuck!” I wipe my hand across my eyes. “I like ass. Not bush. Shit, I mean if it’s well-trimmed. . . . I’m not discriminatory about bushes!” She’s doing that laugh again. It hits me that she’s messing with me. Chelsey Young is a pain in my ass. And that laugh . . . it’s doing something to me. Her eyes meet mine, and I’m pretty sure I could fall right into them and never feel the need to come back out again. I’m even more sure she’s gonna chew my balls off for this next move, but I’m gonna do it anyway. I close the small distance between us with a few short strides, take her face in my hands, and lower my mouth to hers. Her laughter dies on my lips. Instead of fighting as I expect her to, she puts her hands to my waist and leans into me. And then the heavens open. And I don’t mean metaphorically. Chelsey screams as ice-cold raindrops pelt down on us. I laugh. Her dramatic reaction is almost as amazing as listening to her laugh. I quickly arrange the two hoods so they fit together then lift them over her head. “You wanna go?” I ask over the pitter-patter of the rain as it bounces off the gravelly ground. She shakes her head, tucking her hair inside the hood. “I’m not leaving until I have my Christmas tree! And your mom will kill you if you leave without hers.” True that. “Fine. But we’re looking for ass and bush, remember?” She grins. “Ass and bush. Got it.”

“That’s a big tree,” Chelsey whispers, looking at it in the middle of her apartment. “It didn’t look that big at the lot, did it?” She chews on her thumbnail and looks at me. I shrug and sip my coffee. After a pit stop at home to help Dad get Mom’s monster of a Christmas tree set up and to change my clothes, I did as promised and set up Chelsey’s. “Well, it didn’t really look quite so assy in the lot, but that’s probably because there were assier trees.” She raises an eyebrow with a look that tells me I’m crazy. She’s late to the party. I already know I’m crazy. “Ohhhh!” she groans, leaning against the wall. “Where’s it gonna go? The only way this beast is fitting in my apartment is if I put my sofa into storage for the rest of the month! Why did you let me buy such a big tree?”

“In my defense, I assumed you knew what size tree you needed.” “But it didn’t look this big at the time!” “You’re kind of being a diva right now.” She opens her mouth but snaps it shut and glares at me instead. I answer with a half-grin I know reeks of cockiness. “It’s a tree, babe. Just cut it back a little,” I suggest. “And that?” She points to the ceiling, where the branch that the star usually sits on is currently bent at a ninety-degree angle. “So trim down a little.” I shrug. “With what? Nail clippers?” Women. Everything is ten times worse than it needs to be. Every fucking time. “Look, shift your sofa over a little and it’ll go in the corner by the window.” I motion toward the empty corner. “I’ll get Dad’s shears and come over tomorrow to cut it back.” “I can buy shears,” she bristles. “I do everything else.” “And I bet the last time your toilet got blocked or you struggled building furniture that you just muscled through and did it all by yourself,” I drawl, keeping my eyes on her as her cheeks flush. There we go. “I may have asked for help from my neighbor,” she mutters. “Fine. Can you at least help me move the tree so you can cut it back tomorrow?” “I didn’t hear a ‘please.’ ” “I swear to fucking God, Kye Burke, I will hurt you.” I laugh. The thought of her doing something that could physically hurt me is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. “Try it. See how quickly you get flipped over and fucked as punishment for your stubbornness.” She narrows her eyes and shoves her sofa along a couple of feet. There’s just enough room for the tree, and before I can get around the island, she grabs the pot it’s settled in and tugs. Luckily for her, I’m quicker than the effect gravity has on a six-foot Christmas tree toppling over, and I get there before it buries her. “Rein in that diva,” I warn her, righting the tree. “Next time I might not be here to keep you from getting crushed.” I expect her to come back with some snappy retort or an insult, but a few seconds pass with her giving me the evil eye before she blows a raspberry. “Seriously? Mila has better comebacks than that.” “Fuck you.”

Chelsey

The almost constant ch-ch-ch-ch of raindrops splattering against my window is getting really fucking old. Like, seriously. There’s a whole state here. Can’t they go ch-ch-ch-ch against someone else’s window? I really hate winter in South Carolina. I don’t even bother checking the weather forecast at this point. I know that even if I wake up and it isn’t raining already, it will be at some point during the day. Which is great. Unless you’re in the middle of a tree lot and getting kissed by the last single Burke boy. What am I saying? That rain had amazing timing. I silently thanked it, even if we did get chilled to the bone while we found the damn trees. But that kiss—God. That kiss. I can still feel it. I can still feel the ghost of his lips as they touched mine with just enough pressure to fill my body with warmth. The sensation of his slightly rough hands against my cheeks is still strong enough that I keep touching my face to make sure I really am imagining it. The memory of that kiss is the single strand of hair falling across your face that just won’t go back into place. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s bad. It’s so bad and it’s so wrong, but if I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m back there and he’s with me. I can imagine that the rain doesn’t come. I can imagine that he’d slide his hands into my hair and I’d wrap my arms around his waist and he’d kiss me like there was nobody watching. But I don’t want to imagine it. Kye Burke is edging his way into my life in a way that’s like a termite inching its way through a wooden beam. That’s it. He’s like my very own termite. That probably isn’t the best analogy, though, as termites are sneaky little bastards who are nearly impossible to stop, aren’t they? Then again . . . my attempts to tell Kye to get lost haven’t exactly been successful, have they? I’m partially to blame though . . . I did agree to a date. I did have sex with him again. I did go over to his house. I cover my face with my hands and bend forward onto my table. This is totally ridiculous. I’m not fifteen years old. I should be able to deal with a passing attraction to a very handsome man.

My phone rings and I straighten and reach for it. I don’t recognize the number, so by my rule, I don’t answer it. I don’t care to listen to spiels about new windows or insurance or whatever it is people are selling. I reach for my coffee, and when I turn back, my phone is blinking with a notification. I sip from the cup and unlock my phone. The notification is a voice message, and with trepidation filling my body, I click the icon to play. “Chelsey, it’s Dad. Call me.” I screw up my face and put the phone down. How about no for an answer there? I haven’t heard from the guy for months, and that’s all he’s got? When my phone rings again barely thirty seconds later—another from a private number—I take a deep breath and answer the call. “Hello?” “Hi! I’m looking for Chelsey Young?” the chirpy female voice responds. “You’ve found her.” “Great! My name is Stella Beaden, and I’m with the Carolinian. I was wondering if you had a few minutes for a couple of questions.” My stomach twists into a knot. “Sorry, Ms. Beaden. I’m about to leave for work. How about you call again at ten past never?” “It’ll only take a minute!” she protests and immediately follows up with a “How do you feel about the news that your father will be welcoming a second daughter in the spring? Do you have anything to say about the rumors that he cheated on his fiancée? Can you tell us whether or not the wedding will be postponed in light of the news?” “I’m sorry, I have no comment,” I reply in a voice far stronger than I feel. On that, I end the call and set the phone facedown. I wouldn’t have even answered that stupid call if the stupid voice mail from my stupid father hadn’t distracted me. My coffee doesn’t feel as strong anymore. I look into the dark liquid in the mug and take a succession of deep breaths. None of them quenches the anxious but angry feeling my heart is pumping through my body. It’s like my adrenaline has adrenaline. I’m shaking from head to toe as the realization that his “call me” was only a courtesy call to tell me the huge news that I should have known about before the media. But the media clearly found out before I did. That he never really tried to tell me first. My father is a selfish piece of crap. I grab my phone and dial the last saved number I had for him. It rings a few times before it’s answered . . . and not by my father. “Mr. Young and Ms. Weller are unavailable for comment,” a monotone voice says. “Please contact Mr. Young’s manager at—” “This is Mr. Young’s daughter,” I grind out, breaking through the fake message voice this chick has going on. “I’d like to speak with my father, please.” “Oh, well, um,” she stutters. “Let me see if he’s free.” “He called me three minutes ago. He’s free. Hand the damn phone over.” “Two seconds,” she squeaks. She doesn’t even bother to put me on hold, obviously, because I can hear her as she tells him I’m on the line and passes the phone over.

“Chelsey!” Dad’s deep voice rumbles over the phone, and I get chills. Not the good kind. The hangthe-fuck-up-now kind. “Why the hell do I seem to be the last to know that you’re engaged to some bimbo barely older than me and that you two are having a girl, my sister?” “Whoa now, sweetheart.” “Don’t call me sweetheart. I haven’t been your sweetheart since I was legally required to endure your bullshit years ago.” I take a deep breath, but I’m still mad. Raging mad, it hits me. I’m fucking fuming. The last time I felt anything this intense was the day he walked out on Mom and left us to fend for ourselves. “You call me and tell me to call you, then thirty seconds later a reporter from the Carolinian is on the phone asking me what I think about your clusterfuck of a life.” “What did you tell them?” He almost sounds afraid. “Nothing. I told them I had no comment. Like I’ve done for the last six years. Yet they still call me.” “Good.” Silence hovers and the line crackles briefly. “I wanted to tell you, Chelsey. We only found out this morning and the media were tipped off—probably someone at the doctor’s office. You know Katie is only a few months along—she had some test that told us the gender. Getting engaged was a spur of the moment thing last week. She doesn’t even have a ring yet. I swear, I wanted you to be the first to know we’re getting married, sweetheart.” “Well, congratulations, I guess. I hope you’re happy now.” “I am. Very.” “Great. Take me off your wedding invite list, and do a better job with this kid than you did with me, okay?” Then I hang up. Hot tears burn the backs of my eyes. He’s in his fifties and willing to have another daughter when he’s neglected to call me for two months. When his idea of parental support is five thousand dollars in my bank account every month—dollars that are immediately put into a savings account for any children I may have. I don’t want his stupid money. But now . . . Everything comes back. The memories of when he left us, of how Mom cried, of how he was photographed less than twenty-four hours later stumbling out of a club with some skinny groupie hanging off his arm. How he saw me only when he deemed necessary, without any consideration for what was going on in my life. How he once wanted me to fly to Australia for just four days to spend time with him and got mad when I refused because I didn’t want to miss school. How I was forced into taking my senior year on the road when my mom died of cancer that summer. How I’m almost certain I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done, because now my stomach is twisting and my phone is vibrating nonstop on top of the kitchen island. Because not ten minutes ago every part of me was alight with the memory of being kissed by a rock star. Ten minutes ago, I was closing my eyes and thinking of everything that would have happened if it weren’t for the rain. Ten minutes ago I was thinking of things that could have been . . . if only I hadn’t spent the majority of my life exposed to, and jaded by, the reality behind the glamour of fame. I swipe furiously at the tears that escape my eyes. This is so fucked up. My rational mind tells me not to judge Kye based on my father’s example, but my irrational one tells me stereotypes aren’t stereotypes

for no reason. In all fairness, my irrational mind has a point. My door buzzer sounds, startling my tears away. I get up, swallowing what I hope is the last of my emotion where my father is concerned. “Hello?” “Let me up, babe.” Kye’s deep tone travels through the intercom, and my heart stutters. “Um. O-okay,” I reply, my voice cracking where the remaining emotion from my conversation with Dad breaks through. My finger hits the button to unlock the door and I spin away, biting down on my thumb. He can cut my tree down and then leave, can’t he? But there isn’t a question about it. That’s how it’s gonna go, and that’s the very end of this. I know better. Still, I jump when three sharp knocks ricochet off my front door. I go to the door and open it slowly, keeping my body close to the hard wooden surface. Kye’s standing on the other side like I knew he would be, wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt. His hair is perfectly messed back, like he just woke up and ran his fingers through the blond-brown strands. In one hand, he clasps a fairly sizable pair of shears, but it’s the startling brightness of his blue eyes that has me pausing. They see right through me. I take another deep breath as I pull the door open wider. It feels like that’s all I’ve done in the last hour —breathe deeply and hope for something better to happen. “Come in,” I say softly, turning away before he walks right in. “You want somethin’ to drink?” “Coffee?” he asks. The gravelly, concerned tone of his voice skitters through me, but I ignore the shiver that cascades over me and remove the pod from the coffee machine to keep my hands occupied making a fresh cup. “Sure.” The tension that hovers between us is orchestrated by me, and I’m okay with that. Maybe, the more uncomfortable and unwelcome I can make him feel, the quicker he’ll turn and walk out the door. A girl can hope, I suppose. Wordlessly, I fix him a coffee and pass it to him, my stomach churning at the strong smell. Apparently my father’s news has made me feel sicker than I thought. Kye’s fingers wrap around the arm of the mug and he lays the shears down on my coffee table slowly, knocking a coaster off it in the process. He picks it up, puts it back, then sets his mug down. I’m losing my inner battle to look away from him, especially when he straightens and stretches his arms above his head. “You all right?” he asks hesitantly. “You look like you just saw a ghost.” I nod and turn away. “I slept badly last night,” I mutter and grab my coffee. I tip it into the sink and wash the splashes away with a sponge. “And you’re throwing away coffee?” His disbelief is evident in his tone. “Cold.” I squeeze the sponge and pause, shutting my eyes tightly. Lukas Young, that philandering, abandoning fucker should not get to me this much anymore. I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter if your parent’s actions shouldn’t affect you. They always will, simply because they’re your parents. Karma really needs to sort her shit out on that one. “You want me to come back and do this later so you can nap or somethin’?”

I shake my head, still not looking at Kye. “I have to work in a couple of hours. I’ll just take a shower. If that’s okay.” “It’s your apartment, babe. But if what you’re askin’ is if I’ll come peek at you, I promise you I won’t. Scout’s honor.” Now I glance at him and twist my lips to the side. His are spread into a wide grin, so I focus on that instead of the glimmer of concern still lingering in his eyes. “Every time you fake Boy Scout pledge y’all kill a unicorn.” His laughter follows me as I head into the bathroom and shut the door. I reach forward and turn the shower on, then lock the bathroom door and lean against it. My mind is still buzzing with my father’s revelation—and how I know every word he spouted to me was plucked from his cauldron of bullshit in a dumb attempt to appease me. He thrives on media attention because it brings fame, and he adores fame . . . much more than he could ever adore another person. The man loves himself to the point of self-obsession. My eyes burn with the tears I almost successfully fought back earlier. With the shower running, I take a deep breath and let them go. They stream down my cheeks in hot bursts. The paths they create feel like rivers of molten lava, but they leave behind icy-cold streaks as each teardrop falls onto my lap. I bury my hands in my hair and curl into a ball. I’m shaking with anger and hopelessness and bitterness. Anger because of how he treated me. Hopelessness because just through the wall is a guy who is as close to perfect as they come. Bitterness because years of experiencing the reality behind his job means I can never let myself have him. And to be honest . . . a part of me wants him. A part of me wants to let go with Kye Burke and see where the craziness ends. I want to know how the kiss in the rain and the Christmas tree cutting and the rides home from work could really finish. But it doesn’t matter how irrational it is, self-preservation wins the battle. I’m jaded. I’m jaded as fuck, but at least I know it. It’s that simple. . . . I know better. Am I stupid? Perhaps. “Chelsey?” Kye knocks gently on the door. “What’s wrong?” I sniff and swipe the wetness from my cheeks. “I’m showering!” “You’ve been in there for thirty minutes. That’s long, even for a woman.” “I didn’t realize.” Shit. “Yeah,” he drawls. “Now you wanna tell me why you’re not even in the shower but are actually crying against the door?” “What?” “I can see the shadow under the door and I’ve been listening to you for the last couple of minutes. The water ain’t that loud, babe.” “I’m fine,” I lie, forcing myself up. Damn. I can’t catch a break today. I kill the shower and look in the mirror. My eyes are bright red, so is my nose, and my eyelids are swollen. Not to mention my cheeks look like they’ve had patches of bright red fabric stuck onto them like a Raggedy Ann doll. Oh yeah, real fine, Chels.

“Look.” There’s a tension at the door as I presume he leans against it. “I ain’t gonna pretend I know what the hell you’re supposed to do with a crying chick.” Despite myself, I drop my eyes to the floor with a twitch of my lips at that admission. “But I know you’re supposed to hug them, so I figure I can get that right, then fuck up the rest after.” A phone pings. It isn’t mine because mine’s too far away and now in silent mode, so it has to be his. “All right, Chelsey,” he says a minute later. “Open the goddamn door before I open it for you.” I’d bet my life savings that text was from Jessie. Jessie has a Google alert on my douchebag dad so she can make sure I’m not playing tough and keeping things from her. “Okay,” I whisper, moving slowly toward the door. With a shaky hand, I reach for the lock and twist it. The handle jerks down and the door opens so quickly I only just avoid being hit in the face. “Hey!” Kye ignores my protest and grabs me, pulling me into his arms. He holds me so tight that he squeezes every bit of strength out of my body and I have no choice but to press my face into his chest and hold his waist. Okay, I totally have a choice. But the hug is . . . nice. And I really do need a hug. “He didn’t tell you first, did he?” he rumbles into my hair. When I shake my head, he simply mutters, “Fuck, Chels.” “That sums it up pretty good,” I whisper, reaching between us and wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. Jesus, is there anything worse than someone catching you crying? I don’t know if my cheeks are hot from the tears or the embarrassment that he can see me, blotches and all. Kye kisses the top of my head gently, the kind of kiss that leaves a lingering touch long after his lips have gone. Warmth spreads down my body from that tiny point, and I close my eyes as I allow myself to savor it for just a moment. Just one moment. His chest heaves with a deep breath, and he releases me, only to frame my face with his hands. I swallow hard and open my eyes. His bright gaze is insistent as it searches mine, and I stand totally still under his scrutiny. My stomach knots apprehensively when his eyes finally still. “And it all makes sense,” he murmurs, still focused completely on me. “Wha-what does?” “All of it.” His lips move into the tiniest smile I’ve ever seen. “All of you.” “I don’t understand.” His thumbs stroke down my cheeks, swiping away the last of the tears, as he drops his hands. “You will.” He punctuates his words with a wink and turns. I follow him into the front room and watch him as he grabs the shears and points at the tree. “You did it already?” His eyes sparkle as he finishes his coffee and sets the empty mug down on the table. “Let me know when you’re ready to understand.” Then he leaves.

Just like that. And what the hell does that mean?

Kye

“Mom’s going to slice off your balls and roast them with her turkey for Christmas. You know that, right?” I nod at my sister. “I know. But for the look on her face when she walks through the door, it’s gonna be so fucking worth it.” Leila shakes her head, staring past me at the tree. “I cannot believe you decorated the tree with dildo decorations.” I look at her over my shoulder and shrug. “It’s been standing there for like a day and a half. It was feeling neglected.” “What did you do, have the decorations overnighted or something?” “Actually, yeah.” I grin. “You can find all sorts of shit on the Internet. Mom’s lucky I didn’t buy the bondage decoration kit.” “You say that, but I guess she hasn’t shared her Christmas list with you yet.” Leila shudders. “The Fifty Shades DVD is at the top with stars around it. The woman is in her fifties.” “Maybe she likes that Irish guy.” My sister sniffs and picks her book back up. “He’s no Charlie Hunnam, that’s all I’m saying.” “Not a damn clue who that is.” “You need a life.” “Clearly you should follow your own advice.” “Can you two be in the same room and not fight?” Dad asks, shutting the front door behind him. Leila’s book finds its way back to her lap as her attention falls to Dad. “Hey, Dad. Kye decorated!” “You started the tree?” he groans, hanging up his jacket. “Quick, take it dow . . .” He trails off as he turns and examines the tree. “Leave it,” he corrects himself. “I have to see her face.” “Hey, Chelsey’s on her way over!” Leila exclaims happily. “And that is our Christmas tree.” “You just gave away any chance of gettin’ laid ever again, son,” Dad points out carefully. I shrug. The chance of getting laid again is looking slimmer and slimmer anyway—especially where Chelsey is concerned. As soon as Jessie texted me yesterday and I took one look at Chelsey’s tear-stained face, everything made sense. The scars from her childhood are embedded so deeply that she looks at me and only sees a rock star. She sees another clone of her father, as far as my actions are concerned. She doesn’t see Kye Burke. As for changing her mind, I have no idea how to do that. Since Dirty B. blew up, I didn’t change. Tate was the manwhore. Aidan was the secret manwhore. Conner was the “I’m bored with my right hand” one.

I’ve always been the one who thought every one-night stand through and generally came out at “no.” I’m not painting myself as a fucking celibate saint here. I’ve just always been the picky one. That night, I picked Chelsey. I saw her sitting in the bar, all blond hair and brooding blue eyes, and knew that was the night. The night I’d finally get to be with her. In doing so, I picked the biggest damn challenge I’m ever gonna face. Except perhaps my mom when she sees the dildo-decorated tree. It might help if I go pack an overnight bag, because I think I might be safer anywhere but here. Clearly, I’m also the Burke who hasn’t grown up yet. And I’m totally okay with that. My brothers can keep their responsibilities. I’m still figuring out the fucking washing machine, never mind a whole house. “What,” Chelsey exclaims, “the hell is that?” With a wide smile spreading across my face, I shove my hands in my pockets like a teenage boy and look at her. “A Christmas tree.” “Are those . . . penises?” “Technically, dildos.” “Like real ones?” She jerks her alarmed gaze to me. “No. Just plastic.” She flicks her tongue across her lips. “Uh-huh. Why do you have penises all over your Christmas tree?” “Because he’s an immature little bastard,” Leila answers for me. “You didn’t stop me,” I shoot back. “Hell no I didn’t. I cannot wait to see Mom’s face when she sees this!” “When she sees what?” Mom’s voice creeps through the house ominously, and the close of the door after her sounds like the signal that I should run away. “Uh . . . I’m just gonna go . . . to the store. . . .” I shuffle toward the door that connects the front room with the kitchen. Chelsey lifts her eyebrows in amusement, and Dad grabs the back of my shirt so I can’t escape. You wouldn’t think I was twenty-four. For numerous reasons, obviously. “Kye Burke, why are there tiny penises on my Christmas tree?” Her voice is calm. Really calm. I’m even more convinced that I should run. “Merry Cock-mas?” Mom’s expression is somewhere between insane amusement and extreme frustration. “I’m just gonna come back later . . .” Chelsey whispers, edging toward the living room door. “When there are less . . . cocks.” “Good idea! I’ll come with you.” I wrestle out of Dad’s grip and dart behind him, through the kitchen, and into the hall. Chelsey laughs and grabs my arm, dragging me back into the room. “I said I was going. I didn’t say you were escaping this cock-up.” “Great choice of words,” Dad chuckles. Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “I should have known that when three boys left, one boy would have to make the impression of three,” she says, mostly to herself. “I should have known that the one who never left his little peep alone at two would one day decorate my tree with cocks.”

“Mom! What the hell?” I sputter. “I should have known that his ball-hoarding obsession at six was a sign of things to come.” She sighs heavily and drops her hand. “After all, there’s one in every boyband. I thought I was ready for this.” Then, she turns to me. “Kye, son, we love you anyway, but I have to ask. Are you gay?” Chelsey lets go of me, and laughter rips from her. Leila laughs, too, her book falling to the floor. Dad covers his face with his hands, and Mom just stands there in the middle of the room, her eyes wide. Her hands are now clasped in front of her sympathetically, and the tiny upturn of the right side of her mouth explains it all. “Well played, Mother,” I say reluctantly, walking back toward the front door. “Well. Played.” “You didn’t answer!” she calls, laughter punctuating each syllable. I walk out of the house, shaking my head. Damn. I should have known she’d get me one way or another. “Kye,” Chelsey giggles, the sound of the closing door following it. “Wait.” “Are you coming to find out if I’m gay?” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I was more hung up on the fact you played with your ‘peep’ at two.” I throw my arms in the air. “Seriously! I play with it now, and no one makes a fuss about that.” She bites down on her thumb and tilts her head to the side, brushing her blond hair out of her face with her other hand. “Actually, the fact she used the word ‘peep’ was the best part.” “I . . . yeah, kinda.” Rain pitters against the roof of my truck as dark clouds form overhead, so I focus on her. “Did you come to see me or Leila?” She pauses for a second, her eyes hesitant, before she says softly, “You.” “Okay, well, I’m not goin’ back to Mom and her peep warpath, so get in and we’ll get coffee.” I unlock the truck with my key fob and open the door for her. After Chelsey climbs in, I close it and go around the other side. “Any reason you wanted to see me?” “Let’s get coffee. Then talk, okay? Besides, I need to finish laughing first. I’m gonna have abs in a minute.”

Jessie isn’t working when we pull up outside the coffee shop, thank God, so we take a seat in the corner on the plush chairs. We’re pretty hidden here, and Chelsey visibly relaxes when she sees that. She unwinds her scarf and sets it on the chair next to her, then reaches for her coffee. She’s barely said a word except for the odd “peep” mutter followed by tiny giggles. As hard as I’ve tried to keep a straight face, it’s been really hard. It is one hell of a word. Even if my mother did just ask me if I’m gay. Right. I’ve dreamed of nothing but fucking the girl opposite me. I may be the picky one, but I’m as straight as they come. Not that there’s anything wrong with gay people. It’s just hilarious that my mom would ask that even if she was just ribbing me. The Cock-mas prank totally bit me on the ass, though. “I wanted . . .” Chelsey sighs when her phone rings and pulls it out of her pocket. “Oh, fuck yourself,” she mutters at the screen and tucks it away again. My eyebrows shoot up.

“Private number. Again,” she replies dejectedly. “My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day.” “The media, right? Is your standard comment ‘fuck you,’ or ‘fuck yourself,’ by any chance?” Her eyes flit to mine. “How did you guess?” “Just a hunch.” I grin and lean forward, wrapping my hands around the cup. We managed to get a parking spot half a block away, but the temperature is dropping, ready for the predicted ice storm, so even a few minutes out is freezing. “What were you gonna say?” She takes a deep breath and drops her gaze to her cup. Hot chocolate this time, with little marshmallows. Apparently coffee is a necessary food group, right up there with protein, and not suitable for merely warming oneself through. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I should have called you after I spoke with my dad and told you not to worry.” “It’s all right.” “No, it isn’t.” She lifts her cup to her lips then rethinks it and looks at me. “So I’m sorry.” I study her as she looks at the top of the cup once more. She’s not good with eye contact, huh? “That’s it? You could have texted me that.” “Yeah.” The cup clinks lightly as it hits the saucer. She takes the tiny spoon between her finger and thumb and stirs, unsaid words lingering in the space between us. The bell above the door rings at the same time her phone does. She drops the spoon and reaches into her pocket. The way her lips turn down makes it clear it’s the media again. I reach across the table, grab her phone, and hit the power button. Then I shove it in my pocket. “That works,” she replies, a hint of amusement filtering through her helpless tone. “No shit. You should have just left it at home. You know they’re relentless.” “I know.” Her gaze drifts over my head to the pictures lining the walls. “I just hoped . . . I don’t know what I hoped. That they’d get the message? I even changed the message on my voicemail.” “To what?” “I . . . Um.” Her smile is mischievously sweet. I pull my phone out and dial her number, fighting my smile as I look at hers. “Hi! This is Chelsey Young. If you’re calling for my opinion on my father’s life, you called the wrong number. The correct one is five-five-five go fuck yourself.” I snort and end the call. “No one can accuse you of fucking around, huh?” “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” She lifts a shoulder and shrugs. “It’s infuriating. You know that. The constant stream of messages—except y’all have a PR person to do that. I have my voice mail and the hope that my temper won’t send my phone into a wall.” “Has that happened?” “Have I gotten so pissed off that I threw my phone into the wall?” She raises an eyebrow. “No. And I’ve never been so mad that I dropped it out my window into the parking lot either. In case you’re wondering, though . . . It turns out, Gorilla Glass? Not so unbreakable.” I don’t have a fucking clue how to respond to that. No, wait—I do. “Come on.” I zip my sweatshirt back up and stand, reaching for her hand. “Come where?” She blinks and grabs her scarf as I snatch her hand. “I didn’t finish my drink!”

“We’ll go to your place and I’ll make you one with whiskey in it. Even better. Let’s just go.” “Go where?” I slide my fingers between hers and tug on her arm. She narrows her eyes. Her forehead is marred by tiny shadows of a frown, but I pull her after me down the sidewalk until we reach the main retail area of downtown Shelton Bay. She’s right. Although I remember what it’s like to have to field numerous calls, we mostly have PR to do that for us. Chelsey doesn’t have that privilege. She’s not as lucky as we are, and if she’s had two calls in five minutes, it makes me fucking sick to think of how many she’s had since I left her yesterday morning. “What time did you make that voice mail?” “Five-five-five go fuck yourself?” “That’s the one.” “Two a.m.,” she mumbles. “Fuckin’ shit!” “What?” I shake my head and pull her in front of me, grasping her waist and pushing her forward. I have to slow a little since I’m taller than her, and I’m pretty sure she’s resisting a little just to be a fucking pain. We walk in silence for a few minutes, my grip on her unwavering. We stop right outside the phone store. “What are we doing here?” Chelsey says. “Kye?” “I’m getting you another phone. So you don’t have to deal with that bullshit anymore.” She wrenches herself from my grip and turns. Her hair flies as she looks down, and she pulls the rogue strands from her open mouth. “Don’t be stupid.” “I’m not.” “You can’t get me a phone. That’s absurd.” “So is you being harassed twenty-four-fucking-seven because these pricks all have the cell number you were foolish enough to put on Facebook.” I hit her with a hard look, and her expression tightens as the truth of my words hit her. “Way I see it, you’ve got two choices, babe.” I hold up one finger. “You and I can walk into the store in a civilized manner, get you a new phone, then walk back out.” “And what’s option two?” I hold up a second finger. “I throw you over my fucking shoulder and carry you into the store, get you a new phone, then carry you back out.” “You couldn’t carry me for that long.” “Wanna try it?” Her eyes flash with her defiance. “I dare you.” She should know from last time I don’t back down from dares. I grab her waist and haul her up over my shoulder. She screams and then claps her hand over her mouth. “Kye!” she pleads. “Put me down! Holy shit!” “You gonna go in nicely?” “People are staring at us!” “All right then.” I take two steps.

“Put me down! I’ll go in! On my feet!” “You promise?” “I promise! I fucking promise! Oh my God.” With a grin, I drop her back onto her feet. Immediately, she slaps my chest. I look down as she pushes her now-messy hair from her eyes. “You’re a fucker,” she mutters, nudging me with her elbow. “A fucker who’s about to buy you a phone.” I nudge her back. “Then you’re a generous fucker.” She stops, smiles, and grabs my wrist before I can take more than a step away from her. She slides her fingers down so that they tickle my palm, then gets on her tiptoes and brushes her lips across my cheek. “Thank you,” she says softly. I half-smile and run my thumb along the smooth line of her jaw, and she turns into the touch just a little. “You’re welcome.”

“How can Mila work that, but you can’t?” Sofie asks, looking at Chelsey. Chels grimaces, and we all focus on the crazy-haired two-year-old. Mila’s lying on her tummy in the middle of the rug in front of the fire—her favorite place in the Burke household. Chelsey’s new phone is laid out in front of her, and her tiny toddler finger is jabbing at the screen with more finesse than Chelsey used earlier. “Mila could work out a Sudoku if it were on a screen,” Conner says. “She’d get it right after a while, too.” Chelsey tilts her head to the side. “How can she play Candy Crush? I couldn’t get past level seven.” “Seven?” Conner snorts. Sofie taps his thigh, but she’s grinning. “Mila has this freaky toddler sense. She did a level Conner couldn’t do.” “But that was level sixty-three,” he protests. “Honey, you got to it. I’m not sure I believe your claims of her doing at least twenty of those. . . .” Her smile softens with her words, and I know she believes him. She probably believes he’s lying and Mila did way more than just twenty. Conner wraps his arm around her shoulders and kisses the side of her head. Once again, they’re oblivious to everyone around them. They’re lost in Conner and Sofie world, and it briefly passes through my mind what exactly that’d be like. To be so fucking wrapped up in someone that they’re all you see. I glance at Chelsey. Mila is standing in front of her, the phone outstretched, and Chelsey lifts her onto her lap. “I’m real bad at this game,” she says softly, taking the phone. “Matchy,” Mila says back, equally quietly. She swipes her finger to make a four-strong line. “See?” “I know. I’m just bad.” Chelsey takes over, and I watch through the tiny space not blocked by Mila’s hair. Her dark hair is getting crazier and crazier. “Uh-oh,” Mila gasps. “Fiy!” “Fiy?” Mila points at the number of moves she has left—five.

Shit. When did that kid get so smart? “I think I’m gonna lose,” Chelsey admits. She finishes out the moves. “One more go?” Mila nods resolutely, and Chelsey hits the Replay button. I pull out my phone and bring up my last received message from Aidan. I hit Type. When you first saw Jessie with Mila, what did you think? I thought I needed to run the fuck away because it was the damn cutest thing I’d ever seen. Seems like running away is the flavor of the day. Did Mom take the cocks off the tree? he adds in a second message. I glance at the tree, now adorned with simple white lights, ready for her to attack it with Mila’s help tomorrow. Yeah, I reply. Now it looks like a sad little bush. Why did you ask about Jessie? Because seeing Chelsey playing Candy Crush with the kid makes me feel like I need to impregnate her right now. I hope that’s a fucking exaggeration. Then Mila starts crying. “Sofie.” Chelsey holds her hands up, panic in her eyes. “Help.” Sofie laughs and gets up. She sweeps Mila off Chelsey’s lap and takes the phone. “No lives. Con?” Conner sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket. A few swipes later he hands it to Mila. “Why’s it always my phone?” “Because she likes yours better. She just plays with the case on mine.” “That’s because it’s a wineglass you can tip. And that was supposed to be a stocking stuffer.” “Then perhaps you need to rethink your hiding places,” she drawls, settling Mila onto her knee. “The underwear drawer, which I put laundry in three times a week at least, is not a hiding place for presents.” Chelsey hides her smile behind her phone, then frowns. She flips it over and, upon finding a bit of drool, grimaces and leans over. She wipes it off on my leg. A sweet smile follows her action. I can’t help but return the lip twitch, mostly because she looks so fucking cute when she smiles at me like that. It’s the way her eyes light up. A tiny indent forms on one cheek, and the dimple could be the most adorable part of it. My phone lights up with a message from Ads, and I realize I didn’t respond a moment ago. I swipe to open it. Please tell me you’re not impregnating her. It’s kind of tempting not to respond again, but I do. Nah. I’m gonna get her to like me first. Good luck. I glance at her. The phone is resting on the arm of the sofa, and she’s leaned over it, her head resting on her hand. I figure I’ve made a damn good start.

Chelsey

I roll over in bed and reach under the spare pillow next to my head. My new phone has given me a night of blissful, unbroken sleep due to no more media calls. All thanks to Kye Burke. The person who cared enough to make a difference. I’d like to say it’s because he’s just an all-around nice guy—which he is—but that doesn’t ring true with me for some reason. I’m not totally stupid. I know he’s quietly pursuing me . . . us . . . something. That said, you don’t grab a girl and go buy her a phone just for that reason. He must have studied me intently enough to realize I was just about at my breaking point yesterday. It wasn’t a pity buy either. There was a real fire to him, and I could feel the heat to it. He was a man on a mission from the second he took my phone to the moment we left the store. Inside, he was powerful and demanding. He was arrogant. He was a bit of a freaking asshole¸ actually. He was forceful and insistent over everything. It was really hot. It was also the quickest phone purchase I’ve ever made, even if we did fight over who’d be the regular bill payer. He tried to do that and pay the whole contract up front. Needless to say, that was the one thing I got my way on. I yawn and open the message that’s flashing on-screen. Did you sleep last night? I smile. I don’t need to look at the name. Yes. Thank you, I reply. Kye’s response comes a moment later. You’re welcome. Are you busy tonight? There’s late night shopping in Percival. Mom’s refusing to buy Mila’s present for me. I need help. Oh, you poor baby. Of what help he thinks I’ll be regarding a present for a two-year-old is beyond me. Please? Fine. I finish work at five. I’ll pick you up at six thirty. Then we’ll get food? . . . Are we going shopping, or on a date? I sit up when he doesn’t immediately respond. If he’s tricked me into this, I swear I will kick his ass. The only reason I won’t fight is because I need to go shopping anyway. I have no Christmas decorations in this apartment because there was nowhere for me to store my old ones when I moved from my old apartment a few months ago. Kye Burke, I tap out. Answer me.

No. No what? I’ll let you decide. I hate you. Have fun at work, gorgeous. Not for the first time, I wish there were such a thing as a middle finger emoji. Instead I settle for a “fuck you” meme from Google and send that. His response is a selfie. His eyes are closed and his lips are pouted right out the way kids do when they’re begging for a kiss. Except kids don’t have scruffy dark stubble that coats their jaw and plump, pink lips that I know are incredibly soft and perfect for kissing. I send him back a picture of the lower half of my face, with my hand covering my mouth. Are you naked? I glance down, although it’s stupid, because I know I am. Panic filters through me—holy shit, did I just accidentally send him a naked picture of me? I scroll up a little and click on the picture, my thumb trembling. It takes me a second to focus on the image, but when I do, I see that the frame cuts off just above where my boobs are. Thank God. You can, however, see that my shoulders are bare, so I’m clearly naked. Informing Kye Burke of my state of dress at eight in the morning was not on the top of my to-do list, but I have an inkling that he’s considering moving me to the top of his. Uhh . . . no. I’m wearing a strapless bra. Good. I was about to tell you I was coming over. As it is . . . I’m going to shower. Now there’s a good mental image to start the day.

Percival Town at Christmas is amazing. There’s no denying it. From the giant Christmas tree in the center of town and the decorations that adorn the lampposts to the market stalls that sit in the center, surrounding the tree, it’s kind of how you imagined the North Pole as a kid. “Man, this Christmas is better than last year,” Kye mutters. “You don’t get this atmosphere in L.A.” “You spent it there last year?” I ask. Dumbly. Because he just fucking said that, didn’t he? “Yeah. It sucked, but our old manager insisted we be close to the studio and ready to record again a couple of days after. He didn’t get the meaning of the holidays, obviously.” I nod slowly and adjust my scarf. I wish I could tell him I can’t imagine being away from my family on Christmas, but I can. I’ve spent the last five Christmas nights at Jessie’s house. Her mom practically forced me over for dinner because, and I quote, “No one should be alone on Christmas. Except assholes.” “Where do you want to get food?” Kye turns his attention to me, and I purse my lips. For all my trips here, I’ve never really eaten. I tend not to hang around when I have something to do— something that’s a serious sticking point in my relationship with Jessie. I’m a “walk in, get shit done, walk out” kinda girl. Jessie’s a “wander in, zigzag here, there, and everywhere, do what she needs to do, do some more zigzagging, then wander out on her fourth attempt.” “You pick.” I shrug and adjust my scarf again. This time I keep my hands wrapped in the wooly goodness to fight off the chill that’s settling in.

“I know this really great sandwich place just around the corner. It’ll be pretty busy now, so we can shop first then drop it off in the truck before we go eat. Sound good?” “Sounds good to me. Do you know what you’re getting Mila?” He smacks his lips together, and the look in his eyes is sheepish. “Not a clue. I figured I could wander around and you could find it for me.” “Do you do anythin’ yourself?” He answers with a slow, sexy grin. “Oh boy,” I say under my breath. My cheeks feel hot. I reach up and touch the back of my hand to one, and yep, red hot. Boiling. Like water in the desert. I know he can do that. “What’s up, babe? Cat got your tongue?” I glance at him through my hair. His grin is smug now but still somehow devastatingly sexy. Seriously. I think it might just be melting my panties off. The satisfied glint in his bright blue eyes, which are focused so intensely on me, sends a shiver of remembrance through my body. His mouth . . . My body . . . His hands . . . Another shiver travels down my spine, and I can’t even pass it off as being one from the chill. My cheeks are getting hotter and hotter, and his grin is getting wider and wider. Finally, he breaks into a laugh and puts his arm around my shoulders. I dip my head as he pulls me into him and continues his chuckles into my hair. “Come on,” he sputters out. “Let’s go find a damn toy store before I decide you look so hot we’re blowing this off and going to make out in my truck.” “That wasn’t part of the plan,” I squeak. “I know.” He gives me a squeeze. “But you know what they say about the best laid plans.” “They should be followed?” “No. They should be torn up. Which means, for all we know, I could be inside you within the hour.” I cough on whatever response was coming from my throat. I don’t know what I planned on saying, but I know I didn’t expect him to say that. “That’s . . . uh . . .” “It’d warm you up real quick.” “Kye.” “You wouldn’t even have to get naked. I know you’re wearing long socks under those boots, so I’d just lift your dress and boom. We could do it on the front seat.” “Kye!” “Fuck, with you on top we could be done in minutes.” “Kye!” “Shit.” He wipes his hand down his face. “Now I want to go and fuck you in the truck.” That’s enough. I grab his jacket and pull his face toward me, going on tiptoes at the same time. Our lips press together, and he freezes. It lasts barely a second. He turns into me, moving so his hands are on my waist. He pulls me against him. I reach up between us as my power over this wanes and I find myself falling back on my heels. His grip tightens as his arms go around me, but that’s not what I notice most. I notice the warmth that spreads through me. I notice the way every part of my skin tingles, how the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and tickle against my scarf. I notice how he pauses and his hot

breath cascades across my lips before he claims my mouth once more. I notice how I don’t care, not even a little bit. Not that he’s kissing me in public. Not that people are watching us. Not that this could be all over the Internet tomorrow. I want him to kiss me. Just once more. Another brush of his lips. He does. Again. And again. Until my fingers tease his hair and he pulls away with a sharp inhale and closed eyes. “You kissed me,” he rasps, his eyes opening. They’re bright. Oh my God, they’re so bright. They’re confused, but there’s a steely determination forming in their depths. One that makes me apprehensive about what it could mean. “Um, yes,” I whisper, swallowing. I drop my eyes to his lips—they’re swollen and pink, and I know mine are the same. I can feel them. He slides his hands up my body until they’re resting on either side of my neck and his thumbs are curving up and over my jaw to my cheeks. He closes his eyes briefly, and those enviously long lashes fan across the tops of his cheeks. When he opens them again, that confused look has dimmed, but his gaze is no less compelling. “Next time you kiss me, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” he threatens in a low voice, but there’s really nothing threatening about those words. They’re pure temptation. I focus on his lips again. It would be . . . easy. So easy. “Chelsey,” he growls. My tongue flicks out and wets my lips. “Sorry,” I breathe. I cut my eyes away from him and toward the street illuminated by fairy lights. “Should we . . .” “Yes.” The word is tight, and he moves, slipping his arm across my shoulders again. I look down at his hand over my shoulder, and he teases a lock of my hair around his finger. “You’re touching me.” “Yeah. You got a problem with that, babe?” “I . . .” I don’t, I realize. Not at all. “No.” “Good. That makes this easier.” He kisses the side of my head and leads me toward the department store. “Now, I’m gonna make a bet that I can find one present for everyone I need to in this place.” “That’s not really a tough bet,” I argue half-heartedly. “They do have everything here.” “I know.” He points to the store. “Something somewhere in there has to be good enough for Miss Mila.” I should probably let him know that I already know exactly what Mila wants because I called Sofie earlier. Apparently Mila had a Christmas list the length of Shelton Bay Beach, which is no joke, so Sofie has delegated certain items to family members. Except Kye. She wanted to see how long he’d last before he’d break. On that note, I think I’ll keep it to myself a little longer. “Holy fuck. I think Santa threw up in here.” His words pull me out of my mind and I look around. He isn’t wrong. Every inch of this floor is dripping with Christmas. I don’t even know what half the decorations are, but there’s a drunk-looking elf wandering around the candle aisle. I’m not sure if he actually works here, but if he does, someone needs to confiscate his eggnog.

“The toys are upstairs,” I say, reading the information from a board. “And the elevator is right there.” “Right.” Kye gives the drunk elf a side eye and a wide berth as the elf almost knocks a candle in a glass jar off the shelf. He steers me into the elevator and pushes the button for the second floor. We whiz up in seconds, and when the door opens, I correct his earlier statement. “No, this is where Santa threw up. And a bunch of kindergarten classes tried to clean up.” Kids. Everywhere. Literally everywhere. Some are screaming, some are crying, others are bouncing excitedly. One little boy zooms past us, pointing out almost everything on the shelves, much to the chagrin of his somewhat bedraggled mom. “Can’t I do this online?” Kye asks, his arm finally dropping from me. “This looks like a special kind of hell.” “You’re holiday shopping on the kids’ floor. Of course it’s a special kind of hell.” I grab his sleeve and drag him into the middle of the chaos. He looks terrified. His eyes are wide and he’s staring blindly into the abyss of children’s toys that sing, dance, jump, and probably rap the national anthem for all I know. I shouldn’t laugh. I know I shouldn’t. But when you’re looking at a twenty-four-year-old, six feet tall, probably around one hundred and seventy pounds of pure tattooed muscle, and he’s standing in the center of a toy aisle without the slightest clue about what to do, it’s even funnier than it sounds. Kye walks forward slowly, perusing the shelves as he does. “She’s not going to want Hot Wheels, is she?” He glances over his shoulder at me, and I shake my head “no” with a grimace. The fact that he had to ask me that is slightly worrying. When he nods his understanding and finds his way to the girls section after zigzagging through excited children, he looks even more out of his depth than I thought possible. Who knew Barbies could be so scary? I snap a sneaky picture of him looking at a talking puppy toy with confusion etched into his features and text it to Sofie. Her reply is almost instant and is nothing but laughing-crying face emojis. Kye returns the puppy to its shelf and turns, coming face-to-face with a doll dressed as a doctor with pigtails, clutching a lamb. “I think she likes this,” he says hesitantly. “But I don’t know if she has it.” I shrug, trying to look innocent, and peer down at my phone. I get another covert picture of him prodding at the lamb, clearly expecting it to talk. Sofie tells me Mila has Doc McStuffins, whatever the hell that is, and I take it from Kye. “Okay. This is getting real painful.” I set the thing back on the shelf and look at him. “I already know what you need to get Mila.” “And you just let me wander around like a clueless dick?” “That’s an accurate summary,” I mumble. “But it was funny. And you looked kinda cute.” Kye looks down at himself. “I’m kinda cute?” “Moving on . . .” I walk past him. “I know what you need to buy, but I don’t actually know what it is. The extent of my knowledge about kids is . . . well, not very extensive.” “Sounds nonexistent.”

Yeah, that works. “She wants a baby doll that cries and pees and stuff. There are a couple of them, but Sof can’t remember exactly which one she asked for. . . .” “Great. So she’s putting the kid’s happiness in my hands.” I grin. “She knows how to parent. Just think, if Christmas is ruined, she can blame you.” Kye mutters something under his breath then looks at me. “When I have kids, I’m giving Sof all the hard shit on their lists. Now help me find this crying, peeing baby doll.”

We loaded our numerous bags in the back of Kye’s truck before heading to dinner, just as Kye planned. We located the required doll after Sofie saw the ad on TV and remembered its name. That made it easier for the poor sixteen-year-old store clerk who was already starstruck at having “OhmyGodthat’sKyeBurke” ask her for help. Instead of having to actually talk to him, the poor soul could simply point to the doll then run away shaking. Apparently, that’s a regular occurrence. Even with his brothers. When I asked what she would have done if they were all there, he told me I didn’t want to know. His tone said he wasn’t joking. Here’s the thing—although I’m used to groupies and fangirls for my dad’s set, I’m not used to teenage groupies and fangirls. And those? Crap on a cracker. They seem to be . . . I don’t know if I actually have an appropriate word, so I’m gonna go with “scary.” I shiver as a gentle breeze chills the air, and he takes my hand in his. I take a deep breath, but the warmth of his fingers settling between mine overrides my worry. That and the way my heart thumps inside my chest. He guides me through the throng of people toward a sandwich place I’ve never noticed before. It’s tucked away off the main shopping street, and although there are several people here, it’s still pretty empty. “I love this place,” he says to me with a bright smile. “They do the best meatball subs I’ve ever tasted.” I look up at the menu on the boards above the counter. There’s a picture of the meatball sub I’m guessing is the same one he was just talking about, and while I know they never look like the pictures, I am pretty cold and it looks like the perfect thing to have after shopping. “Sounds good.” I return his smile, although mine is smaller, and he lets go of my hand to order. Minutes later, we leave with two piping-hot, toasted meatball subs in a bag, and he’s got my hand in his again. We find an empty bench just off the square, facing away from the Christmas tree. We sit down and Kye hands me my sandwich, and it really is as hot as I thought, so I open the wrapper and let it cool for a moment. We’re not sitting in the best spot, temperature-wise. We’re at the edge of town here and only a stone’s throw away from the beach, so there’s a biting wind traveling up to us from the sea. If I wasn’t used to this from living almost my whole life in Shelton Bay, I’d be turning into a snowman right now. I steal a glance at Kye. Unlike me, he’s seemingly not bothered by how hot the sandwich is and is already munching his way through it. A small smile teases my lips, and I drop my eyes to my feet. I don’t know why he’s doing everything he can to pursue me. I don’t know why, even when I told him I wasn’t interested, he kept pushing. I don’t know why I’m glad he did.

“Are you gonna eat that or just use it as a lap warmer? I bring you to the most amazing sandwich place in the world, and you’re just starin’ at it like it’s gonna fuckin’ eat you.” I laugh and face him. “Sorry, but not all of us can eat scalding-hot food.” “Ugh,” he groans. He leans back and rolls his wrapper into a ball. “I bet you wait for your coffee to cool a little, too, don’t you?” “Will that change your opinion of me?” I lift the sandwich and take a small bite out of it. Flavor explodes in my mouth, and I moan happily as I chew. “Not if you keep doing that.” “Doing what?” “Moaning. While you eat.” His eyes burn into mine, desire flaring in the depths of the blueness. I swallow the mouthful of food I just bit off. “Um. Sorry?” He reaches forward and, with a gentle brush of his thumb, removes some sauce from the corner of my mouth. I peer down and grab his hand, then lick it off. I grin. He doesn’t. “Fuck, Chelsey.” He says my name in a rough exhale. It’s the kind of breath you feel everywhere, and I do, even though it wasn’t my breath. “You’re makin’ it real fuckin’ hard for me to behave myself like a proper gentleman.” My lips part and I look down. Then glance at him. “And by behave, you mean . . .” “I mean it’s real fuckin’ hard not to throw you in my truck, drive you home, then follow you upstairs and fuck you the way I want to.” I have no idea how to respond to that. I wrap up the remaining half of my sandwich and hold it, careful not to squeeze out any sauce. “What . . .” My mouth goes dry as I meet his eyes. “What if I said okay?” He runs his hand through his hair, turning away. “Then it goes against everything I’m trying to do,” he says under his breath. “Come on.” He stands and holds out his hand, still not looking at me. “I’m taking you home now.”

Kye

It takes everything I have not to throw my laptop across my room. There’s always fucking something, isn’t there? Always something there to kick you when you’re down. Like I’m not already frustrated and doubting the hell out of myself for the decision I made to walk away from Chelsey last night. It would have been so easy to do what I wanted to do. Take her home and fuck her. That’s all I wanna do every day, for the love of fucking God. I want her over a table and against a wall and under the covers. Be with her—that’s it. Even if it’s just that way. But I want her to want it. I want her to want me to do those things. I don’t want her to give in only after we’ve been drinking. I don’t want her to think that’s the only way I want her. ’Cause it isn’t. Fuck, it isn’t. I don’t want her to offer it just to see if I’ll bite like any sane man would. I don’t want her to offer it as a test to see if I’m just like the others, which is what I know she did yesterday. Mostly I want her to know that if I’m inside her again, and she’s falling apart to her own tune of my name, there’s no going back. There’s no more fucking dancing around and me trying to prove to her I’m not the kind of person she thinks I am. No, if we do that again, that’s it. That’s the end of this bullshit game I’m forcing myself to stick to the rules of. It’ll be the end of this “no sex, act like a gentleman, seduce her slowly and softly” plan. It’ll blow it out of the goddamn water, and sticking to it is already hard enough. Every time I see her¸ I want her. I want to tell myself that being the nice guy and holding the door and giving her my sweatshirt won’t get me what I want. That it would be easier to just tear her clothes off and send her to the heights of pleasure. But I know that if I fuck Chelsey Young again, she’s mine. And I’ll be fucked if there’ll be any kind of argument over that. Maybe she should be mine already. Maybe I am the nice guy, like my brothers have always teased me about. They’re the ones that don’t think about anything and dive into things headfirst. Don’t get me wrong, I can be an asshole as much as they can, but I just don’t have that as my default personality setting. The only problem with being the nice guy in this instance is that I’ve got myself one hell of a pair of blue balls. And now? Now I’ve got another problem. The email in my inbox requesting a comment to go along with the photographs of me kissing a blond girl is almost an even bigger problem. I dial the number of our PR firm and am put straight through to Jennifer, our promotional manager. “I need your help.”

“I’m assuming you received the same email I did,” she says seriously. “How do you want this handled? I have two hours before the media outlets start running these images and attach Chelsey Young’s name to them. You know as well as I do that they’ll run the photos and this will spread like wildfire.” “I’m amazed they haven’t run them already.” “They’re not photos taken by staff photographers. Someone saw you, recognized you, and photographed you, then sold them anonymously,” she explains. Shit. “Does she have anyone we can contact to coordinate on this?” “No.” I rub my hand across my forehead. “She’s just a normal chick, Jen. She doesn’t have a fucking manager or any of this stuff.” “Your tone tells me she’s not going to be too happy about this.” She’s going to string me up by my balls. She’s gonna hate every fucking second of this if it runs. She’ll be stalked and her privacy will be invaded—the very things she’s tried to avoid for her whole life. The things I was just trying to protect her from. This is what she doesn’t want, what her father made her hate. This is why I should have listened to her when she told me to fuck off. Except now it’s too late. I can’t, and more importantly, I won’t. I couldn’t walk away from making her mine if someone paid me to, but I can sure as hell do everything possible to protect her until that happens. “Contact all the media outlets that have purchased them already. Tell them I’ll pay them double if they don’t run the pictures,” I order, getting out of bed. “Pay extra to anyone who’ll tell you who sold them the pictures and hand over their contact details.” “There was probably an NDA involved. Then again,” she muses, pausing. “The pictures are cell-phone quality, so let’s hope they weren’t smart enough for that.” “They were smart enough not to sell exclusively,” I point out. “Let’s hope that’s where their foresight ended. I’ll call you later.” On that, she hangs up, and silence replaces her sharp voice. I drop back onto my bed and set my phone next to me. My head flops forward so my face is in my hands, and the tightness in my chest makes it hard to breathe. How am I supposed to tell Chelsey? “Kye?” Leila knocks at my bedroom door. “Hold on.” I put a pair of sweats on then call for her to come in. “Everything okay? I heard you say something about paying lots of people.” I sigh and explain everything to her, finishing up with the question I just asked myself. “How do I tell Chelsey? How do I explain that I ignored my gut and kept kissing her? It was stupid, Leila. So fucking stupid. I should have stopped it.” And that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? I know better than to put on a show. I shouldn’t have wrapped my arms around her and allowed myself to get drunk on her kiss. My baby sister pulls her dark hair into a ponytail, securing it with a band snapped from her wrist. Her eyes are soft, and her lips are turned up in sympathy. “You really like her, don’t you?” It’s crazy to consider that “really like her” is somewhat of a fucking understatement. Right? I shrug and open my curtains. My bedroom has always been at the back of the house, facing the beach, and the sight of the waves crashing against the sand beneath gathering storm clouds is a calming view.

“That’s a pretty vague statement, sis. Am I falling for her? Yeah. Quicker than she’s fucking falling for me, if she’s even approached the ledge.” “She wouldn’t spend this much time with you if she didn’t like you,” she replies softly. “Chelsey is hard to figure out. We’ve known each other forever, and I don’t even feel like I know her at all sometimes. She’s . . . guarded.” “No shit.” I snort. “What’s wrong with me, Lei? Ads, Tate, and Con all just went for it. They didn’t fuck around like I’m doing.” She walks to the window and hooks her hand inside my elbow. Her hair tickles my back as she rests her head against my upper arm. “You’re softer than them, Kye, and that isn’t a bad thing. You care about how Chelsey feels. You care about what she wants. I’m not saying they don’t care about Sof, Ella, and Jessie, because they do, but you just put Chelsey before yourself. You really think they’d have called Jennifer and offered up a ton of money to protect her from the public eye? Jessie went postal on Aidan’s ass after her car got egged, remember?” How could I forget? To hear Aidan tell it, she blended his balls and threw the soup all over him. “If I had to pick a guy like any of you, I’d pick one like you,” she continues quietly. “Being the nice, caring guy doesn’t mean you have to finish last, you know? You’re a total dick sometimes, but there’s a reason Sofie and Jessie turned to you when everything got tough. You have the biggest heart out of all of you, and think of it this way: cocks stop working long before hearts do.” A small laugh escapes my mouth, and I wrap my arm around her for a quick squeeze. “Thanks, Lei. Now how do I tell Chelsey she could be the newest Dirty B. Twitter trend?” My sister backs up, hands in the air. “I don’t know. I just imparted my daily dose of wisdom with the cocks quote. I got nothin’ past that.” Great. I love it when she’s that helpful.

The day passes slowly. Really freakin’ slowly. It’s been eight hours since my conversation with Jennifer, and all the info I got was that she’d managed to buy off all the media outlets and was sending a list of checks I need to make out. Fine. Whatever. But no one gave up the details of the “cell phone bandit,” as Tate dubbed them not one hour ago. As soon as he heard, presumably from Leila, his big-brother instincts kicked in and he hightailed it back here to make me recount the whole story. “Think, Kye. Someone nearby had to be suspicious.” I give him the stink eye. “I was kissing Chelsey. I was hardly payin’ fuckin’ attention, now was I?” “Start kissin’ with one eye open.” Ella thumps his arm without looking up from her tablet. “Don’t be an asshole, Tate.” Yeah, living with Tate means she’s finally saying “ass” as much as a normal person. “There’s nothing. Yet,” she says, barely glancing at me. “I keep searching your name on Twitter and the last thing someone said, apart from excitement over the new single coming next month, is a berating tweet because all she could do was stare at you in the store yesterday.” Despite my worry, my lips twitch up. I figured that one would come eventually. They always do. Might as well enjoy it.

“Oh,” Ella says, “And she followed it up with a picture of her schedule for the week and asked you to come back in any of those times.” “Yeah. That isn’t going to happen.” “You should also know that I cleared twenty-nine emails containing selfies of girls in various states of undress from your personal email yesterday morning. Do you ever even check that account?” “No, ma’am, I do not,” I say. She lifts her eyes to mine slowly. “You should consider starting.” “Were the girls hot?” Tate asks, looking at her. Her heated gaze slides to him, and I relax. Phew. She might be small, but she’s passionate. “Never mind,” she mutters. “What? It’s a legit question. If they’re hot, he might start fuckin’ checkin’.” Well . . . “Told you.” Tate smirks smugly when I don’t deny it. What? I’m a hot-blooded male. If I knew there was the chance of some legitimately hot girls sending me nudes, I might have checked it long before now. Just out of curiosity, you know? Ella shakes her head and goes back to her scrolling. Tate gets up and grabs a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and steals the remote before he sits back down. I throw my phone up and catch it. I repeat this as thoughts trawl through my mind nonstop. None of them makes much sense, so I get up and shove it in my pocket. I head for the garage. Old habits die hard, for all of us. Stress needs to be alleviated through music, through the gentle vibration of the guitar strings under my fingers. Once I’m in the garage, I shut the door connecting it to the house and move to the stool where I always sit. My guitar case is lying on the cold stone floor next to it, and I crouch to remove my first love from her case. It feels like forever since I picked this up, when in reality it’s only been days. I rest the smooth wood side against my knee and hesitate before playing. My phone burns a hole in my pocket, and against my better judgment I pull it out and unlock it. I tap the Twitter icon on my menu, although I know it’s the stupidest fucking idea. It’s easy to obsess over what people are saying about you, and, really, whether they’re saying anything at all. All of us did it at first. We’d spend hours reading tweets and articles and all that crap, until we realized it was doing nothing but destroying us a little more. This, though? This isn’t about me. This is about Chelsey. I take a deep breath and click on the Trending page. “Kye! Don’t check—” Ella bursts through the door, and my heart drops as the words on the screen in front of me sink in. “Fuck,” I mutter, almost letting go of my phone. Ella rushes over and takes my guitar as my grip wavers on it. “It came out of nowhere,” she says, setting the instrument down in front of my feet. “I was hoping you hadn’t looked yet.” “Fuck!” I get up and press the heel of my hand to the center of my forehead. Fuck, fuck! Why did I think I could buy my way out of this? I’m not that fucking naive. I should have known that one way or another we’d be exposed.

Everything I’ve done to convince Chelsey I’m not like her dad is now shot to fucking shit and burned to a crisp for good measure. “Kye.” Tate leans against the doorframe as he leaves the room. “Call her. Now.” I dial her number and raise the phone to my ear before I can change my mind. She answers instantly. “Fuck off.” And then the line goes dead. I grimace and lower it, staring at the screen. “That went well.” Instead of calling again, I open our text message thread and send her two simple words. I’m sorry. No you’re not, comes her reply. If you were sorry you would have listened to me in the first place and left me alone. You’re right. But can you at least stay on the line long enough for me to explain? Explain what? That my father called my best friend to verify the rumors that you and I are dating because the media called him? That now a swarm of reporters are gonna drag their asses down here to get quotes from the daughter of rock music’s darling and the fourth member of the boyband the world is losing its shit over? What a match made in fucking heaven. I’m guessing calling you again would be stupid. Einstein? Is that you? I don’t respond, but she sends another message immediately after. Yes. Calling is stupid. Fuck you, Kye. Seriously, fuck you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I lean against the garage door and slide my phone into my pocket. The strongest feeling of regret I’ve ever experienced is snaking its way through my body, my heart pumping it through my veins, the chill of it creeping across my skin. Every hair on my arms is standing on end, and there’s a heavy feeling in my chest. I scrub my hand over my face as these sensations settle into my body. My gaze falls on my guitar and, as if they have a mind of their own, my feet move, pulling me toward it. I grab it with a little too much force and drop onto the stool. The guitar rests on my knee comfortably, and I run my fingers over the strings, briefly checking the tension. Music. Always the music. It’s the only thing that can kill this thought flashing so desperately in my mind. I tried to protect Chelsey from everything she hated, and the absolute irony is that, by doing that, I was putting her right in the way of it. After all, I’m everything she hates. Although her perception of me couldn’t be more wrong, I’m still the embodiment of everything that’s ever hurt her. I was fucking stupid for thinking for a second that she’d ever change her mind. “Go home,” I vaguely hear Tate say to Ella. A moment later, the garage door shuts, and I follow Tate with my eyes as I let my fingers touch the guitar strings however they want. Without a word, my eldest brother removes his own guitar from the case, sits on his usual stool, sets his guitar on his knee, and on the count of three, joins me in playing. We’re barely in sync, and it grates on me, so I move into one of our songs. Tate picks up the cue immediately, and his eyes close as he plays wordlessly. For me. Just so I’m not alone.

I close my eyes. Our transition between songs is seamless. Every note I play, I feel a little more of the tension knotting my muscles dissipate, just enough to make it manageable. I can breathe through the tight twisting of my stomach as the regret filters its way down there, too. Mostly I’m angry. I’m so fucking pissed at myself. I told Aidan I’d never do to a woman what he did to Jessie, when he kept her in harm’s way because he couldn’t let go. And what did I fucking do? Threw Chelsey under the bus, and I ran her the hell over with it. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t been attacked—although the Diva keyboard warriors are probably doing that right now—or that she isn’t in any real danger. The spotlight, she hates it. Cameras, reporters, everything. It’s her biggest peeve, the one thing she could easily live the rest of her life without. And I did everything I could to pull her into the thick of it, even though I thought I wasn’t at all. She just told me in two very simple words that this is done. I should give up. Maybe she’s right. She’s prickly and she’s guarded. It’s a miracle if you can get a laugh from her on a daily basis. She’s also a bitch, but it’s not without reason. She’s a bitch because it’s the only way she knows how to protect herself. Fuck it all, though, because I wouldn’t change a damn thing about her. I wouldn’t change the way her calculating gaze sweeps over me, or the way she always looks surprised when I hold her hand or hug her. I wouldn’t change the fact that I’m falling on my fucking ass for her either. Even if it means I’ll never get to call her mine. ’Cause just for the last few days we’ve spent together, she gave me an escape from the reality of being part of Dirty B. She reminded me that there are bigger things. That’s enough.

The garage door slams open, and both of us stop playing for the first time in what could be hours. Aidan is standing in the doorway, his arm around what can only be described as a fall-down-drunk Chelsey’s waist. He staggers to the side a little as she raises her arm and points at me, giggling. “Hey, look! You’re playing!” Aidan helps her stand up straighter. “I think she belongs to you.” He looks at me pointedly. “News to me,” I mutter, setting the guitar to the side. “What the hell happened?” “As soon as Jessie saw the articles she dragged me to Chelsey’s. Chelsey already had the bottle of Jack Daniel’s ready, and Jessie went armed with vodka.” “Naturally,” Tate snorts. “Hey!” Chelsey slurs, narrowing her eyes at Tate. “Whatchu sayin’?” “Nothin’.” His grin says otherwise. “Anyway,” Ads continues, turning to me. “I was subjected to two or so hours of them drinking themselves silly and listening to various rants from them both, interspersed with loving monologues from Jessie.” “She’s stupid,” Chelsey giggles, then hiccups. “Oops!” Another giggle. “No offense, Aidan.” Hiccup. “Trust me, darlin’, I’ve heard worse.” “So why did you bring her here?” I ask him just as she hiccups again. She makes a big show of holding her breath and drunkenly counting to ten on her fingers. Miraculously, it works. “Apparently y’all talk better when alcohol is involved,” he explains. “Or maybe that’s just her,” he reasons, giving her a sidelong glance.

“Nope! Him, too!” Chelsey protests, pushing Aidan off her. She wobbles for a second before grabbing the doorframe and focusing on me. Well, she tries to, but judging by the frown on her face, she’s seeing more than one of me. “You!” she snaps, pointing slightly to the left. “Nope. Whoops. You,” she repeats, this time pointing at me. “You, sir, are a royal fucktard.” There’s one for the books. “You didn’t even want me. I totally propositioned your hot ass after we went shopping, and you say no, and then we are all over Twitter! All over!” She punctuates the final two words with a big sweep of her arm. “Everywhere! And people are calling me! And my dad. And Jessie. And apparently one of your fans thinks she’s hotter than me. Pffffft!” She laughs loudly. “Silly bitch.” Tate drops his head and rubs his hand over his mouth. His shoulders shake, and I know he’s laughing. Hell, even Ads is trying hard not to laugh. I’m wondering what her point is. “Anyway! Like I was saying. Yoooou said you wanted to fuck me. And then I said, ‘Okay!’ And yoooou said, ‘I’m taking you home now,’ ” she mimics me in a deep voice. “So, basically, what I wanna know is, what the hell is up with that?” “You got drunk and came here because I took you home instead of having sex with you?” She frowns. “No. I got drunk because you pissed me off, you asshole. I came here because you only listen to me when you’re drunk. And we have sex when we’re drunk.” “Okay. I think you need to go to bed.” I cross the garage and wrap my arm around her waist, shocked at how much she leans into me. Her smile is woozy. “Are you coming with me?” “And I’ve heard enough.” Aidan slaps me on the shoulder. “Good luck, man.” “Me, too.” Tate does the same and follows him outside. The last I hear is Aidan telling Tate to fuck himself after he asks for a ride home. “Kye?” Chelsey says, her voice a little quieter now. “No, babe.” I guide her through the house to the stairs. “I’m putting you in Aidan’s old room. I’m sleeping in my room.” She stops walking up the stairs and turns to me. “Please don’t.” “I’m not having sex with you, Chelsey. Not when you’re like this.” “There’s still time for you to—hic—get drunk. And I don’t want to sleep in Aidan’s room. I want to sleep in yours.” Jesus. Okay. Fine. I’ll sleep in Aidan’s room. I all but force her to go the rest of the way upstairs and maneuver her into my room. “I’m not getting drunk. I fully expect you’ll need to throw up in an hour, and, call me old-fashioned, but vomiting halfway through drunk sex isn’t exactly a real big turn-on for me.” She thinks this over for a moment, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You could be right. Wait. Where are you going?” I stop by my door. “To sleep in Aidan’s room.” “Uh.” She glances at me. “Do you have to?” Her voice is so small and weak. It hits me right where it hurts, and I know I can no more sleep in Aidan’s room than she can think straight.

I look her over as she tucks some hair behind her ear and turns her face to the window. It’s later than I thought, so it’s pretty dark outside. The hazy reflection of the moon filters through the window and casts shadows over her face. She looks sadder than I’ve ever seen. Her lips are fully downturned, and her eyes are glossy. That could just be the alcohol, but there’s a heavy emotion lingering there that I can’t put my finger on. It seems like it’s a mixture of sadness, regret, and maybe even guilt. I turn away from her and grab a T-shirt from my dresser drawer. I throw it at her. “Here. You can sleep in that.” I move into a dark corner of my room, and with my back to her, I take off my jeans, socks, and Tshirt. I don’t care if we’re not having sex. I can’t sleep in a damn T-shirt. I cross the room, shut the curtains, and tap the sidelight before I get into bed. I pull back the quilt and look up at Chelsey. Whatever high she was on ten minutes ago has definitely disappeared, because she’s sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and staring at my bed. I realize too late that the T-shirt she’s wearing is one from our last tour, and the frayed hem tells me it’s one I’ve worn often. Damn, should have given her a new one. “You want me to sleep in Ads’s old room? I can still go.” She shakes her head and, tentatively, gets into my bed. She rolls over so she’s facing me. “You’re naked,” she whispers. “No. I’m wearing underwear.” I gesture, prove my point, then lie down. “Go to sleep, babe.” She nods, snuggles into the duvet. I reach over her and switch off the light. Darkness swallows the room. “Kye.” Her voice is soft. “Will you hold me?” I take a deep breath. “Sure. Come here.” I put an arm under her head and she moves into me. My arms wrap around her, her head on my shoulder, and she buries her face into the crook of my neck. “Thank you.” I touch my mouth to the top of her head and close my eyes tight, ignoring the ache that this is causing. Fuck, I’m such a pussy. I should have made her go into Aidan’s old room. I should have made myself. “Anytime.” Silence hovers, and just when I think she’s asleep, she proves me wrong. “You know,” she whispers into the darkness, her voice catching. “If you were anyone else, you’d be so perfect.” I squeeze her gently, her words resonating with their truth like a knife to my heart. “I know.”

I walk back into my room to find Chelsey sitting up in the middle of my bed, bending forward, her palm pressed against her forehead. “Mornin’, Miss Sunshine.” “Shhh,” she hisses, holding up her other hand. She looks up at me. “How did I get here?” “I was led to believe you demanded Aidan bring you here last night so you could interrogate me as to why I didn’t fuck you the other night.” The horror that spreads across her face is fucking hilarious. “Oh my God. I didn’t, did I?” I smirk, nodding. “Oh my God,” she groans, leaning back against the headboard. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” I put down the glass of ice water I brought upstairs for her then hand her some painkillers. “Here.” “Thank you.” Her cheeks are bright red, and after swallowing the pills, she drinks the water without taking a breath. “Wow. So. I really did that, huh?” “Oh yeah.” I pull the belt from yesterday’s jeans and put it through the loops on the pair I’m wearing. “And did we . . .” She points at my side of the bed, then to me, then back to herself. “Did we have sex?” I raise my eyebrows. “You think I’d do that?” Christ. I’ve never had sex with someone, drunk or not, who wasn’t able to completely control themselves and their actions, who wasn’t fully aware of exactly what was happening at every point. And last night, she could most definitely not do any of those things. “No. Sorry. I just . . . you know. Wondered.” She looks at her hands sheepishly. “Your clothes are on the chair over there.” I nod toward where I folded and put her clothes before I went downstairs. “Mom is making bacon to help with your hangover.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh God. Your mom didn’t see me, did she?” “No. She was out on a date with Dad.” I smile. “Don’t worry.” “Oh. Good. Okay.” She clutches at the duvet. “I’ll be right down.” I leave her in the room and head downstairs. If she can’t remember how she got here, I doubt she’ll remember the last words she said to me last night. Just as well though, right? She’d probably have some bullshit explanation for them—like she was too drunk to know what she was saying. Which, in all probability, is totally fucking accurate. I sit at the table and mumble “Thanks” to Mom when she sets a bacon and egg sandwich in front of me. I nod when she asks if Chelsey is coming down. She puts another down in front of the seat next to me just as Chelsey appears at the bottom of the stairs. “Mornin’, darlin’!” Mom chirps. “Coffee or juice?” “Oh, um, both, please.” She sits down quietly and gratefully accepts the ready-made mug Mom hands her. Because Mom is organized like that and already had both poured for her. We eat in silence while Mom hums to herself, cleaning. She disappears, only to return with laundry a few minutes later, then passes through to the laundry room. The door closes behind her, and silence once again reigns supreme. “Better?” Chelsey glances at me then focuses on the dark liquid in her mug. “Yes. Thank you.” She drinks the rest. “I have work this afternoon. I should head home.” “Jessie called you in sick.” “What?” I shrug. “Ads called me to see how you were. I told him you were still sleeping, and he told me to leave you because Jessie called the bar and said you caught a stomach bug. Plus, Jennifer, our PR manager, called.” She groans and slumps forward. “Fuck.” “Yeah. Apparently we should expect reporters in town by tonight. The ice storm has caused some chaos in-state apparently, so we have a little more time than usual.”

“It hasn’t hit us yet, has it? I need to get deicer for my car.” She looks to the window, but the blinds are still shut. “Nah, not yet. But it’s fuckin’ cold and raining like crazy.” “Okay. I should still head home so I can get to the store before the roads are impassable and I’m stuck eating ramen noodles and tortilla chips for two days.” I grab my keys from the bowl in the middle of the table. “I’ll take you.” “It’s just a bit of rain.” Chelsey gets up and moves the blinds to the side, peering out. “It’s not coming down hard. It’ll take me five minutes.” She stalks past me toward the front door. “Don’t be dumb, Chels.” I stop her before she opens the door. “You don’t have a coat, and this sweater is hardly suitable for the weather. Let me take you home.” She shakes her head. “You don’t need to play the hero, Kye. Not now.” “Fuck, what kind of assholes do you hang out with if you think me driving a woman home so she doesn’t get sick in the middle of winter is playing the hero?” One of my eyebrows quirks up. “I’m being a fucking gentleman here. It’s just courtesy. Don’t worry, Chels. I got the message last night.” She swallows hard. “I’m good. I’ll walk.” I let go of the door when she yanks again. The cold air hits me immediately, but she’s undeterred as she walks out into it without betraying any hint of a shiver. “You’re not actually gonna let her go, are you?” Leila says in a muffled voice from behind me. I turn and see her standing halfway down the stairs, her toothbrush in her mouth. Like she needs me to answer that. I grab my jacket from where it’s hanging up behind the door and run outside. The door slams behind me, and I unlock my truck. Chelsey is halfway down the street, so I get in and drive a little quicker than I should to catch up to her. “Go away,” she yells, glancing over her shoulder. I drive alongside her slowly. “Get in.” “Fuck you.” “Get in.” “I said no.” “No, you said ‘fuck you.’ ” “Fine. No. Fuck you.” “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn.” “From the guy who insists I get in his truck.” “I’m an alpha male. It’s what I do, babe.” She snorts but doesn’t respond. I drive alongside her in silence for a minute before she turns into the park, even though it’ll add another five minutes to her walk. Fuck. Asking nicely isn’t getting the job done. Maybe my brothers have a point—maybe hauling her over my shoulder and throwing her in my truck would be the way to go. I swerve into the parking area and get out, making sure to grab my jacket. “Chelsey!”

“Oh my God! Go away!” she yells, stopping and turning to me. “I don’t care, Kye. I don’t want to talk to you. I have maybe twelve hours before my privacy goes to shit. I want to savor them!” “Here.” I throw my jacket at her. “At least wear this.” “Oh,” she says as she catches it. “You’re welcome,” I snap, my patience running thin. “Give it to Jessie next time you see her. I’ll get it from their place.” I turn around and retrace my steps in the direction of my car. If she won’t let me take her home, the least I can do is try and make sure she doesn’t catch a cold in this weather. “That—that’s it? You’re just gonna throw a jacket at me and walk away?” she calls, disbelief rife in her tone. I throw my arms out, still walking. “That’s what you asked for, babe.” “Do you know how fucking ridiculous this is?” “Do I know how fucking ridiculous it is that you won’t let me talk to you about what happened yesterday?” I spin on the balls of my feet. This time, my patience has snapped. “That you won’t let me tell you how fucking hard I worked with my team to keep those pictures out of the media? How many checks I signed to media companies to buy their silence? How many hours I spent deciding how to tell you before I realized I was too fuckin’ chicken? That? Yeah. It is fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Chelsey

“You—you did what?” I wrap my arms around my stomach, the fleece inside his jacket brushing my skin softy. “Why would you do that?” “Because protecting you is the only thing I had on my mind yesterday. But you just jumped to your stupid fuckin’ conclusions and lumped me in with your stereotype and refused to listen to me.” My stomach flips, but I ignore it. “Then you turn up at my house roaring drunk, demand to know why I won’t sleep with you, ask me if I’d get drunk so we could bone, then right before you fell asleep, told me I’d be fucking perfect if I were anyone else.” His eyes flare with so much emotion it hurts me everywhere. Oh no. “And you pretty much summed everything up in that single sentence, Chels. It ain’t gonna happen because you’re too wrapped up in your father’s past to let go and trust me. So that’s it. I’m done. I tried. Fuck, I tried so hard!” He rubs his hand across his forehead and turns away from me again. “It’s so easy to stand there and say that, isn’t it? That I’m wrapped up in his past. Do you get what he actually did to me?” I’m yelling, and I don’t know how that happened, but I know I can’t stop. Everything I’ve bottled up for so long is on the verge of exploding out of me. “He tore my fucking family apart, Kye. He broke my mom’s heart, he broke mine, and he never gave us a second thought. He forced me into his world when Mom died, and I had to endure all that disgusting bullshit that ruined my life. I know what life is like on the road. I know it’s not easy, and I know the temptation in every town.” “Jesus!” Kye runs his fingers through his hair as the rain gets heavier. “It’s not like that for us.” “It isn’t until it is!” I take a step backward. “I don’t want that. Any of that. I want my boring bar job in my boring hometown, and at the end of the day I want to go home to my boring apartment and watch boring TV shows. I don’t want to spend forever wondering whether or not the person I’m following around the country, and maybe the world, is even faithful to me.” “I’m not your father!” His words are hoarse, and he turns as he shouts them. The look in his eyes is so angry, so raw, almost predatory. “I am not your father, Chelsey. I would never do that shit to you. To anyone. But especially not to you. Fuck!” I shiver as the rain beats down harder. It’s icy cold, and as warm as the jacket is, it isn’t waterproof. Kye closes the space between us in a few long strides. His white T-shirt is wet and clinging to him, and I swallow as his abs flex with each powerful step he takes toward me. It distracts me just long enough so that he can pull me against him. My hands flatten against his stomach and, thanks to his totally wet T-shirt, I can now feel how solid his stomach is. How perfectly defined his abs are.

But of course, I know this. It just feels different right now. Despite the coldness of the rain, his body is hot, and I’m surprised there isn’t steam emanating from his skin every time water hits him. Instantly, I feel myself warming, and he tightens his arm around my waist and dips his head. “I’m not him, Chelsey. I never will be him. The idea of hurting you is the fucking reason I spent my day yesterday trying to undo every bit of hurt I caused just by being around you.” “Yeah. Well. You’re stupid,” I mumble into his chest. Nice one, Chelsey. He laughs. It’s as low as his voice. It’s deep and rumbling and every sound that leaves his lips dances across my skin the way the rain is dancing off his. “Give up,” I whisper, trying to put some distance between us. “Nice try.” He reaches to my face and forces me to look at him by tilting my chin up. I squeeze my eyes shut as the rain pelts against my forehead. He laughs again and slides his hand into my hair. “If you really, really meant that, you wouldn’t have turned up at my house last night.” “No, I do.” I open my eyes again. I want him to believe me, desperately, because right now I don’t even think I believe myself. “I’ll never accept your lifestyle. I’ll never be able to trust you completely, no matter how hard you try to prove it, because guess what? Scars run deep. And mine are so fucking deep they’re part of my bones. That’s just how it is. You’ll never change that.” “I don’t want to change it,” he says roughly. “I don’t even want to erase those scars. I don’t even want to be a fucking Band-Aid. I just want you to give me one chance to prove I’m not him.” “You’re leaving in like two weeks.” “So?” “So this is so stupid!” I look into his eyes and hope I can show him the strength I don’t feel when he’s right against me this way, when his warmth beats out the icy rain and his touch is stronger than I feel, when my heart is pounding this erratically. “I’m the girl that’ll never stop running, Kye. Stop chasing me.” “Never.” I push hard against him in protest. He lets me take a step back before he brings me right back into him. His hand curves right around the back of my head, pulling my face to his, and before I can gasp at the onslaught of ice-cold drops attacking my head, Kye Burke touches his lips to mine. It’s hard and strong. The kiss is head-spinning and heart-pounding, and as my blood pumps hotly around my body in a way that has every inch of me on fire, I know exactly why we can never be. It’s because of this. It’s because his kiss says a thousand things and promises each and every one of them with a ferocity words could only dream of. It’s because his kiss is so fucking consuming. I fist his shirt. The wet material balls into nothing in my hands, making me grip tighter and move closer to him. Like that’s possible. Fuck, I want to rip my clothes off right here in the middle of the park just to get closer to him. The fleeting thought makes me gasp, and, this time, when I push away from him, he lets me go. I swallow harshly as I focus on him in front of me. His hair is flat against the top of his head, water is beading on his ridiculously long eyelashes, and his lips are parted. His muscular chest heaves, the fabric of his shirt so stuck to it that it bunches at his stomach, revealing a tan strip of skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

The tattoos decorating his arms have raindrops racing over them, and it’s only when my gaze drops to his hands, half-balled into fists, his fingers twitching, that I realize I’m just as wet as he is. My hair is stuck to the sides of my face. My nose is freezing and probably pink from its exposure to the chill, and raindrops are slipping down my neck and chest beneath the jacket. I can barely breathe, and I gulp as my need for air overwhelms me. No, no, no. Why can’t he ever just let me go? He opens his mouth to speak, but an urge overcomes me and I take two steps forward into him. My arms snake around his neck, and his lips find mine again. The kiss is urgent and desperate, and I stand on my tiptoes to take more of this and taste more of him. He’s my poison, but I kiss him like he’s my oxygen. We break apart with a gasp, and the rain turns to ice. It’s a mixture of hail and sleet, but the hail is bigger than I’ve seen it for a while, and I bring my shoulders right up to my ears. “Please get in the fucking truck,” Kye mutters. “My back is getting beat to hell right now.” I nod, and just when I think we’re going to run, he grabs my waist. In one strong swoop, to the tune of my scream, he lifts me up and throws me over his shoulder the way he did outside the phone store. “Oh my God! Kye!” Hail and ice and rain beat down on my back as he runs through the park and back toward his truck. I hold on to him the best I can, and I have to say that I have a pretty view of his butt from up here. That distracts from the weather slightly. He unlocks the truck without putting me down. And opens the door. And throws me in. “Neanderthal,” I gasp. He ignores me and shuts the door. He gets in the other side with a smirk and starts the engine. I push my wet hair out of my face and sit back in the seat, sliding the belt over me and buckling in. Kye turns the heat up, and I open the weather app on my phone. The connection is slow, but it finally says the weather’s only going to get worse, including a sharp temperature drop. I sigh and turn to him as he pulls up outside my apartment building. I have no idea why I say it, because I know it’s futile, but the words fall from my lips anyway. “You should probably go now if you want to make it home before the weather gets worse.” His eyes, so intensely blue I shiver, bore into mine. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” “Oh.” I squeak it out and get out of the truck. He follows me into the building and up the stairs in silence, still not saying a word as I push open my apartment door. My first stop is the dryer. I pull out the towels and underwear I put in yesterday morning and dump them on the table. “Um,” I mutter, peeking over my shoulder at Kye. “You might have to wear a towel for an hour, until you’re all dry.” “I’ve got a better idea.” He crosses his arms as he grabs the bottom of his shirt, and I swear to God it happens in slow motion, but every single muscle on his body flexes as he lifts it up and over his head. He stalks toward me and whips the wet T-shirt into the dryer. His fingers grasp the zipper on the jacket I’m wearing, and with his eyes hard on mine, he yanks it down and shoves the jacket off my shoulders. My breathing is ragged as what he wants to do sinks in, and my traitorous bitch of a body is ignoring every signal my brain is sending to run. And run now. My body definitively does not want to run.

He snakes his arms around me and grabs the bottom of my shirt at my back, then he tugs me forward. My hands press against his naked chest, and his muscles twitch under my touch. Fuck, shit, fuck. We’ve never had sober sex. He silences that thought with the simple press of his lips on mine. The feeling he evokes is anything but simple, though. It’s a raging inferno of desire and lust that consumes me, like he just flicked a switch and here I am, dropping my hands to unbutton his pants and push them down his legs. He undresses me in the same quick fashion, right down to my panties, and breaks the kiss for only a moment to kick the dryer door shut. I laugh as he pushes the button and it whirs to life. “Problem solved,” he murmurs into my mouth, grinning to himself. He drops his lips to my neck and picks me up at the same time. He carries me to my bedroom, and we fall together to my bed, and he leans over me, his inked skin bright bursts of color against my untouched, pale body. He wastes no time exploring me. With his hands and his mouth, he touches what seems like all of me. My back arches and my hands bury in his hair, and then the next thing I know, my panties are on the floor and he’s pushing inside me easily. It’s just so . . . perfect. Our heavy breathing mingles between kisses as my hands trail across his back. He drives into me and I crave getting closer to him, like he needs to be deeper than he is, like that’s possible. Each touch of his lips and thrust of his hips wipes out every inch of doubt in my mind, at least for now. Our bodies work together in perfect sync. It seems like forever, yet no time at all, when I cry his name and he collapses on top of me. Kye rolls to the side and tucks me into him. This is the way we slept last night, when I said those so true yet so cruel words to him. He didn’t need to tell me that. I knew I’d said it. I just wasn’t sure he’d heard it in my half-asleep state. I don’t even know if he replied. But that seems so futile right now. When I’m wrapped in his embrace and inside the four walls of my apartment, he’s just Kye. When we’re here, there are no frills, no songs or dances or bright lights. Here, when I’m in his arms and he’s in mine, he’s just Kye. And this is my favorite. I peer over his shoulder and out my bedroom window. It’s almost pure ice falling from the sky now, and even if they wanted to sand the roads to keep them open, they’d never do it enough to make them drivable. The wind has picked up, too. “It looks like you could be stuck here,” I whisper hesitantly, my voice catching halfway through. “At least until tomorrow.” He pulls back to look at me without letting me go. “I can think of worse things. Besides, we can decorate your tree.” “That’s more fun drunk. And I think you know what happened to the Jack Daniel’s.” His grin sets flutters alight in my tummy. “Yep. I remember.” My cheeks flush. Yep. Never gonna live that one down, am I? “I think there might be wine in the fridge. . . . I usually keep it for Sofie and Ella because they don’t do hard liquor unless it’s in cocktails.” “God. You and Jessie are so fucking hard-core.” “We are. Didn’t you know?”

He laughs and rolls over so he’s on top of me once more. He flattens his forearms on the pillow on either side of my head, and my eyes flick to his tattoos. From the owl on one to the timepiece on the other and all the other intricate designs that thread each image together, his arms are pure works of art. I trail my thumb gently along the outside of the owl that curves around his bicep, feeling the heat of his skin. “Are you always this hot?” His answer is a grin. “I mean temperature.” I blush again. “Not that you aren’t hot. I just mean . . . Aw, fuck.” He laughs and bends down, nudging his way back between my legs. He’s not hard, exactly, but there’s definitely potential resting against my stomach. “I love it when you get all tongue-tied and twist yourself in knots.” “Glad someone does,” I mutter grumpily. He teases the hair on top of my head and makes me look at him. “Don’t be grumpy. You’re in bed with a really hot guy. How can you be grumpy?” “Because he’s also arrogant.” “Confident.” I reach down and tickle his side. He jerks away, and I feel the evil smile as it creeps across my face. Kye Burke is ticklish. I tickle both of his sides and he drops down beside me on the bed with a bounce. He grabs me and pulls me on top of him. I scream as he returns the favor and the skin-crawling sensation overtakes me. I wrangle my way out of his hold and fall to the floor, and I manage to scramble up just in time for him to miss grabbing me. My arm keeps my boobs supported as I run through my apartment, laughing. Kye isn’t as conservative as I am and comes running out after me, baring all. His eyes flash with playfulness—a dirty, sexy playfulness. “Chelsey.” “Kye,” I smile sweetly. “I’m not done with you. Get back in there.” “You’ll have to catch me.” No sooner have the words left my mouth than he’s darted toward me. I scream again, this time with laughter, and run around the kitchen island. He’s quicker than me and grabs me by the waist, pulling my back against him. “That wasn’t hard,” he chuckles into my ear, dragging me back into my room. “What are you doin’?” I manage to ask through my laughter. “You’re insane.” “And you’re mine,” he breathes, all traces of amusement suddenly gone. I swallow at the promise in his voice. And this time, when he drops me into the bed and leans over me, everything is slow and easy.

Fairy lights have been strung out across my living room floor for the last thirty minutes. There’s a hugeass knot in the middle of the wire. They were the only Christmas decoration that made it from my last

shitty apartment. And despite all the great sex earlier, we’ve been arguing over the best way to undo the knot for a shockingly long time. I gave up after five minutes, poured a glass of wine, and sat my ass down at my kitchen island. Kye, meanwhile, is still sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in nothing but his boxers. His jeans were still damp, and he refused to put his T-shirt on, so I have a fantabulous view of his fine self in boxers, trying to undo a tangle of Christmas lights. It doesn’t sound that hot, but trust me, it is: the guy has the body of a Greek god and the kind of ink that should be put into an adult coloring book. I mean, I kind of want to take a Sharpie to his arms and just doodle in the parts that aren’t colored. There aren’t many, but my neon Sharpies could really make a great addition. “You need to find a cookie or something,” Kye says without looking up from the lights. He pulls one end through a loop he’s widened. “You’re drooling.” “In your dreams.” I take a sip of my wine. “Aren’t you done with those lights yet? Christmas won’t wait for you, you know.” I can’t see it, but I’m pretty sure he rolls his eyes. “Babe, I’m a man. I can fix anything, whether it’s a broken electronic, a chipped shelf, or a knotted string of lights. I just need a little time.” “Jessie waited two days for Aidan to take out the trash before she did it herself.” “And your point is?” “I want my lights on my tree tonight, not in two days. Because I might kill you if you’re still here then.” He turns his head toward me slowly with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nah, you won’t kill me. I’ll just get naked every time you feel the urge.” And I can imagine what he plans to do after he gets naked. I shake my head and take another sip as he works the lights. I think he’s getting somewhere, but then again, he is a guy. He could probably make it look like he’s untying them while making the knot even worse. I rest my chin on my hand and watch him. It’s getting a little warm in here, since I had to turn the heat up so he wouldn’t freeze to death in his underwear, but he hasn’t noticed. I think the last time I saw so much concentration for so long was when my grandma accidentally bought a hamster ball instead of a treat ball for her cat, and Señor the tabby spent an hour trying to get into the thing. “I’m hungry,” Kye announces, setting the lights back down. “Do you have any food?” I move to stand, then realize, shit. “I forgot to go to the store before the storm started.” I clap my hand over my mouth. Which means I’m down to ice cream, milk, tortilla chips, and possibly a couple of slices of bread if I’m lucky. Oh, and noodles. “I can make ramen noodles?” It’s a lame offer, but hey. “Which will give me enough energy to make it to the bathroom for a piss before I’m starving again,” he drawls, getting up. My eyes fall to his backside as he walks across the front room toward the window, and, boy oh boy, that is one fine piece of ass. “It’s light enough to drive right now,” he says, turning around. “Were you just starin’ at my ass?” I snap my gaze up. “No.”

His smirk speaks volumes. “Yeah, whatever. You can probably still drive out there, but I doubt your car will make it. The street is already icing over.” I grimace. “Your truck?” “My clothes are still wet.” A sound that’s a cross between a Chihuahua barking and nails on a chalkboard whines out of me. Dammit, he’s right. “If you don’t go now, you’re fucked. You can take my truck and be back before it hits hard.” I look up at the ceiling through my lashes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. “But I don’t wanna go out.” “Then the only thing I have to eat is you,” he says matter-of-factly, a dark glint in his eyes. I get up and disappear into my bedroom, grabbing a pair of yoga pants from the hamper as I do. If I’m going out, I’m going out comfortably. I emerge from my room a few minutes later dressed in my winter uniform—UGGs, yoga pants, and a thick hooded sweatshirt—and stand in front of him. “Any special requests, Mr. Ramen Noodles Don’t Give Me Enough Energy to Take a Shit?” He grins slowly, his eyes reflecting the laugher I know he’s dying to let loose. “Yeah. I need sweatpants, underwear, and a couple of T-shirts. Oh, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and some more candles in case the power goes out again.” I bite my tongue as I take his card. “Yes to the clothing, no to the latter.” “Are you sure?” “I’m one-hundred-percent positive.” “All right. Then, no.” I tuck my scarf over my chin and grab my purse—and his keys. Kye’s card slots safely into my wallet, and I hold my purse close as I go down the stairs and step out into the now-simmering storm. It’s still hitting hard, but it’s not as bad as it was a few hours ago. Kye is right, though. I can see small ice patches on the hill leading away from my apartment building, and since that’s the only road in or out, I do have to leave now or miss my window. I get into his truck with some hesitation. He’s parked next to me, and I glance out the window longingly at my car. She’d never make it back up the hill, and I don’t have any desire to walk up if she dies halfway through the attempt. Kye’s truck it is. It feels like a damn monster compared to my car, but after some seat and mirror adjustments, I get comfortable. My seat is about six inches closer to the wheel than he has his, but hey, he’s about six inches taller than me anyway. A white SUV pulls out of the parking lot immediately after me. My stomach tightens, because I never see anyone else in the lot, and the truck was parked up right by the door. I don’t have to be famous to know what this means. I do my best to ignore the white Range Rover following me, but it’s hard. Especially in this weather. I just about make it to the store in one piece and run in before the other car has even pulled up. While I hope the asshole journalist in that car won’t even take my picture, I’d prefer that over them attempting to ask me a question when I just want to get the stuff and get back home.

I breeze through the store, guessing at a large for Kye’s clothes, and make sure I have enough food and other things to get through the next two days at least. I even grab the Jack and candles he mentioned, because hey, why not. We’ve fucked three times. I highly doubt a fourth is gonna change much at this point. Plus, it isn’t exactly a hardship. I split the items at the cashier, wincing with guilt as I put the expensive items on the side for Kye’s card. I’ll tell him later, but if this storm is going to hit badly, I’ll be down two, maybe three shifts at work. If not, and I can get out, then I’ll just pay him back. Besides I’m pretty sure he won’t care. “Someone’s taking a photo of you,” the girl behind the register says. “Just over there, by the laundryproduct aisle.” I resist the urge to turn. “Oh well.” “Are you, like, famous?” More than I want to be. “Not that I know of.” I smile tightly and put the last of my bags back into my cart. “Hey—you’re Chelsey Young, aren’t you? The girl that Kye Burke was just spotted with?” I shake my head with a wide-eyed, dumb look. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. I have no idea who she is.” “Oh. Shame. I’d commit murder to know how he kisses. Never mind.” I smile again, and with a wave of my fingers, turn toward the door. The sensation of being followed creeps over my skin, and the desire to look over my shoulder strengthens. I fight it. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’re bugging me. I’ve played this game before, and I’m fed up with doing it by their rules. I load my bags into the flatbed and return the cart. The woman who was taking the photos isn’t even trying to hide herself now, and a yell of “Excuse me!” stops me before I get into the truck. “Are you Chelsey Young?” she shouts. I barely glance over my shoulder at her. “Sorry. Wrong person.” “But you came out of her apartment building.” “Maybe she’s my doppelganger. I’ll look her up.” I shut the truck door behind me before she can say another word and put the truck into reverse. She says something else as I turn toward the exit but I can’t hear her. Probably because I just turned up the radio, the weather reporter booming that all non-emergency vehicles should get off the road as quickly as possible. She doesn’t follow me home, at least as far as I can tell. I’m glad. I don’t want to have to deal with that crap any more than strictly necessary. She wouldn’t have believed the crap about me not being, well, me, but I guess she was hoping for an exclusive kiss and tell, and I threw her off by not being open to the prospect. Kiss and tell. Tacky. Back outside my apartment building, the storm has worsened so much that I can barely see the other side of the parking lot, and I manage to hook all the bags over my arms so I don’t have to make a second trip. I bite hard enough on Kye’s key fob that it locks his truck. Now that’s a skill. I let myself into the building then grab the bags and go upstairs. I kick at the bottom of my front door and call a muffled, “Lemme in!”

The door opens, and I stumble through, dumping the bags on the ground. “Got enough?” Kye asks, staring at all the plastic bags containing a little of everything. “Did that reporter bother you?” “How did you know it was a reporter?” He shrugs. “I watched to make sure you got the truck out of the lot okay. No one got in the white SUV before it pulled out after you, so it had to be a reporter.” “Oh. No, not really. I told her Chelsey is my doppelganger.” I unwind my scarf and hang it on the hook behind the door while he rifles through the bags and pulls out a pair of sweatpants. Thankfully, they fit. He helps me put all the bags on the island, and glances at me with a cocky smirk that bleeds sex appeal when he extracts the bottle of Jack. I shrug a shoulder and take it, my fingertips brushing his as I do. The glass bottle clunks as it hits my countertop. I turn from where I’m looking at the ice forming on the kitchen window, a thought flitting through my mind. I’m momentarily distracted by the fact the lights are untangled and on the tree, flickering brightly. But then Kye returning to my line of sight and pulling more stuff from bags brings the thought back to the forefront of my mind. “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on my hip, the other still holding the liquor bottle. “If the storm was still light enough for me to drive your truck to the store, why couldn’t you just put on your barely damp clothes and drive home?” His grin is wide and smug as he pulls a doughnut out of the packet. The twinkle in his eyes makes me want to slap him as butterflies rise in my stomach, but it’s the way he takes a bite out of the sugary treat and winks that really pisses me off. Son of a bitch.

Kye

She looks like she wants to kill me. There’s literal rage in her pretty blue eyes, and her soft pink lips are currently tight with displeasure at my trick. It’s not my fault she didn’t realize until after she went to the store. “Did you do that deliberately?” She finally lets go of the Jack bottle, although I think it was reluctantly. “Do what?” I raise an eyebrow and shove the last bite of doughnut into my mouth. “Trick me into going to the store.” “Nah.” I grab the milk carton and walk around the island toward her. “If you’d have asked me to leave, I would have.” I touch my thumb to her nose, leaving behind a dusting of sugar. She goes cross-eyed as she attempts to look at the mess I’ve left. “You’re lying.” She wipes the sugar off and takes the milk from me. “Maybe a little,” I answer honestly. “But what if you get stuck here? That’s a big-ass hill out there. And if the power goes out? I’d be worried, but on steroids.” She sets the block of cheese on a fridge shelf before slowly tilting her head to look at me. “That’s the most fucked-up way anyone has ever told me they care about me.” “What can I say? Basic is boring.” “What would you know about basic anything, Mr. Famous Rock Star?” I grab the packet of tortilla chips and unscrew the lid of the salsa jar. Before I answer, I dip the chip into the jar and hold it out to Chelsey. She reluctantly bites it, then catches the other half of the chip when I drop it. Excellent. Now she’ll keep quiet for a moment. “I know basic is boring,” I repeat. “I live with women, you know? I’ve seen those ‘Real Housewife’ show things. Those bitches are anything but basic, but they are entertainin’ as fuck.” Chelsey chokes on the chip and taps her chest. “What is wrong with you?” she asks, her eyes watering. I shrug and dip another chip into the salsa. This time, I eat it. “I’m special,” I say around the mouthful of food. “Yeah, but special has its own branch, especially for you,” she snorts. I grin and continue eating while she puts all the groceries away. Nice. Totally fucking homey, too. She’s there in her yoga pants, doing homey stuff, and I’m here in my sweats . . . shoving my face with food. That’s how this works though, right? Relationship shit. It’s all comfortable and whatnot. Comfortable.

That’s exactly what this is. The revelation makes me pause. My eyes trail after Chelsey as she puts things away in their various homes. She skips back to the fridge once or twice, but for the most part, it’s all cupboard stuff. She doesn’t say a word to me as she does what she needs to do, and I don’t speak either, but the silence isn’t tense. It’s a warm silence. The silence that hangs easily and doesn’t need to be filled with any kind of noise except the gentle stirrings of day-to-day life. The quiet buzz of the fridge, the beep of the dishwasher, the hum of the television in the next room . . . I want this with her. It’s not the first time the thought of being with Chelsey has crossed my mind. Fuck no, it isn’t. I’ve thought it so many times it’s a permanent etching in my consciousness now, but it’s the first time the words have meant something. I want to be with her, just like this. I want her silence. I want her wordless movements around the kitchen. I want the warmth that fills a room whenever she walks into it. I want everything she is, even the prickly, brash side that seems to be her default personality. Even the sarcasm and the distrust that flickers in her eyes, even when she thinks she’s hiding it. I want it all. I want all of her. I want it so fucking badly I can feel the craving digging into me, planting its seeds and growing its roots. It lodges itself in something deeper than my heart. It buries itself into my goddamn fucking soul and begs for her. I know right now that no matter what happens, no matter what tricks I have to play to get her to be with me, every single second counts. Every careless smile, every gentle touch, every fleeting look, every soft word . . . Every single one means more than what it did an hour ago, and an hour before that. Because it isn’t fucking her that makes her mine. Not entirely. Her body could be mine while her heart stays guarded and locked behind that damn wall she adores so much. No—for her to be mine, it has to be every bit of her. Every hair on her head, every thought through the day, every beat of her heart; they have to belong to me. I won’t give up on her until it’s all mine. I won’t give up until Chelsey Young belongs to me, mind, body, and everlasting fucking soul. She grabs a box of pasta from the island and opens a cupboard. She stretches onto her tiptoes and reaches right up, but can’t quite reach the top shelf, where I can see a packet of rice. Before she can give up, I straighten and walk to her. Standing behind her, I take the packet from her hand and set it on the shelf. The soft material of her sweatshirt brushes against my body as she lowers herself back down on her heels. I close the cupboard door, careful not to hit her in the head with it. She turns her face toward me, drawing in a deep breath when I don’t immediately move. I brush her light blond hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear, offering her the tiniest of smiles. “Thank you,” she says softly. Really softly—like someone else said it and not her, because she never, ever speaks that gently. It tugs at something inside me. “It’s just a box of pasta, babe,” I reply quietly, not wanting to break the moment. She looks down, and that dimple in her cheek appears when she smiles. She shuffles, turning her body to face me, and I move just enough for her to do so. “No, thank you for making me go to the store.” That blue gaze rises and time pauses when her eyes meet mine. “Just in case you do get stranded here.” She

rests her hand on my arm lightly and, once again on tiptoes, pushes up and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. I’m itching to turn my head so it’s a proper one, just to feel her sweet lips on mine, but I don’t. I use every bit of strength in my body to fight that urge, even when a chill touches that spot as she moves away. It’s precious, and I want to take whatever she’s ready to give. She moves across the room and pulls a bag from behind the sofa. She empties it on the sofa, and it’s full of Christmas decorations. She pauses just long enough to pull her sweatshirt over her head and throw it on the other sofa, then she reaches for one of the bauble packs. “You’re still hopin’ the power doesn’t go out, aren’t you?” I ask, gripping the edge of the counter. Her flirtatious smile confirms it to be a lie. Come on, power outage.

The power outage didn’t happen. Fuck you, storm. My backup plan was, naturally, sex. That seemed to be in the cards when she put Netflix on and turned on some movie I can’t remember the name of. Netflix and chill, right? Not so fucking right. She lay down on the sofa, rested her legs over mine, and fell asleep ten minutes later. And if my hand had been about one inch higher than it was when I realized she’d fallen asleep, I would have been slightly perverted . . . also possibly punched. As it was, I decided a second round wasn’t really necessary—my cock took some talking out of that one—and took her to bed. She stripped down to her underwear, got into bed, then proceeded to cuddle up to me, giving me the mother of all fucking erections. Someone needs to put out a memo to all chicks. Don’t snuggle up to a guy in bed nearly naked if you’re not gonna give him a hand job at least. I don’t want to be a dick, but it’s just uncomfortable. Yeah. My night involved a very hot, very sexy girl in a thong wrapped around me while she slept. I didn’t sleep all too comfortably, because when I did, I dreamed that thong was off and it was her legs wrapped around my waist as opposed to her arm. If I thought wet dreams were bad ten years ago . . . I walk out of the bathroom, clutching the towel around my waist to avoid any kind of mishap. Did I mention it’s a fucking Minnie Mouse towel? Yeah. Pink ain’t my color. “Shit!” Chelsey slips through the front door and slams it, then shakes her long hair out. She runs her fingers through it, dislodging icy water drops. “I just had to run upstairs to get warm. I’m not getting to work,” she says, pulling her coat off. “Not even in your truck. Mr. Barton downstairs said he called about the road being sanded, but they’ll probably forget us like—” She freezes when she turns and catches sight of me. Her cheeks flush bright red, and her eyes drop down, then back up, then down, and so on. She must scan my body ten times before it hits her what she’s doing and she forces herself to look at my face. “What?” I ask, fighting my smile. “I . . . You . . . Pink isn’t your color,” she stutters, spinning on the balls of her feet and stalking into the kitchen where she can no longer see me. “Coffee?” “Sure. Shall I get dressed so you can concentrate on what you’re doing?”

She leans back and glares at me. “Careful,” I say, backing into her bedroom and teasing the front of the towel lower. “Keep staring and I might . . . just . . .” I drop the towel as I shut the door, but she squeals, so I know she saw me. Ah well. She can count that as payback for last night. I dress quickly and rub the towel over my hair. The chances of her having gel or anything wax-like here are slim, meaning she’s going to get to see my fluffy, out-of-control hair for the next twenty-four hours at least. “What were you sayin’ about the road?” She peeks over her shoulder tentatively, and upon seeing that I am indeed clothed—at least, the bottom half of me is—she turns and hands me a cup of steaming coffee. “They do the main roads of Shelton Bay but always forget us, even though they go right past. We got stuck here for four days last year when that big ice storm hit. Mr. Barton ended up calling his son, and he drove in from Charleston with a bag of sand just so we could get out.” “Isn’t that your landlord’s job?” She sighs. “If we had one, yeah. These apartments are all privately owned.” “You own this place?” “Yeah. Is that surprising?” “I just thought you rented,” I admit, shrugging a shoulder as I sip. “Not many people our age own property.” Another sigh escapes her, and she hugs her mug tightly to her chest. “My father pays me an ‘allowance’ every month. He never paid my mom child support until I was seventeen, and then she died.” She swallows and looks over my shoulder. “He says he feels some guilt that she had to keep working when she was fighting cancer, that if he’d paid earlier she would have been able to leave work earlier, so now he gives me money. He thinks it’ll make up for everything he did before, but it’s just money, you know?” I nod. “Anyway. He tells me to live a lavish lifestyle, but I live on my paychecks. It’s enough for me. The only time I ever touched it was when I came home after college and needed a place to live. It was a small deposit, so I took it, but I make sure I pay some back into that account every month.” I lean against the counter, more desperate than I’d like to admit to hear more. She’s never opened up this way, or any way, really, and this insight into her relationship with her father is something I need. “Why do you keep it in a separate account? Why not just ignore it?” “I’m investing it.” She smiles, a small one, and meets my eyes. “In what? The stock market or something?” “No, I can pay my bills, and that’s about as good as I am with numbers. I’m investing it in my future, I guess. I’ve always hoped that he’d be a better grandfather than a father, so I’m saving it for any kids I might have. Then if he’s an asshole to them, I can spare them the pain of having to hate him. I’ll just lie and tell them that money is a nest egg from their grandfather.” “How much does he give you? Isn’t it tempting?” “No, because I don’t need it.” She lowers her mug and runs her finger around the thick rim. Her eyes drop. Whatever is inside the mug is apparently very interesting. “He transfers five thousand dollars every month.”

“And he’s been doing that since . . .” “Since I was eighteen.” She blows out a long breath. It’s not particularly annoyed or frustrated, just kind of . . . resigned. He’s been paying her for approximately seven years. I quickly do the math, but all I come up with is a lot of fucking money. “Over three hundred thousand, last time I checked,” she answers quietly. “I told him to stop, but he won’t. I think it makes him feel better.” “Whoa.” That’s a lot of money to be stockpiling for a rainy day. “Why don’t you use it to pay off your student loans?” Her smile is sad and touches on a grimace more than anything. “He paid those, too. But that’s all he ever did, and even then it took him eleven years after he left us. He thinks money can solve all the problems we have, but it can’t. I’d love to give him back everything he’s ever given me, but I know it’d do more harm than good.” “Why don’t you, if it’ll make you feel better?” “Because even if he never paid me another dollar, I know I can put two kids through college without them having to worry and maybe have some money left over.” She looks up and meets my eyes. “I don’t want his money. I never have. I refuse to benefit from it, which is why I’m paying that account back the deposit for this apartment. I’d rather he take every cent and replace it with his love.” Well, shit. If that didn’t just hit me real hard, I don’t know what will. I’m starting to wonder if Chelsey is as bitter as she comes across, or if she’s really just terrified of having everything she wants and getting it ripped away from her. After all, that’s exactly what already happened to her, isn’t it? She had her perfect family, they were happy, and then he left and everything went to shit. Ever since she’s just been looking for his love, but he’s too busy to give it to her. Fuck. I just wanna hold her. She looks up and gives me a small smile, as if she’s trying to convince herself she’s okay. Like she’s wondering if she said too much. I put my mug down and walk around the island to her. Carefully, I pry her fingers from around her coffee mug and look down at her. Her gaze is so hesitant, so soft and unlike her. She’s like a different person, especially with her hair a little damp from being outside and not a single bit of makeup on. I touch the side of her face and brush my thumb over her cheek. She’s so beautiful, and she doesn’t even realize it. “If he can’t open his eyes and give you what you actually want, he’s a fucking fool and he doesn’t deserve you as his daughter anyway.” “I know,” she whispers, turning into my hand. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hoping for that.” “You don’t need his love, Chels. Not the way you think you do.” I take a step closer and lower my face to hers. Her eyes are glossy and wide, the blue in them seemingly endless. “You just need to be loved. But, babe, you need to be loved by someone who can love you as fiercely as you love him.” She doesn’t move for a long moment. When she does, the slightest twitch narrows her eyes. The move is so small I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t staring directly into them, but there’s a ton of scrutiny in the tiny action. It’s so ridiculous, but it’s like she can see right through me. She can see the thought I didn’t say—that if she’d just give me a fucking chance, I can be that person. I can be the one who will love her fiercely every

day. I can be the one who will love her so fiercely she’ll forget ever wanting anything else. But I can’t, I won’t, until she lets me. And with only eight days before I leave to convince her that’s the right choice to make, I don’t exactly have all the time in the world. She covers my hand with hers, the calculating spark fading from her eyes. They’re back to normal now, warm, with the ghost of laughter in their depths. “You’re right.” “Of course I’m right. Burkes are never wrong.” Her eyebrow quirks up, taking one side of her mouth with it. “Ya think?” “I know.” I wink and drop my hand. “Like I know it would be an absolutely great idea to kiss you right now.” “Like it was a great idea to sleep in my bed and poke me with your hard-on every ten minutes last night?” I grin, seeing she isn’t going to respond to me directly, and grasp her hips. I tug her away from the counter and back until I’m leaning against the island and she’s pressed against me. Chelsey’s eyebrow lifts to join the other, but she slides her hands up my chest until they link behind my neck anyway. I wipe the sass off her face with one simple touch of my lips to hers. She melts into me, tasting like fresh coffee and mint toothpaste. It’s an odd combination, but strangely intoxicating. “Hey now—the sleeping was a great idea,” I murmur against her mouth. “And if you don’t want to be poked by Joey in the middle of the night, you should sort him out, woman.” I tap her ass, and she gasps, dropping her hands. “You seriously named your cock ‘Joey’?” “Standard practice, babe. We all name our cocks. I bet you’ve named your tits.” She looks down at them as if the idea is absurd, but her pause gives her away. “Yeah, I guess I kinda did. You want an introduction?” I laugh, pulling her back to me. “I believe we’ve met, but we’re not on first-name terms.” “Well. Kye Burke, this is Betty,” she says, cupping the right one. “And this is Boop.” She cups the left one. “Girls, this is Kye.” “It’s my pleasure,” I mutter, fighting my laughter. She’s doing the same thing. I grab her hand and put it on my semihard cock. “Chelsey, this is Joey. Joey, this is Chelsey.” “We’ve met,” she laughs, licking her lips. “Joey’s pretty fond of Betty and Boop.” I harden in her hand. “Feels like Joey’s pretty fond of their owner, too.” “You wanna find out just how much?” She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, looking up at me in a sultry way through her lashes. Gently, she squeezes my now very fucking hard cock and steps back. “Maybe later. I’m hungry.” She dances across the kitchen before I can do a thing, and man am I fucking glad I put sweatpants on, because this erection is real uncomfortable, even without the pressure of jeans. “You’re gonna pay for that later.” She glances over her shoulder playfully. “We’ll see.”

“This is not the ‘paying for it’ I had in mind.”

“I hate cars!” Chelsey protests, setting the bowl of popcorn down. “Do you have any idea how painful back-to-back episodes of Top Gear is going to be for me? And I even promised to watch the one with Cameron Diaz? Do you know that Ryan Reynolds was on this damn show?” “Yes, and I appreciate your sacrifice, but I was seriously hoping for sex.” She points the remote at me. “We’re roomies. Roomies don’t have sex.” “I’d like to redefine the word ‘roomie.’ ” “I’m sure you would,” she drawls, sitting down and using the remote to scroll down the screen and hit Top Gear. “But it’s not happening.” “If there’s no roommate agreement, anything goes.” She sits bolt upright and looks at me as though I just swore. I reach forward and throw a piece of popcorn into my mouth, keeping my eyes on her the whole time. “Is there a roommate agreement that puts sex off the table?” It pains her to say “No,” I can tell. “Then I’m putting sex back on the table.” She cuts her eyes to me as the Top Gear theme song plays. “I bet you’re really fucking proud of yourself, aren’t you, asshole?” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into me. “Be even prouder when you’re screaming my name.” I nip her earlobe, and she wriggles out of my hold. “Seriously?” “Babe, you scream my name like I’m a deity when you come. It’s one of the proudest moments of my life.” “You are so up your own ass it’s unreal.” “And you’re stuck with me. Lucky girl.” She groans and falls to the side as Jeremy Clarkson introduces the show. “Why me? What did I do to deserve this? It’s like being back at college and around all the smug, cock-waving frat boys who don’t even want to know your name before they shove it up you.” “Experience with that, have you?” Her glare could cut a diamond. “You sayin’ I’m a slut?” “Wouldn’t dream of it. Plus, you’ve met Tate and Aidan. Before I call anyone, male or female, a slut, they have to live up to that standard.” I snort. “Tate has more than one threesome under his belt, and Aidan once had sex with some chick, sent her home, then took a totally different one back to his room.” Chelsey’s face scrunches up into a totally adorable expression. I’m pretty sure she’s going for yuck, but she’s just too cute for it. “Really? Did he shower between?” “Not a clue. I was drinking with Conner when he did it. I think he had a bet with Tate, but Ads has always been one to pride himself on a job well done.” “A job well done?” Chelsey’s bottom lip trembles with laughter. “We shared a bedroom wall. That’s all I’m gonna say on that.” “Nice to know my best friend gets fucked well.” That laughter escapes, and she tucks her feet up onto her lap. “That’s one of your twin things.” Her eyes sparkle with a flare of heat. “Sex?” I choke on the popcorn I just threw in my mouth. “You’re very . . . thorough.”

“Am I?” She nods. “It’s a good thing. Women like thorough.” I tilt my head to the side, smirking. “Do they now?” She opens her mouth but snaps it shut when she becomes aware of the hole she just talked herself into. Her cheeks flare in the red color that always gives away her embarrassment, and I fucking love it. I rest my arm on the back of the sofa and lean forward. “You want a reminder of just how thorough I can be?” I track her tongue as it flicks out to wet her lips. She doesn’t have any kind of answer for me, so I cup her chin and turn her face to me. She drops her eyes to my mouth and inhales sharply. I dip my face to hers until her exhale becomes my inhale, and her inhale is my exhale. She still doesn’t answer, and neither of us moves. I wonder if her heart is pounding half as quickly as mine is right now. “If I say yes,” she whispers, “will you turn me down again?” “Well, I can’t take you home,” I answer, running my mouth along her jaw. “And I can’t go home, so I think turnin’ you down is gonna make this real awkward, dontcha think?” “Uh-huh.” She breathes it out, grabbing my shirt in her hand and scooting herself along the sofa. Her hand brushes against my lower stomach. I tense at the contact, sparks firing across my skin. “Just a little.” I hover my lips above hers again, feeling the blood rush through my body. Fuck, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her. She has absolutely no idea what she’s capable of doing to me. Three knocks at the door make us jump apart. Jesus Christ. She gets up, smoothing her hair from her eyes, and goes to answer. “Oh, Mr. Barton. Is something wrong?” “Not at all!” The cheery voice of an elderly gentleman responds. “I just wanted to inform you they’ve gritted our road after my request this morning and they’ll continue as long as this storm does!” Aw, fucking hell. “Great. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Barton.” “You’re welcome, Miss Chelsey. Have a nice day.” I imagine him tipping his hat as she shuts the door and then shuffling off. Chelsey turns and leans against the door with regret hinting at her half-smile. “I guess you can go home now,” she says softly. I sigh and rub my hand down my face. “I guess I can.”

I’m 99.5 percent sure that walking out of her apartment yesterday afternoon was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Even if she did decide to go in to work. It was so awkward, the way I hovered and she hovered and we looked at each other, our eyes saying what our mouths couldn’t. Maybe that was just me—hoping she was willing me to stay, the way I was willing her to tell me to. There was definitely something there, though. It was an indiscernible glimmer in her bright eyes that made me stop and pause even as I stepped through the open door. It was the one that looked an awful lot like hope, the one that made me too fucking afraid to turn around to see if it was replaced with sadness.

It’s amazing how twenty-four hours with someone can change you. The twenty-four or so sober hours we spent together shifted something so vital I didn’t know it existed. It shifted the barrier to her heart. When she opened up to me yesterday morning, about how her dad tries to buy her and how it affects her, it changed everything. I didn’t exactly know it then, but I do now that I’ve had time to reflect on it. I’m sure the only other person who knows that is Jessie, and I know that scarlet-haired girl will take it to her grave. She’d never betray Chels that way. I didn’t realize just how tumultuous Chelsey’s relationship with Lukas was. The fact he left her and her mom when she was young is worldwide knowledge. I remember when it happened, for fuck’s sake. I remember the way she withdrew from the rest of our grade, speaking only to Jessie for the longest time. I remember how fucking broken she was when she should have been having the time of her life, and that’s something she’s clearly lived with for years. Abandonment by a parent is one thing. Public abandonment by a parent, only to be soothed later by money, is another. Both are just as bad, but they affect each person in different ways. Without her mom’s stabilizing presence, it’s clear Chelsey was more affected than the normal person. I can see them, the scars. I can see how deeply the cuts he’s made run. The worst part? Once upon a time, Lukas Young was my fucking hero. He was my idol. He had everything I wanted— everything Dirty B. wanted before we became Dirty B. We craved his fame and his notoriety, and we were determined to get it at all costs. Except, as young boys, we had no idea what “at all costs” truly meant. If hurting someone as priceless and amazing as Chelsey is one of the costs, then no thank you. I’d never give up this dream, even if we’ve achieved what we hoped for and more. No way. The only person I could ever give this life up for is my child. I know if Conner had to choose, he’d choose Mila every time. That’s just the way it should be. There has to be a way to manage our dream and keep Chelsey. Shit, there fucking has to be. It can’t be one or the other. Can it? “Kye.” I jerk my head up and stop twisting the beer bottle between my fingers. “Yeah?” Conner taps his pool cue against the floor. “Your turn.” I put the bottle down on Aidan’s attic windowsill and, getting up, take my cue from the floor. “Am I stripes or solids, again?” “Stripes,” Aidan answers with a glance at Conner. “Right.” I study the balls, and seeing I have a potential for the middle right, aim for it. Hell, it’s more than a potential. It’s a simple straight-line shot. I take the shot, and the ball bounces out of the pocket, the cue ball set up perfectly for Conner to take his next shot. “How the fuck did you miss that?” Tate explodes. “Right fuckin’ there, man!” I grab the bottle of beer I just put on the windowsill and glare at him. “Miscued.” “Miscued my ass,” he mutters, swigging from his bottle. Tate is the reason we draw straws for teammates for pool. Conner pockets his ball, but snookers himself for his next shot. “Fuck it.”

He misses, so I take my two shots. It takes everything I have to focus on pocketing the balls and not letting my mind wander the way I want to. Or rather the way it wants to. It’d be all too easy to let Chelsey consume my every— “Jesus!” Tate snaps. And there it is. “All right.” Conner puts his cue down then grabs the edge of the table, leaning forward. “What the hell is wrong with you tonight?” I blow out a long breath and sit on the sofa. My head drops into my hands and I thread my fingers through my hair. “Chelsey,” Ads nails it in one word. Of course he fucking does. “How’d you figure that out?” Tate asks him. “There’s a reason my girlfriend isn’t eavesdropping on our conversation right now,” my twin replies. “And that’s because her ass is at the bar waiting for Chelsey to finish work. It’s also the reason Mom is babysitting and Ella and Sofie are at the bar, too. Are y’all really that fuckin’ blind?” I glance up as Tate and Conner share a look. “I thought Mom was just giving Sof a break since we’re here,” Conner admits. “Maybe I should pay more attention to that stuff.” “Ya think?” I snort, standing. “Dude, I was just happy to get out of the apartment. I mean, I love Els to fuckin’ bits, but if I have to watch Love Actually one more time, I’m gonna move back in with Mom.” Tate shudders. “What is it about that movie? Leila’s obsessed with it, too.” “It’s a chick flick. Basically, it’s full of romantic shit that makes chicks go loopy.” Aidan opens the fridge and pulls out four bottles of beer. Only my brother would make the attic room of his house a man cave, complete with a full-size fridge, huge-ass television, and pool table. Tate slaps his hands against the edge of the pool table. “How is tellin’ your best bud’s wife you’re in love with her romantic? I’d punch the asshole.” “But you were also a heartless prick before you met Ella,” Conner points out. “What makes you think he isn’t one now? Just ’cause he’s nice to her doesn’t mean he ain’t a cock to the rest of us,” I add. “Hey. Watch your mouth, single boy.” Tate points at me. “If you want our help, you wind your neck in.” I shrug. “I never said I wanted your help.” “We’re dating her best friends.” “Fine.” I lean forward and look each of my brothers in the eye. “How did you make them like you when they hated you?” One by one, they answer with the same thing. Sex. Like they think that ship hasn’t already sailed and put down its damn anchor. “Out of all the girls in the world, I have no idea why you picked her,” Tate tells me, nudging at Conner to take his shot. Conner rolls his eyes but grabs the cue anyway. “She was the bitch in high school, remember? Hell, even I remember, and I’m not sure I ever said two words to her. If you don’t count ‘nice ass.’ ”

“She’s not a bitch.” I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, reluctantly getting up to take my shot. “She’s just . . . guarded. And she has a good reason for it, too.” “Yeah, yeah, we all know the fuckin’ reason, Kye, but what are you doin’ to change that shit?” “Everythin’,” I grumble. “Clearly not if we’ve all parted ways for tonight,” Conner points out. “They’ll be having this same conversation, but just flipped.” “Look, I’ve tried everything. I got her a damn Christmas tree, cut the monstrous bastard back, gave her a couple of epic orgasms, and even stayed with her in case her power went out. I let her drive my damn truck! I even tried leaving her alone like she wanted and she asked me what I was doing. What the fuck is up with that?” Aidan scrubs his hand down his face. “If I knew, I’d tell ya. Look—Jessie hated me. She wanted to feed my balls to a fuckin’ python, I swear. Now everything is different. We can’t imagine being apart. You think that would have happened if I sat around like a pussy, lamenting my lack of tact with the ladies?” “Nothin’ wrong with my tact, asshole.” “Which is why you’re here actin’ like a little bitch,” Tate laughs. “I’m not acting like a little bitch,” I argue, perching on the arm of the sofa. Am I? “I just care about her. I don’t want her to get hurt.” “Oh, Jesus,” Conner snaps. “She’s already fuckin’ hurt, Kye! Why do you think you’re in this damn situation? Because of her hurt. Stop worryin’ about opening her wounds when you need to be focusin’ on fixin’ ’em. When Sof came back, we had so many wounds between us it seemed like they’d never be healed. Maybe they aren’t. Sometimes I’m still pissed at her, but there’s no use in me whining about it every day. Stop worrying about shit you can’t control.” Tate shrugs. “Ella was the same. I wanted to fix her, bad. But I couldn’t. I could only be there as she put herself back together, and in the end, it turned out I was what fixed her. She had a reason to let her wounds heal. Maybe you need to do the same.” I turn to Ads for his no doubt invaluable input, but he holds his hands up, palms out. “Don’t look at me, bro. The only problem Jessie had when we started our fake relationship was that she never fuckin’ shut up.” “I think that’s a pretty universal one.” Conner grins. I shake my head and look down. Their hearts are in the right place—closer to their chests than their dicks—but I wonder if they really understand. Then again, I wonder if they’re right and I am worrying about things I can’t change. I can’t change Chelsey’s aversion to musicians. I can’t change her past or the way she views my lifestyle when I’m outside Shelton Bay. All I can do is prove to her that her idea of life on the road isn’t the same as mine. . . . And that hers is way, way wrong. Maybe Conner is right. I need to stop worrying about being the knife that slices open her raw wounds and focus on being the Band-Aid that’ll close them.

Chelsey

“Coin, Mama?” Mila stands in front of Sofie’s Christmas tree. Her arm is pointing toward the skillfully decorated tree, her fist opening and closing in a gimme motion. “Peez?” “No,” Sofie says with a stern look. Mila grins toothily and rummages through the branches in search of her chocolate prize, her bunny abandoned at her feet. “Have you spoken to him since we left last night?” Sofie turns to me, reducing the volume on the television. “Mila, please get out of the tree.” “No.” I sigh and lean back against the sofa cushions. One of Mila’s dolls is lying next to me, so I grab it and make it sit up. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him, Sof.” “The truth.” She nibbles on the corner of her thumb. “Just be honest and tell him that you both feel too differently.” “I wish it were that easy,” I whisper, looking at Mila. She’s practically inside the tree trying to find a coin. “There’s nothing there, is there?” Sofie smirks. “Oh, they’re there. She just can’t reach them—it’s why I’m not too worried. I’ll move them down when she puts her dolls back in her box like I asked. She’s old enough to do that now.” “Aw,” Mila groans, standing up, presumably hearing Sofie. “No, Mama!” “Yes, Mila. Please put away your dolls and then you can have a chocolate coin.” “My no wanna!” She punctuates her words by stomping both of her feet. Sofie points at the box without a word. “No! No, no, no!” Mila argues. She grabs a doll and throws it back on the floor. Sofie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Naughty step. Now.” “No.” The two-year-old juts out her bottom lip defiantly. “Excuse me.” Sofie grimaces and gets up. She takes Mila by the hand and pulls her toward the door. Mila immediately drops herself to the floor with an ear-piercing scream that slices through me. Sofie isn’t bothered, however, and simply reaches down, scoops up her daughter, carries her out of the living room, and sets her on the step. I vaguely see her lift a timer, and she tells Mila that when she’s quiet, she’ll set the time for two minutes and then she can get up when it buzzes. “Wow,” I mumble when she comes back into the room. “Welcome to Terribletwoville,” she laughs. “So, ignoring the banshee in the hallway, what are you gonna tell Kye?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Mostly because I don’t know if I want to tell him anything at all . . . except Please don’t go. “Is someone murdering Mila?” My heart stutters at the sound of his voice. “Sof. Seriously,” Kye says, leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doin’ to my favorite niece?” Sofie gives him a look very similar to the one she just gave her daughter. “It’s called discipline. And she’s your only niece, moron.” “For her or you?” He puts his finger in his ear and attempts to unblock it. “ ’Cause no offense, but I’m half-deaf already.” “You wanna join her on the step for your sass?” His answer is a wide grin that says fuck you better than words ever could. Never mind the laughter reflecting in his eyes as they travel across the room to me. “A little birdie told me you’d be here.” “Little birdies need to keep their beaks shut,” I say under my breath. Sofie snorts, but disguises it as a cough into her hand. I’m gonna kill Jessie. Conner darts past Kye, in the direction of the stairs. His quick glimpse into the front room makes it obvious he’s trying to make a break for Mila before Sof notices. It doesn’t work. “Conner!” Sofie growls, moving faster than I’ve ever seen her. “Don’t you dare let her get off that step!” Kye raises his eyebrows, his tongue sticking out to the side in amusement. He looks at me and crooks his finger. “You’re comin’ with me.” “I am?” “Yeah, ya are. Get up. Let’s go.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “Seriously?” His voice is low, and the shivers that dance across my skin are powerful. “I’ve proven to you twice that I’m not afraid to pick you up and drag you out. So when I say you’re comin’ with me, trust me, babe. You’re fuckin’ comin’ with me.” I lean back, fold my arms, and cross one leg over the other. “No, I’m not.” He drops his head back to look at the ceiling. He mutters something, and before I can demand it from him, he’s darted across the room and has hauled me up and around. I’m wrapped tightly in his arms, and with my back to him, his hands are keeping mine firmly in place so I can’t even fight his hold. “You’re such a bastard.” “I know, babe. It’s one of my worst qualities, I admit, but it sure comes in useful.” He walks us to the hallway, where Conner takes one look at us and grabs Sofie. He turns her attention from Mila with a kiss that would make a porn star blush. Keeping tight hold of me, Kye waves his hand at Mila. She glances at her kissing parents then runs down the hall toward us. “Stop cryin’,” he whispers quickly. “Okay? Shhh.” “Otay, Uncy Kye.” She sniffs, wiping her sleeve across her nose and leaving shiny snail trails of boogers. “Nice,” he mutters behind me.

“Go pick up your toys,” I whisper to Mila. “Then maybe Mama will forget why she’s mad.” Although I’m pretty sure if she forgets, it’ll be because of Conner. “Otay!” Mila runs into the front room at warp speed. “Hey, look at that,” Kye murmurs in my ear, turning me toward the door. “You’re one of us already.” I have no idea if that’s a good thing or not. I doubt he even knows himself. He pulls me out of Sofie’s house and shuts the door behind us. “Gee, thanks for asking if I wanted to grab my purse or something.” He stops and moves me to the side without relinquishing his grip on me. His eyes glitter with amusement when they meet mine. “Did you wanna grab your purse or anything?” “No. I didn’t bring one.” “Then shut up and—” “Let me guess: get in the truck?” I quirk a brow, and his lips ease slowly up to one side. The stubble that covers his jaw is slightly messy, like it needs a good trim, but it only adds to the rough, sexy way he smirks at me. “In a minute,” he says in a quiet voice that makes my body hum with anticipation. His fingers dig into my upper arms as he spins me and pushes me back against the passenger door of his truck. A small gasp escapes as my back collides with the door, and my heart picks up a wicked fast beat when Kye comes so close to me that every inch of our bodies is touching. His hands trail down my arms until they find mine, and I’m pretty much paralyzed as his fingers link between mine and hold my hands at my sides. “Against the truck,” he murmurs, leaning in, still smirking. “What—what for?” Speaking when it takes a mammoth effort just to breathe really is hard. My lungs are burning right now with his closeness. “For this.” At those words, he slides my hands up above my head and pushes his mouth against mine. The touch sends a thousand lightning bolts into my body, each one filled with the same desperation I can taste in his kiss. Every time his mouth moves across mine, whether it’s kissing, nipping, or gently sucking on my lower lip, another round of sharp, desperate desire floods through my body. It’s only a kiss, with me trapped between a car and a rock-hard body, but this kiss is so fervent and powerful that it might be the kiss to end all kisses. “Now get in the truck.” Kye pulls me away from the door just as easily as he just pushed me against it and opens it. My lips are on fire still, my whole body trembling at the unexpected kiss, but somehow I manage to climb in on my wobbly knees. Holy shit. What was that? “What was that?” I ask, bringing life to my thoughts. Kye slams his door behind him and looks over at me, his grin mischievous, his gaze anything but. “I believe they call that a kiss, babe.” “No, no, no. This is a kiss.” I lean forward and touch my lips to his, lingering a little longer than I’d like. “That?” I point to my window. “That was not a kiss.” “If lips touch it’s a kiss,” he replies, pulling out of Sofie’s driveway. That’s too simple of an answer for my liking.

“Put your seat belt on.” “Sheesh,” I say under my breath, reaching for the belt. “You’re demanding today.” He cuts his eyes to me, and a warning flashes in them. One that says I have no idea. One that is as thrilling as it is terrifying. One that causes my whole body to go on red alert with what the hell he has planned that he’s keeping from me. I drop my eyes to my lap, but they don’t stay there. My gaze flicks around the truck, from the mirror on my side to his hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles white from his grip. His arm, relaxed yet still impeccably toned as it rests on the window ledge. His hair, styled back from his face, the barely there blond hints mixing perfectly with the brown strands. His eyes, sapphire blue and focused on the road ahead, framed by those impossibly long lashes I’ll never get over being jealous of. His nose with that tiny bump on the bridge of it, his lips with that soft natural pout that makes me swallow every time I see it, and the rough, scruffy stubble across his jaw that is begging me to run my nails across his face. The feeling hits me smack-bang in the center of my gravity. Like the poison I know it could be, it infiltrates me until every beat of my heart and expansion of my lungs feels it in its purest form. I’m falling for him. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to figure out. I’m not stupid, far from it, but we’ve spent so little time together. Although I guess falling and fallen are two very different terms. I’ll keep falling. Forever, please. I don’t want to hit the ground. Who knows what I’ll find there? “Where are we going?” I ask him softly, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Somewhere,” he replies just as cryptically as before. “Why is your guitar in the backseat?” “You’ll see.” Once again, his eyes cut to me, but this time, they’re accompanied by a knowing smile. It only infuriates me more. Since I drove to Sofie’s, I left with nothing more than the sweater I’m wearing, and it isn’t exactly thick. If he’s going to make me go outside I might freeze to death . . . but something tells me if that’s the case, he’s planned for that, too. I hate surprises. “Ugh.” I slump back into my seat and fold my arms. I’m being a total brat, but come on, not even an idea? What kind of bullshit is this? What kind of surprise is so surprisey that “You’ll see” is his best answer? Kye turns onto the interstate, and for the first time, I notice Aidan’s truck behind us, as well as a couple of cars. I keep looking in the side-view mirror, and the cars follow us, matching our speed every time. My stomach sinks. “Stop.” Kye reaches across the center console for me. He pulls my arm from around me and slips his fingers between mine. He brings them to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles before resting our hands between us. “It’s not what you think.” “How do you have any idea what I think?” “Because, contrary to what you believe, babe, I know you. That’s the only damn answer you need.” “I need to know where we’re going.” The words come out kind of bratty, but I do. “Do you trust me?” Yes. But the word doesn’t leave me.

“Chelsey. Do you trust me?” he repeats. This time, his words are as sharp as a sword and edged with annoyance. “Yes,” I whisper, watching the way his thumb stills on the back of my hand. “I trust you.” His grip relaxes, and he resumes the gentle caress with his thumb. He doesn’t say anything. The only noise accompanying this everlasting moment is the low hum of the radio that neither of us is listening to. The tension that sizzles between us tightens from an electric current to a tightrope, and I’m too afraid to say anything else. I fear I don’t need to. I think the four words I just uttered have sealed my fate with Kye Burke. Because I do. Trust him. I trust that he’d never deliberately try to hurt me. I trust that he’d do whatever it took to protect me. When he finally speaks, it’s with a resigned yet hopeful tone. “Then trust me.” I take a deep breath and shift in the seat so my body is turned toward him. “I will.”

Some of the earliest memories I have are of sitting in an armchair in the corner at a recording studio with a coloring book and pencils. That was my father’s idea of father-daughter bonding. The only thing I ever took away from those afternoons, as few and far between as they were, was the ability to sing. It’s a talent I refuse to capitalize on as a matter of principle, but mostly because I’d rather sing in the shower, butt naked and soapy, than attempt to launch a career using it. Besides, it’s common knowledge that when you sing in the shower you sound downright awesome. Everything else pales in comparison to that. Which is why it’s so strange to sit in the corner of the recording studio as all four Burke boys record something new. Mostly because I assumed they’d do all this in L.A. Why would they be in a recording studio right before Christmas? Unless they plan on releasing an acoustic Christmas song on YouTube, but even that wouldn’t require them to be here—they could just do it at home with nothing more than a webcam. I didn’t get an explanation either. I just got guided in, the only woman in this part of the studio, and told to relax in this nice comfy armchair and listen. It was literally that simple. I can’t decide if I’m unimpressed or honored to listen to them sing. They really are that good. You wouldn’t think they hadn’t been in a studio for weeks, and apart from a few local TV news stations complete with live performances, they haven’t sung since the end of their tour. Not that I know of, at least. By all accounts, I don’t really know much of anything at all. Not about Dirty B. as a whole. I do as I was told to, though. I watch them behind the glass, all four of them entirely at ease with what they’re doing. Put together like this, it’s easy to see this is in their blood. This is exactly what they’re meant to do, and they’re meant to do it together. They screw up frequently, and almost every fuckup ends with them winding each other up. It’s funny to see them in this environment. I guess I never thought of Dirty B. this way before. I bite down on my thumb as that thought flits through my head. Well played, Kye Burke.

My earliest memories of recording studios also include female workers, all of whom vied desperately for my father’s attention during the sessions, and there was almost always someone waiting on him to leave, at which point I was promptly handed off to a nanny until I was taken home the next day. Here, I am the only woman in the room, and no one is paying me the slightest bit of attention. I’m here to listen and watch. And learn. Learn that there is a truth to Kye’s words when he says that his life isn’t the way I imagine it, isn’t the way my father’s was. A tiny part of me believes him, and a little bit of the blockade around my heart crumbles. I have no idea how long I sit here, just watching them do their thing. It must be a long time, because my butt is pretty numb and I think my right foot has gone to sleep. I’ve also adopted every position this giant armchair will allow me to, and now I’m mildly considering putting my feet up against the wall, my back on the seat cushion, and dropping my head down to watch them upside down. Thankfully, before I can do that, they call it a day and I swing my legs down from the arm and stretch. I clasp my hands and stretch them right above my head, watching as they come out. My lips tug into a small smile when Kye walks over to me. “All right?” he asks, holding his hands out to me. I rest my fingers on top of his, and he grips tightly to tug me up. I bounce slightly on my tiptoes and groan as the extension of my muscles aches through me. “I think my legs died.” He laughs. “I’m hungry. Let’s listen to the final then get food.” “What were you doing here?” I ask as his fingers slip through mine and he pulls me after him toward the mixing board. His eyes flash with a secret, but it’s not a devious flash. No, it’s that mischievous, playful glint that shows that it’s more of a surprise than a secret. “You’ll see.” “There’s a whole lot of that goin’ around,” I mumble into my sleeve, scratching my top lip. He winks. “Good?” the engineer asks. “I think it turned out pretty good. Of course, if you decide—” Tate waves his hand. “Shhh.” He flickers his attention over to me, too quick for me to meet his eye. “Just play it.” Now I’m suspicious. What are they up to? I study each of them carefully, but aside from a similar amused glimmer in their eyes, they give nothing away. In fact, right now, Kye’s and Aidan’s gazes look exactly the same. “Um, okay.” The engineer’s dark eyes rest on me, and I shrug. No help here, buddy. I just got dragged along for shits and giggles, it seems. He looks away, still confused, and hits the Play button. The low, melodic hum of guitars fills the room, and in the background is the oddly gentle beat of a drum. They weren’t playing these just now, so I know they already recorded the backing track. Excitement crackles in the air, and Conner sings on the track. As soon as he does, I know it’s a new song, mostly because every single song Dirty B. has released has been played on the radio until you snore the tune. There’s something about the way these four mesh together that just makes total sense. Even as they sing about love and forever, these four tattooed, muscular, handsome brothers are so much more than they seem to be. That’s the Burke brothers. Just when you think you know who they are, they unveil a whole other side of themselves.

The magic of the Burke brothers is that they are all so very easy to fall in love with. The problem with them is that you have no idea you’ve already hit the ground until it’s too late. As for me? I think I’m six feet under. For someone who, only hours ago, realized she was falling, it’s a hard hit. Maybe that’s why my ass is sore—it’s not from sitting around. It’s because the realization that I was falling has made my heart say “fuck it” and finish the job and I’ve landed. As the song reaches its crescendo and Kye squeezes my hand tighter, a lump forms in my throat. Oh no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Instinct whirs in my bloodstream, the fight-or-flight notion taking over. I’ve always had a problem with the fight-or-flight thing. If there’s something to fight for, then there’s probably something to run from. After all, if you have to fight that hard, is it worth it? Yes. I’m no amateur. I’m no naive little girl with no idea of the real world—the real world that Kye lives in. Sure, it’s all sugar and sweetness when he’s home in Shelton Bay, aside from a few odd screaming teens. There’s no danger here, though. It’s almost as if there’s a thick brick wall surrounding the town, keeping reality out unless it’s totally necessary. Like home is a fucking fairy tale. Maybe it is. Maybe Shelton Bay is the fairy tale in the Burkes’ life, and outside home is the villain, and its minions are the media, except in this story, the minions have minions. Being with Kye Burke, loving him, would mean fighting for him every day. Fighting for the relationship we could have. The happiness and the laughter and the ease I feel whenever he walks into a room and smiles at me. Because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s all it took. Him to walk in this morning and smile at me. Is that fight worth it? Is he worth it? Without a doubt. Am I willing to fight? Do I have the strength to? Can I honestly say I have the strength to give our happy ending a chance to be written? The jury is still deliberating, Your Honor. I blink, and my name is being called. “You know what you’re talkin’ about,” Conner says to me. “What’d you think?” “I loved it,” I say honestly. What I listened to, that is. Before my mind went off on a tangent and delivered a few home truths. “I think it needs something else,” Tate muses, leaning on the table. “I think it’s the kind of song that can be rewritten to include a female artist.” And just like that, four sets of eyes are burning into me. “Ohhh no.” I hold my hands up and step backward. “Nope. Nope.” “Think about it.” Tate’s eyes are intense, his determination hard. “At least think about it, Chels.” I swallow hard. Dear Karma, what the fuck is your problem with me today? First I’m in love, and now you’ve made them want to record a song with me? I hope you get screwed by a cactus, Karma. “How do you even know I can sing?” My voice trembles, giving me away. “Because you sing in the shower when you forget you’re not alone,” Kye answers, his eyes soft. His lips are forming a barely there smile but it sends tremors right through me. “You sing in the car to Christmas songs, even when you hate them, and you can’t vacuum without dancing to MTV.”

My cheeks burn. Damn. I guess his shower at my place the other day was shorter than I thought. “That doesn’t mean a thing. Everyone sings in the shower.” “But that doesn’t mean they’re good at it,” Aidan replies with a snort. “Yeah. You’re not the only one who’s heard Jessie strangle a cat or two.” We share a brief smile at my best friend’s awful singing before I remember what they’re asking. “No. I won’t do it.” Kye strides toward me, and I breathe in deeply. His rough palms frame my face, his fingers teasing my hair. “Chels,” he says softly, so quietly I’m probably the only person who can hear it. “We won’t make you do it. We just want you to think about it. That’s it.” I stare into his eyes. There’s nothing there but total honesty, and they’re so raw with emotion that I have to look away. I bite down on my tongue while the idea rolls around my mind, but I know they won’t give up on this until they get even half an answer they want. “Fine,” I acquiesce. “I’ll think about it.” I cut my eyes to Kye’s brothers, all grinning. “Think. You got that? Think.” Tate smirks. “We got it, sweetheart.” “Call me sweetheart one more time and I’m gonna kick your backside.” He winks. I have no idea how Ella puts up with him.

“I can’t believe you tricked me into that.” I hug the mug of coffee Mrs. Burke handed me before she left for the store. “I didn’t trick you into a thing,” he replies, amusement rich in his voice. “I asked if you’d come with us.” “Really? You asked?” I give him a look that says he’s full of shit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize dragging me against your truck, kissing me, and subsequently hauling me inside it was asking.” “I asked you in my head.” He laughs. “It was telepathic.” “Excuse me if I haven’t quite mastered mind reading yet. I’m not Edward Cullen, you know.” “Who’s Edward Cullen?” I lift one eyebrow. “No one you need to know about.” Men. “What were we doing in Charleston? And why did you really need to drag me into the recording studio? You could have played the demo for me at home.” “True,” Kye admits. “But there’s something about a studio, isn’t there? It’s the being there around all the equipment and knowing there’s something very real about where you are.” “See? Tricked me.” “Why? Are you considering it?” “No,” I say after a too-long pause. “You paused.” “I did not.” “You’re such a bad liar.” “You’re . . . I don’t even know.” I huff, swinging my legs from my perch on the table. “You’re a pest.” “A pest?” He laughs. At me. He’s laughing at me. Of course he is. “A pest? Really? What am I? Like, a mosquito?”

“I believe I once compared you to a termite privately, but that’ll work.” His laughter, deep and loud, rings out around the large farmhouse-style kitchen, filling the air with its richness. It’s a wonder he’s still breathing, but maybe this is how he gets his abs. From laughing that damn sinful laugh ten times a day. “A termite? That’s new,” he finally manages to spit out. “So am I, like, a termite with a monster cock?” “Monster?” “It’s at least eight inches.” “At least?” “I’ve never pulled out a tape measure in the middle of an erection, funnily enough. But I do know you need both hands to hold it fully, so that’s a good indicator.” I put my coffee cup down on the table next to me and look at my hands. “But I have, like, the world’s smallest hands. How can you think my palms are four inches wide?” “Your hands aren’t that small.” He frowns. “Or maybe your nails are just long.” They are. “But they have nothing to do with my palms.” “They make them look bigger.” “What is even the point of this conversation? This is the most ridiculous talk I’ve ever had.” He laughs again, and this time, I embrace it as it rumbles over my skin. “Okay.” He pushes off the counter and comes toward me. One of his hands slips between my knees and pushes my legs open. He steps forward between them before I can close them and brushes his knuckles up my thighs. Slowly, he wraps his fingers around one of my wrists and lifts it. He unfurls my fingers from where I’ve tucked them against my palm in a fist and puts his hand against mine, palm to palm. His skin is hot, and my tongue flicks out across my lips, wetting them. My eyes fall to our hands. The tips of my fingers barely touch the second crease on his. Only my nails even attempt to overtake the shallow indentations in his skin. “See?” I say quietly, my voice scratchy. “Tiny hands.” Kye’s eyes flick between mine and our hands. The look I give him is steady, although I feel anything but. I feel like every part of me is weak, and the only part of him really touching me is his hand. This is crazy. He twists his hand to the right a little, and our fingers lock together. His attention is fully on our nowclasped hands, and when I look, my fingers barely make it halfway down the back of his hand. His are almost touching my wrist. “Tiny,” he agrees quietly, meeting my eyes. “But perfect.” My lips part with my inhale. The butterflies that were just fighting to attack my belly break free of the cages I put them in, and as he dips his face toward mine, nervousness erupts in my tummy. “There’s no such thing as a perfect hand.” My voice is still weak, but it’s still there, at least. His other hand comes to my neck, his thumb stroking the tender skin behind my ear. “Your hand is perfect because your fingers fit between mine just right.” The half-smile he gives me settles the apprehension in my stomach. “Just like you fit me.” “Perfection is overrated,” I breathe. “Maybe. But maybe so many people fail to find it because they never really appreciate perfection for what it is: imperfection perfectly appreciated.”

I never thought about it that way. Kye releases my hand and cups the other side of my neck. He hooks his thumbs beneath my jaw and lifts my face so I’m forced to look right at him. “People think I’m perfect.” “People are dumb.” “You said it once.” “When I was drunk and passing out.” “True. But I’m still taking it.” He grins and kisses the tip of my nose. “And I’m still workin’ on it. Come with me.” “Because that worked out so well this morning.” “Trust me.”

Kye

I lead Chelsey into the garage. After I subtly lock the door, I grab her shoulders and push a little until she gets the message and sinks down to the floor. “Have you ever played?” “Played what? Monopoly? Clue? Snap?” She’s so full of sass today it’s driving me crazy. “No, Go Fish,” I reply just as dryly. “I happen to be world champion.” I roll my eyes and pull my guitar out of the case. “Guitar. Have you ever played it?” “Maybe when I was a kid, but not for reals.” She eyes the instrument as I sit in front of her and rest it on my legs. “Why? Is that part of the stipulation for the song y’all are trying to wrestle me into?” “You mean the one you’re considering?” She sticks her tongue in her cheek, and I know she is. For everything she hates about our lifestyle, I think the chance to let go would do her good. I think the best thing Chelsey Young could do would be to step into a studio and let everything go. Music’s the best therapy, and she’s sure in need of some before she can ever fully move on. Besides—she has no idea that her being a part of the song was an afterthought. We didn’t take her there in the first place to listen to it. I thought she might have figured it out, but she seems as oblivious as she was this morning when I found her at Sofie’s. How we’ve managed to keep everything a secret is a miracle. How none of them have guessed that we haven’t been Christmas shopping—at least in the traditional sense—is an even bigger one. They’re probably gonna kill us for not telling them, especially Ella, as our assistant, but we won’t. For Conner. Because this is all him. When you’re one of the biggest boybands in the world, you don’t need a ruthless manager to pave the way to the top. You don’t even need them to clear your way through the crowd of other musicians, regardless of the cost. We’ve already done that, and too many hearts were broken along the way. Too much hurt. No, when you’re where we are, you need someone who will nurture you and your career path. Which is exactly why we’re checking out managers in North and South Carolina. So we can record closer to home, be here for our families and our girls and be happy. Real happy. Not the fake kind of L.A., fly-home-twice-a-year happy. Can you imagine it? Driving an hour or whatever up the coast, recording all day, then coming home to someone who loves you more than you imagined. Being able to do that every single day. Being able to

head over to Mom’s on Sunday for pot roast and pie, to Sofie’s to steal Mila for dumb games and a sandcastle on the beach. Being able to live and breathe love. That’s all I want. We all have our reasons. Conner’s is Mila and Sofie. Tate’s is that this is the best family Ella has ever known. Aidan’s is that Jessie’s family lives right here in town. My reason? I want to be able to drive up the coast to work and back down again in one day because of Chelsey. I want to live our dream while all the time convincing her I’m worth the risk. I want Chelsey to know that, if she’ll let me, I’ll always come home to her. Fuck, even if she doesn’t let me, I’m gonna do it anyway. I’m afraid I’m too far gone where she’s concerned. I’m so fucking scared that the way she smiles at me when she thinks I’m not looking and the way she looks at me with those gentle baby blues have undone me, never mind the way she touches me. Never fucking mind the way she gasps every time we touch, or how she trembles when I lean in to kiss her. I don’t think she knows she does it. I’m not sure she realizes how obviously she reacts to me. I don’t think she knows a goddamn fucking thing about us. But I do. And if I know anything, it’s that I’ll fight until every ounce of passion and determination is drained out of me. I’ll come home to her each and every time, until every cell in my body explodes from the love I feel for her. I do. Love her. Four little letters, yet they hold so much weight. Weight I fear could bury her. “I’m not considering it,” Chelsey lies. “Why would I want a career in singing? No offense to y’all, but, you know.” “Yeah. I know.” I rest my guitar on my legs and hook my arm over the top. “But what’s your dream, Chels? You never talk about anything past the bar. It’s like you don’t have a dream at all.” “Maybe I don’t,” she answers coyly, looking up at me from beneath her lashes. Blond hair falls down and covers half her face, so she reaches up and pushes it behind her ear. “Not everyone is a dreamer, you know. I might be happy as I am.” I raise my eyebrows. I don’t believe that. Everyone has a dream buried deep down inside them. To be famous, to fall irrevocably in love, to pass twenty-four hours without thinking of harming yourself, to do something that could make a huge difference to someone else’s life. Everyone has a dream, because without dreams, all we are is an empty shell with nothing but the vapors of a soul inside us. Without a word, I strum my thumb across the guitar strings. One sounds off, so I do it again, tweaking the tuning. When it sounds right, I barely give her a glance before I launch into “Three Blind Mice.” “This is the first song I ever learned perfectly,” I tell her. “Three blind mice, three blind mice . . .” I sing with a smirk. “You’re an idiot,” she says softly, but fondly, too. My smirk grows, so I finish playing the nursery rhyme without singing. “Then I learned ‘3 AM’ by Matchbox Twenty.” My fingers strum the first chords. “Mom used to adore them. She would sing them

while she cleaned.” The melody flows through me, as familiar as breathing. “Mostly when she was sad. I remember learning every note just to make her happy. She cried when I played it all the first time.” My eyes close at the memory. “She was sad because Dad was away. She cried because I’d given life to the words she’d been listening to relentlessly on the CD player.” The familiar notes are like water beneath my fingers. Each touch of the strings is easy. Each vibration is a steady flow of the music traveling through the air. “I spent hours scouring music stores for the book that had this song. I finally found it in Charleston when she took us for a fancy lunch that was right next to a music store.” My smile forms. “Mom got mad because I slipped away, but I found it.” I open my eyes and Chelsey is leaning forward, her chin resting in her hands. “I used to love them, too. But do you remember the words?” Her eyebrow is quirked in a challenge, and I shrug a shoulder. “Sure I do.” “Sing it.” Two simple words that are threaded with emotion. “Play it. Sing it for me.” “Get Google ready in case I forget the words,” I tease, strumming the first few notes. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and drops her eyes to the screen. Her thumbs move swiftly across it, and she holds it out to me. “Here.” She rests it on her legs, enlarging the text so it fills the screen. I smirk. I don’t need the words. I know them all by heart. I heard it enough, and some songs just stay with you. This is one of them. My thumb brushes across the guitar strings lightly, and I dive back into the song, starting from the beginning. Chelsey puts her elbow on her knee and rests her chin in her hand. She stares at me as I play, and when it’s time, the words flow easily, too. My voice is still warm from this afternoon, but it’s the actual lyrics that hit me, not my voice. I couldn’t care less how I sound really, because each line of this song is like a hit to the gut. They reflect her so perfectly. The loneliness, the fear of losing good things. The fear of losing everything, that everything will end. It’s as if this song was written for Chelsey Young. “Sing,” I say during the chorus and a verse. She shakes her head, smiling, and I nod. She’s still shaking her head, and I’m still nodding, then she says, “I can’t remember the words.” “Phone . . .” I dive back into singing with a nod to her phone. She tries to protest, but I sing louder, drowning out her argument. Finally she sighs and sits up straight, pushing that light blond hair away from her face. She holds me firm in her gaze, then sings. She doesn’t need the words. It’s quiet. So hesitant, like she’s realizing that I have to listen to her and it won’t be accidental. “I can’t hear you.” She purses her lips and focuses on a spot above my head. Then sings. The sweet, melodic tone of her voice wraps around me with its warmth. Her voice is scratchy from no warm up, but she leans back on her hands and drops her head back. I smile as she sings with me. I’m certain her eyes are closed and that’s her way of keeping it to herself, but I just want to hear her.

I want to hear her let go and be free for just a moment. I could watch her sing all day. See the peaceful expression on her face as the words fall from her lips perfectly. I strum the last chord and let the vibrations of it die out in the air naturally. Chelsey’s chest rises as she takes a deep breath, and when she brings her head back up, a smile is playing on her lips. Those blue eyes are so powerful and raw that I’m frozen in place. She’s the only woman I know who can disarm me with one tiny look. She moves onto her knees and crawls toward me. With gentle hands, she takes the guitar from me and places it on the floor next to us. My heart thuds when she pauses before bringing her eyes back up to mine. Her soft pink lips part, but then she changes her mind, and instead of speaking, she kisses me. She leans into me, and she kisses me. She kisses me like she fucking needs me. I reach under her arms, grasp her waist, and pull her into me. We fall backward together as I do, and a tiny squeal leaves her. I grin against her mouth, and she steadies herself on her forearms, looking down at me. Her hair falls down on either side of my face, providing a curtain that seals us off from the outside world. We look at each other for a long moment, her knees by my hips, my hands still on her waist, our breaths mingling in the empty space between our lips. Until she kisses me again. This isn’t a sweet kiss like a moment ago. It’s not a damn “thank-you” or a “just because” like the last one was, no matter how much need I tasted. No. This kiss is singing with desperation tainted with desire, and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Her fingers dive into my hair, and my hands slide down her sides to cup her ass. I bend my knees so her hips are snugly against mine, and as my blood pumps hotter, my cock hardens. My hands snake around her lithe body, holding her tighter than I ever have before. Her tongue battles mine and her teeth nip my bottom lip and her tiny whimpers set fire to the simmering lust inside me. Now it rages, and all I can feel is Chelsey. Her hands. Her mouth. Her hair. All I want is her. I want to be inside her, with her hips grinding mine and her tight pussy hugging my cock as she does. I want her to scream my name into my mouth as I come inside her and she comes all over me. I want to fucking own every part of her. She sure as shit owns every part of me. Somehow we move across the garage, almost as one, and she falls back on the ratty sofa beneath me. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glassy with desire, but there’s no hesitation as she reaches down and undoes my jeans. I pull hers down her legs before mine fall, and then I pull my T-shirt over my head. She eases up and takes hers off, then there’s just us. Kissing. Touching. And I’m inside her, and she’s around me, and everything else ceases to exist, because she feels like heaven on earth.

“What,” Chelsey says, her lip curling, “is that? Did you kill a puppy on the way over here or something?” I grin and shut her front door. “It’s a wig.” She stops, puts her hand to her forehead, and peers at me from under it. “And why do you have a wig?” “I don’t.” I walk to her, unravel the long black locks, and put it on her head. “You do.”

She pinches a section of the hair and holds it in front of her face. “Okay. Why do I have a wig?” Excitement builds inside me, even if she does look a little funny with such dark hair. “You know how Charleston does the holidays epically?” When she nods, I continue. “There’s a European Christmas market there this year. I haven’t been to one for years, and I wanna go. Mom and Dad are going, and it was Mom who gave me the idea for the wig.” “I’m confused, Kye.” I pull a pair of sunglasses from my pocket and put them on with a smirk. “We’re in disguise.” She presses her lips together as she fights her smile. “We’re going to a holiday market in disguise?” “Yeah.” She puts her hands on her hips, amusement still dancing across her beautiful face. “I’m gonna need more than ‘yeah’ to understand here.” “Fuck me,” I mutter, removing the glasses. “We were spotted coming out of the recording studio yesterday, but they didn’t get a picture of your face,” I reassure her hurriedly when a little shock travels through her gaze. “So paparazzi will be stalking us all day trying to get evidence that we’re recording a new song.” “But you are, aren’t you?” I smirk. Slyly. “No. We’re demoing.” “Whatever. Carry on. I’m listening to your master plan.” As if to strengthen her point, she crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot. I cover her tapping foot with mine and force her to uncross her arms by taking her hands. “I know you hate them, and as soon as they recognize you they’ll bombard you with questions about your dad and shit.” Especially since I read rumors online this morning that he’s cheating on his fiancée. . . . “But they won’t recognize you if you wear a wig. Just do your makeup differently and they’ll never know it’s you.” Chelsey looks skeptical, with one eyebrow raised and her lips pursed to the side. “But then your face will be all over with stories about you dating some girl with dark hair.” “And? I’m not dating a girl with dark hair. I’m dating a girl with blond hair.” I tug her against me and kiss her quickly. “Oh you are, are you? I don’t happen to remember being a part of that discussion.” “You weren’t. I just decided we’re dating about five seconds ago, because if I don’t, it’ll never fuckin’ happen.” “Hey! I object to that.” “The fact I decided or that it’ll never happen?” When she responds by frowning at me playfully, I let her go with a cocky grin. “So shut up, put that wig on, and be my real-fake date.” “Real-fake date. What a load of shit,” she mutters, presumably to herself as she turns away. My eyes drop to the black yoga pants hugging her pert ass. “And put some real pants on.” She gasps and stops in her bedroom doorway, black and blond hair tangling as she turns. “You take that back!” “No.” “All right, mister. If we’re dating, we’re layin’ down some goddamn ground rules.” She points a long red fingernail at me. “And the first rule is that yoga pants are real pants. You got that?” “Babe, if I can see your panties, they’re not real pants.”

“Can you see my panties?” “Only because I know what they look like.” She blinks. “Well, you are staring at my ass. Not everyone will be staring at my ass. Which makes my yoga pants real pants.” I’m not going to win this argument. I can see it. “Fine. Go put on some pants through which I won’t be able to see your panties.”

She didn’t put on pants. Nope. She settled for a brown patterned dress, long socks, and brown boots. She took the disguise to heart, too. Never mind the black wig with bangs—she added fake eyelashes that practically skim her eyebrows and bright red lips. I can leave the lashes, but fuck. Those lips can stay. It even took Sofie a few minutes before she recognized Chelsey after we arrived at the market. Jessie . . . Well, Jessie just burst into laughter, and Chelsey shoved her. It’s been thirty minutes and judging by the little frown on her face, Mila is still trying to decide whether or not she knows the lady “wif the pitty lips.” The one thing we didn’t think about was her name. There’s also the consideration that this whole thing is totally ridiculous, because if she does ever come around to my announcement that we’re dating, then she’ll have to be seen with me eventually. More than ever, I’m hoping to God that we find the right manager in either South Carolina or North Carolina. Hell, any neighboring state would be a bonus at this point. “I feel like a hooker,” Chelsey whispers to me, stepping close to my side. “Does that mean you feel like getting fucked like one?” She looks at me with a double take before slapping her palm against my chest. “Pig.” “Sorry. Your lipstick is giving me ideas.” This time, she doesn’t do a double take. She just stares at me. Her lips twitch, and it really doesn’t fucking help. I look away, but it’s useless, because my eyes go straight back to her, and I can’t help but smile. This feeling is getting more and more frequent, just a glimpse of her makes me smile. She’s just so damn gorgeous that, even when she’s mad at me—which I suspect she is today—I can’t help it. It’s pretty much a reflex now, I think. “I don’t even know what to say to that,” she admits, following it with a sigh. “I do feel really stupid, though. People keep looking at me.” “That’s because you’re beautiful,” I say honestly. “Even if you do look a little stupid with black hair.” “I don’t know if I should be melting at that compliment or getting pissed that you just said I look stupid.” “Yeah,” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. How about beautifully stupid? Is that— wait, no.” I stop when she glares at me. “Wrong way. Stupidly beautiful. There. You’re stupidly beautiful.” She narrows her eyes.

“Oh, come on.” I move in front of her, hold both her hands, and walk backward. “That’s a killer compliment right there. Stupidly beautiful? Fuck yeah. If I was a chick I’d take that and run.” She tries to hold her hard look, but it fails when she breaks into a wide smile. That dimple forms in her cheek, and she shakes her head. “You’re crazy.” “You’re just realizing?” “No,” she says slowly, tilting her head to the side. Her smile changes to something more knowing and emotional, and I’d give just about anything to know what’s going through her head right now. To tear her mind apart and rifle through her thoughts to know if my efforts are getting me anywhere or if I’m still just playing the fool. “You look like you’re thinking too hard,” I say to her. “I think too hard a lot.” Yep. I agree with that. “Let me shut you up for you.” I pull her into me and, when her body hits mine, drop my mouth to hers. I release her hands and cup the sides of her face, making sure I don’t knock the wig off, and let my lips linger against hers until her hands fist my sweater and I’m dangerously close to more inappropriate thoughts about her. “Good job,” she whispers. I smirk and flick my thumb under her lower lip. She grins and presses her finger against my mouth, then rubs her thumb across my mouth. “You’ve got a little . . .” She laughs softly, still rubbing. “Okay, a lot.” I run my tongue around my lips until I lick her finger. “Did I get it?” “Ew!” She laughs again, pulling her finger away from my lips. “No, not at all.” I pull my sleeve over my hand, and thankful that my sweater is black, rub the material over my mouth. “There?” “That’ll do it,” she agrees, eyes sparkling. “I guess that twelve-hour lipstick isn’t as durable as the tube said.” “You think?” I sling my arm over her shoulder and we walk. “Would the rest come off with . . . uh . . . excessive force?” Chelsey bites the inside of her cheek. “What, like a super make-out session?” The innocent way she glances at me doesn’t have me fooled at all. “If you’re gonna make out with my cock, then sure.” “Do you have a list of this dirty stuff somewhere or do you just make it up as you go?” “Make it up as I go. Why? Does it bother you?” “Does it annoy me kinda bother me or turn me on kinda bother me?” “Both.” Yeah, both. “It doesn’t annoy me,” she says slowly, carefully. She reaches up and twists a piece of fake black hair around her finger. “And I guess it turns me on a little.” “Just a little?” I raise my eyebrows. Well, fuck. I’m not trying hard enough, obviously. “We are not continuing this conversation in the middle of a holiday market,” Chelsey says firmly. “We’re being followed.” My eyes dart around us. Usually it’s pretty easy to tell when someone is following you—mostly on account of the big-ass fucking camera they haul around—but the streets of Charleston are crammed with

people. It could be anyone, anywhere, taking pictures on their phone, even if they are a professional. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Stay close to me,” I mutter to Chelsey, tightening my grip on her and pulling her to my side. She slides her arm around my back until her hand rests on my waist, and I smile. Fuck, why do I smile? I steer us toward a German-themed stall selling nutcrackers. If Leila could see this, she’d freak the hell out. The Nutcracker has always been her favorite thing to watch at Christmas, and I remember her bugging Mom for three years to see the ballet until Mom was sure she could endure it and gave in. I remember her face as she came twirling back in, every single year, humming the tune. She would have made a kick-ass ballerina if she wasn’t so fucking impatient. After Chels agrees it’d be perfect for Leila, I ask the price of the biggest one and buy it without thinking it over. A smile teases Chelsey’s lips as she watches the wooden toy being placed safely in a box, surrounded by tissue paper. Longing hints in her gaze, and the vaguest memory flashes through my mind. Leila . . . Sofie . . . Jessie . . . Chelsey . . . interrupting our practice. Humming The Nutcracker . . . Dancing . . . I remember that Christmas so well. It was the day they all finally got their wish to see the ballet. “I’ll take another,” I say to the German lady behind the stall. My eyes are focused on Chelsey, and she freezes as my words register. “Same?” the lady asks, pointing at the big ones. “Yes please, ma’am.” “What are you doin’?” Chelsey asks softly, turning her body into me. “I’m buyin’ you a nutcracker, babe. What does it look like?” “You can’t buy that. It’s expensive! Kye!” I pull her the rest of the way against me and press my lips to her temple. The coarse fake hair rubs against my cheek and tickles my collarbone. “And you’re worth every cent.” “I won’t let you buy it.” “Never did do as I was told very often,” I respond, releasing her to pull my wallet out of my pocket. I’m real thankful I stopped by the ATM this morning. I hand the lady two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills as she passes me a plastic bag with the two boxes snug inside. Chelsey is still staring at me in disbelief, her bright red lips slightly parted with the unsaid words I know she’s dying to let free but won’t. I put my arm back across her shoulders and lead her away from the stall. The sensation of being watched creeps over me like a thick gel. I feel sick at the level of scrutiny I can sense on us, but a peek down at my girl shows that if she’s noticed it, she’s hiding it real well. My girl. Shit. I’m in so deep. Slowly, Chelsey puts her arm back around me and leans in. “Why did you do that? Buy the nutcracker?”

“I saw the way you looked at it,” I answer honestly. “You looked like you wanted it so badly, and if you look at something that way, you gotta have it.” I imagine the way she looked at the nutcracker is the way I look at her. With such longing that it tears a part of you open and that space can only be filled with the very thing you want. I have a Chelsey-size hole inside me, and I hope like hell I’m not still fighting for her in vain. She nods her understanding, lifting her eyes from the ground in front of us and scanning the stalls. We walk for a while in silence, pausing occasionally so she can browse the items for sale. She’s mostly interested in the candy stalls, not that I’m surprised, since I’ve seen inside her cupboards. I can’t figure out if she understands my reasoning for buying her the nutcracker or if she’s offended by it. Sure, I could have given in to her and agreed not to buy it, but why the fuck would I do that? She wanted it. She can have it. It’s just that simple. Maybe it’s old-fashioned, but I believe you should never deny the person you love anything they want. Dad has never denied Mom anything, if she wanted it that badly, and I know for a fact my brothers have never denied their girls anything. I would never deny Chelsey anything, even if it’s as simple as a nutcracker. Except leaving her alone. She’s dreamin’ if she thinks I’m givin’ her that.

Chelsey

I wonder if he knows how he looks at me. I wonder if he’s ever stopped to think just how penetrating his gorgeous blue gaze is. I wonder if he’s ever realized how much emotion he can pack into the most fleeting of glances. He must know. Otherwise how can he truly recognize the want in mine? I know how badly I wanted that nutcracker when I saw it. I recognized the spark of jealousy that came to life when I saw he was buying Leila one. I felt the desire swarm into a tight ball in my belly as I watched the German woman handle the nutcracker as if it were made of glass. Obviously, he saw it, too. I would have been happy with a key ring–size nutcracker if that’s all there was. But the big one? The really big, expensive one with all the detail? He saw. He noticed. The price and size is irrelevant. He saw how much I wanted it, so he got it for me. That simple. That easy. Just because he knew it’d make me happy. It has. The Nutcracker was, and still is, my all-time favorite thing to watch at Christmas. Even Barbie in the Nutcracker. I’m not ashamed to say I have the DVD of that in a box under my bed. Kye Burke is the most observant man I have ever met in my life. He doesn’t miss a thing. I wrap my hands around the giant mug of hot chocolate and cast my gaze out over the seafront. Charleston pier stretches out into the Atlantic, its amusements undoubtedly full of excited children. A couple of crazy people are sitting on the edge of the pier holding fishing rods. I have no idea what they’re hoping to catch right now—possibly an old boot or a faded, crushed can of soda? I sip the rich, hot drink and keep watching. Storm clouds are gathering in the distance, blocking out the sun’s weak winter rays. The dark clouds make the sea look dangerous as the waves roll forward under the shadows. It makes me nervous. I’m not sure how many more storms Shelton Bay can deal with, and this one seems to be forming right along the coastline. Air fills my lungs as I inhale deeply. After hours of walking around the markets and making a trip back to the parking lot to put bags away—yes, I totally bought the whole candy stall—hot drinks seemed like a good idea. I didn’t consider that we’d be packed into a bustling café with tons of other people, all of whom had the same idea. But mostly I didn’t realize how comfortable silence would be with Kye. We’ve never really experienced it this way. We’ve always joked or laughed or teased, but we haven’t said a word to each other for fifteen minutes.

Actually, there have been a lot of these moments today. Just walking around together, enjoying the peace. I’ve never been this comfortable around anyone, and it’s opened up a whole new way of thinking for me. The clearest lesson I’ve had today is that he is nothing like the picture I painted in my mind. Kye Burke is sweet and thoughtful and considerate. He’s sharp and cocky and takes advantage of the versatility of the word “fuck.” His dirty mouth is offset by his pure heart, and those two things are, without a doubt, my favorite parts of him. I love how he can make me red hot on the outside but melt on the inside within seconds. I love the way he looks at me. He has this amazing way of making me seem like I’m the only thing in his world, like everything else is nothing more than a blur. I love how he makes my life seem that much brighter and more vivid. I know I’ve laughed more since he started this cat-and-mouse game with me. I know I’ve smiled for no reason while standing in front of the fridge because I remembered something dumb he said that made me laugh. I know my skin tingles in anticipation every time he reaches for me. My mouth dries whenever his face dips down to mine, and all he has to do is walk into a room and my heart picks up an erratic, thundering beat. I know that I am undeniably, completely, totally, utterly fucking screwed. Falling in love with Kye Burke was never part of the plan. It was a laughable occurrence, so ridiculously out there that it was never even worth ruling out. My five-year plan didn’t involve falling into bed with this sinfully hot man, and it sure as hell didn’t have any time for love penciled in anywhere. That was planned for year six. When I figured I’d have all my shit together and be ready to deal with the pain and issues that love carries with it but never tells you about. I guess that’s the thing about love. Love doesn’t give a crap if you’re on a schedule or have your whole life planned out. If love wants to happen, it’ll happen. Love will always find a way, even if your heart is surrounded by a tall, thick steel wall. I’ve also learned that I’ve been lying to myself. I don’t really have an issue with his job. Rock star, schmock star. A job doesn’t make someone behave a certain way. Just because he makes music for a living and travels the world and has millions of females falling at his feet like snowflakes in a blizzard doesn’t mean he’d be an unfaithful asshole. My reservations come solely from the fear of a long-distance relationship. It comes from differing time zones. It comes from the sting of loneliness and the sweet scent of temptation that can soothe that sting. My fear has always been of getting my heart broken. Of giving someone my everything and having it ripped into pieces because my everything wasn’t enough to keep them. Just like my mom and I weren’t enough to keep my dad. I’m still terrified of that. Oh God, I am. I can feel the paralyzing squirm of fear now. The thought that you could love someone so fiercely and they’d betray that is the worst thought I’ve ever had, yet I can’t stop thinking it. Yet if I had to, I would put my life in the palm of Kye’s hand. I trust him to protect me and keep me safe and look after me. I trust him to put a smile on my face and make me laugh and always show up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a trick.

In the end, that’s all we come down to. It was a slow burn of emotion that happened quicker than it should have, and it all started with a bottle of Jack and a trick. So simple. I smile into my mug. That’s it. Just simple. No frills or fancy dates or grand gestures. Just a bottle of Jack, a power outage, and a trick. Totally ridiculous. “What are you smilin’ at?” I face him, my smile still in place. “Isn’t it crazy that this started with a bottle of Jack and one of your little tricks?” The blue in his eyes seems to pop as the amusement that curves his lips flashes in his gaze. “You call it crazy,” he answers. “I call it fate.” “Sounds like you just pulled that right out of a song.” He raises his mug to his lips, still smiling. “No, but I think it should be one.” “Depends. Are you gonna call it ‘Jack and a Trick’?” “You bet.” He finishes his coffee and grins. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, then we’ll head back, yeah?” “Sounds good.” I’ve barely touched my hot chocolate, so I drink half the cup before putting it down on the table in front of me. My eyes catch my reflection in the window. The stupid black wig frames my face, the shoulder-length locks much coarser than my own long blond hair. The bangs are too sharp for my features, and mostly, the dark color washes me out. I’m not as tan as my friends. Any one of them could pull off this shade, but I’m better off light. I take a deep breath and pull the pins from my hairline. I put them on the arm of the chair and pull the wig off. Then I remove the pins holding my light hair up. It’s as if a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders, so I tuck the pins into my pocket, shake my real hair out, and run out of the coffee shop with the wig in my hand. I don’t want to hide anymore. It’s that simple. I don’t want to creep around and pretend to be something else. He isn’t my dad, I’m not my mom, and history doesn’t always have to repeat itself. I text Kye and tell him to meet me outside, then walk a few feet down the street and tuck myself into an alleyway. I bite down on my lower lip as I wait for him to emerge. He’s caught by a group of girls almost as soon as he does, and I watch with a smile as he’s wrangled into some autographs and a whole host of selfies. I bet if I search his name on Instagram later I’ll see these exact images. The girls leave him after a minute or two and he pulls out his phone. Mine buzzes a second later. I can’t see you. Turn left down the street. My teeth sink right into my lip now, the sting of pain taking away some of the nerves. He looks around a lot as he walks, and he actually walks right past me. I guess he’s looking for my black hair. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” I call, half-smiling. He turns and his eyes scan the area. Finally, they come to rest on me, and recognition flashes in them. He walks to me without a word and takes a piece of my hair between his finger and thumb. “You took it off. Why?”

“Black isn’t my color.” He lifts his eyebrows, still holding a strand of my hair. “I did tell you that you look stupid.” “Stupidly beautiful were the exact words, actually.” I lift the wig and hold it out to him. “So, here.” He takes it from me. “Uh, babe, black ain’t my color either.” I laugh and snatch it back from him then put it on his head. He looks totally fucking ridiculous, and he pouts, duck-face style. “How do I look?” “Like you’re crazy,” I giggle, covering my mouth. “That’s because you make me crazy, you little pain in the ass,” he murmurs through a smirk. He pulls me close and looks down. “Do you mind if I kiss you?” “Right here? On the sidewalk? Right now?” “Nah, I’m askin’ if I can kiss you next fuckin’ week under the mistletoe.” “I don’t know. That’s a big ask,” I tease him. “Chelsey, I swear, I’m tryin’ to be considerate of the fact you just whipped this dumb wig off your head and that there’s already someone snapping pictures of your beautiful face, but you’re makin’ it real hard for me not to push you against the wall and kiss the hell out of you.” “That escalated incredibly quickly, you know that, right? You went from asking to threatening. Did you have a little short in your brain-to-mouth filter? Some words get lost?” “Chelsey.” He growls it. He actually growls it. A deep, primitive sound that rumbles through me until my whole body is buzzing. “That’s my name,” I breathe, my mouth dry. The glimmer in his eye makes my stomach flip. I know it’s coming. I know he hasn’t realized I’m teasing him and that there’s only one thing on his mind right now. I reach up before he can and whip the stupid wig off his head. It falls to the floor, and I wrap my arms around Kye’s neck, pull myself onto my tiptoes, and press my lips to his. His shock lasts all of a second before his grip tightens on me and he turns the kiss into something I feel in every cell of my body. “You’re a fuckin’ ping-pong ball, you know that?” he says quietly, his eyes searching my face. “One minute you’re in disguise, the next you’re kissin’ me in the middle of Charleston and the disguise is crumpled on the ground. Help me out here, babe, because I don’t get it.” Neither do I, I want to say. I want to whisper, No, I don’t understand where the random bursts of courage come from except that I’m pretty sure they originate from the part of my soul that wants yours. Instead, I fall back on my heels and touch his cheek. His stubble is rough against my hand, but his skin is so soft. “No more tricks,” I say quietly, looking into his eyes. He searches my gaze before nodding the tiniest nod and bending down to kiss me. This one is short, but the sweetest few seconds of my life. After everything, if I had to pick one moment to bottle up and keep forever, it would be this kiss. Because this kiss is the first honest kiss we’ve had. And that just makes it pretty damn fantastic. Kye bends down and grabs the wig from the ground, takes my hand, and pulls me onto the busy sidewalk. A trash can is only feet from us, and he throws the wig into it. “I thought that was your mom’s.” “Nah.” He looks at me with a sly grin. “Ten bucks at Walmart this morning.”

I shove his arm, but all he does is pull me close and kiss the top of my head. And he calls me the pain in the ass.

Jessie looks up from the tablet. A Burke family meeting was called by Tate for nine a.m., and since it turns out I’m the reason for it, I was unceremoniously dragged from my bed and forced here. No one seems to have considered that I headed straight to work after we returned from Charleston around four and I didn’t get home until two. But sure. Let’s drag the cranky bitch out of bed. I’m also pretty sure my period is coming, and if that isn’t the biggest mood killer, I don’t know what is. It also means I’m cranky times one hundred. Until the cramps start—then nobody is safe. “Has the abuse started yet?” my best friend asks. “Don’t do it!” Sofie warns, waving her hands at me. “Surrender your social media to Ella and she’ll change your passwords.” Ella smiles sweetly. “It works.” “Who blocks yours?” I ask her. “Leila. Tate made her sign an agreement not to tell them to fuck off.” “He seriously did that? More to the point, Leila signed it?” Leila will never give up the opportunity to tell someone to fuck themselves. A hand collides with the back of my head, and the girl in question comes strolling in wearing nothing but an oversize Blake Shelton tour T-shirt. “Fuck you.” I point at her with an I told you look to Ella. “Why is there a fucking circus in there?” Leila points over her shoulder. “They’re doing some crazy hushed whispering bullshit, and Tate threatened to punch me if I didn’t get the heck away from them.” Sofie sighs. “You punched him, didn’t you?” Leila spins and holds her hands up. “Hey, I know how to get the first jab in, all right?” “You punched your brother?” Mr. Burke asks warily, coming into the kitchen. “Leila . . .” “No offense, Dad, but I’m twenty-two and he’s twenty-six. He shouldn’t be threatening me. Have you seen the size of him? He weighs three times what I do!” Mr. Burke rubs his hand across his face. “Go back to bed, Lei. I fail to see how helpful you’re gonna be here.” “Helpful with what, Mr. Burke?” Jessie asks. “We got dragged here and dumped in the kitchen.” “They’re up to something,” Ella says, propping her chin on her hands. “Tate locked me out of his personal email and is changing the password on a regular basis. Like, daily. And he always signs out when he’s done. He never does that.” “Conner keeps taking calls and leaving the room,” Sofie says. “Ugh! So does Aidan!” Jessie hits the table. “What are they up to?” “Circus,” Leila mutters, taking her coffee and shuffling past us. I’m inclined to agree with her. I unlock my phone and hit the Twitter app. Probably not the smartest idea, but I’ve always had the thickest skin out of all of us. I bring up the trends, and unsurprisingly, Kye’s name is on it, but so is mine. I tap on my name and my eyebrows shoot up at the onslaught of abuse.

Wow. “ ‘I hope you die.’ Wow that’s intense.” I read out loud, “ ‘She only got him because her dad is famous. Such an opportunist.’ ” Ella tilts her head to the side. “Haven’t you known each other for years?” “Not according to Twitter.” I snort. “Oh, look! Y’all are mentioned on this one. ‘Why did they go for a bunch of nobodies?’ The reply is great, too. ‘I know right, they’ll never love them like we do KYE PLEASE THINK ABOUT THIS!’ ” I hold up my phone, face the screen to them, and point at the tweet. “What. The. Fuck?” “Welcome to Divaville,” Mr. Burke mutters. “Population: twenty million or so. Mental status: run away now.” We all stop and turn to him. The tall, graying man wearing the checkered shirt, head of the Burke household, just totally out-sassed us all. Sofie is the first to burst into laughter, and she slumps forward onto the table. Jessie snorts and slaps her hand over her mouth, and I bite my tongue to stop the giggles from escaping. Ella sits in stunned silence, staring at him. As if he never said a thing, Mr. Burke grabs his steaming mug of coffee, turns, and winks at us. Then he walks out of the kitchen without a care in the world. “Did he just—” Ella stutters, pointing after him. “Yes,” Sofie wheezes, sitting up and wiping tears from under her eyes. “You all right, Sof? You need a tissue?” I ask, smirking. “I just . . .” She hisses out a breath and collapses again. Her laughter could be mistaken for a sob, but it’s so contagious, and within a minute we’re all laughing. It feels good to laugh this way. To let go of everything until my stomach burns and my eyes sting with tears of laughter. “What the fuck happened here?” Tate asks, gripping the back of Ella’s chair. Just when I thought I could stop laughing, I bury my face in my arms and a whole new round of giggles erupts. “You have—you have—oh God,” Ella laughs, fanning herself. “Nope. Nope. Not today.” “Did someone set off a laughing-gas bomb in here?” Aidan asks from beside me. I shake my head frantically, take a deep breath, and wave my hand in front of my face. I can feel the warmth of my giggle-tears as they slide down my cheeks, and I have to look at the ceiling until I’m calm enough to speak. “Your dad. Sass.” I cover my mouth like that’ll stop the bubble of amusement inside. “Wins. Life. Best. Ever.” Kye rests his hand on my upper back. “I’m so confused.” Sofie pants as she tries to regain control of herself. “Women,” Conner mutters. “Never gonna understand them.” “Divaville,” she giggles, losing it once again. This could take a while.

Kye

She looks so fucking peaceful when she’s reading. She’s been curled into a ball in the corner of the sofa with her face stuck against the screen of her Kindle for hours now. She’s moved only for a bathroom break and chips and salsa. Even then, she took the Kindle. I have no idea if the current media frenzy is affecting her at all. The only words she’s said since we finally got the girls out of their laughing fits are “Oh,” “Thank you,” and “I’m fine.” And we all know that when a female says, “I’m fine,” she sure as fuck isn’t. Not that her solemn mood makes any sense. Sure I know she’s tired—she made that abundantly clear when I had to call her this morning and she chewed my ass out for waking her—but she knew this was going to happen. She took the damn wig off her head. She knew we were being followed by at least one photographer, and she knew that they’d automatically run a “they’re dating” story if they recognized her. By their rules, one outing is worthy of speculation, but two is a sure thing and we’re practically getting married. The one thing she hasn’t done that the others did—in the end—is surrender her social media to Ella and Leila. When the girls had all calmed down and Chelsey resumed the search of her name on Twitter, she batted away every suggestion to stop. In her words, she’d “Ridden this bitch of a dragon more than enough before” and “They’re just keyboard warriors. What are they gonna do if they ever see me in real life? Beat me over the head with their laptops?” At that point, I decided she’d won. There’s no arguing with that flawless kinda logic. It’s also true. Aside from the time Jessie’s car was egged and flour-bombed, nothing physical has ever happened. (Even then, we reckon it was her sister’s friends being assholes.) But Chelsey’s silence is unnerving. She isn’t typically a quiet person—apparently contradicted by her refusal to leave her house without her Kindle and its charger—nor is she a particularly still person. Whenever I’ve seen her she’s always been doing something. . . . Whether it’s cleaning her kitchen counter, tying her hair up, organizing the photos on her windowsill, it’s always something. This quiet is actually pretty damn scary. Times like this it’d be real fucking useful if mind reading could even be a learned skill. I’d totally pay for those lessons. Can you imagine how much easier it’d make life? There’d be no more of this female “I’m fine,” “Whatever” bullshit. It’d be the knowledge that “Oh shit, I left the toilet seat up,” or “Crap, it’s that time. Better buy chocolate, cupcakes, and aspirin,” or “Well, it’s good to know I didn’t do anything, but she’s pissed at me anyway.” See? So. Fucking. Simple.

Instead, I’m sitting here trying to figure out what could be wrong with her. If anything even is. Maybe it’s the latter option and I’m just imagining it because it’s out of character. I mean, we haven’t spent enough time together that I could possibly have seen all her moods. “You’re startin’ to freak me out.” Her voice makes me look up from the mindless, time-wasting game I’ve been playing on my phone and meet Chelsey’s blue eyes. She’s peering at me from over her Kindle, one eyebrow curved upward in question. “Why?” “Because you’ve been staring at me on and off for, like, twenty minutes now. Do I have something on my face or in my hair or something?” She wipes her forehead then pats her hair. “Or am I just so amazing you can’t take your eyes off me?” “No comment. That’s a trap.” She grins, confirming my suspicions. “Ding ding ding. That’s the correct answer. You know if you’d picked the last option I would have thrown something at you for blowing smoke.” I don’t doubt that for a second. “You’re just quiet. Keep looking to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.” “Oh.” She looks slightly taken aback. “I’m fine.” “I’m fine,” I repeat slowly, hitting the next level on Candy Crush. “Fine.” She lowers her Kindle. Her dark lashes cast shadows over her gaze as she narrows her eyes skeptically. She’s focused on me entirely, and I look down at my phone to make my next move. “What does that mean?” “What does what mean?” “ ‘Fine.’ ” “I don’t know. You’re the one that said it, babe.” “I know what it meant when I said it.” There’s a clunk, and I glance up to see her Kindle on the coffee table. “What did it mean when you said it?” “Just rolling it around on my tongue,” I respond. I hit a candy crush and win the level. So much for level . . . seventy . . . being hard. “It’s not a fucking candy cane, Kye,” she snaps, sitting up straight. “What did it mean?” “Fuck.” I put my phone down and look at her. “If I asked you that question every time you said ‘fine’ I wouldn’t be able to have children anymore, but you can ask me?” “Well, yeah. See, my sex is smart enough to protect my reproductive organs by carrying them safely inside my body.” She glances at my lap. “You, however . . .” I press my hand against my crotch. “Not the point of this conversation.” “Oh, please. You have a sister. You should know that every time a woman says she’s fine she’s so not okay, that she’s conversing with Satan on murder methods,” Chelsey hisses. “Which is why when you mock me for saying ‘fine,’ I’m figuring out the quickest way to kill you in my head.” “Are you on your period? You’re real bitchy today.” Aaaand I probably should not have said that. “Because I’m a bitch, I must be on my period?” Definitely should not have said that. “That’s another trap I’m not going to fall into.”

She takes a deep breath, glaring at me. Whatever calming method she was trying obviously didn’t work, because she punches the sofa as she stands. “You should know that I’m a bitch for a whole five days before my period starts. So if it is getting close, Merry Fucking Christmas.” That sounds an awful lot like a threat. I grab a pillow and cover my dick with it when she gives my manhood a scary glance and storms into the kitchen. This is another instance where I could use mind-reading skills. Do I go after her? Do I stay here? Do I ask? Fuck, man. I didn’t sign up for this complicated shit. I signed up for blow jobs and sex peppered with a bit of romance. “Uh . . .” Leila skirts into the room, looking shadily into the kitchen. “Your girlfriend is pretty pissed off.” “Thanks, Sherlock. I had no idea.” “What did you do?” “Nothing! She said she’s fine.” My sister grimaces. “Oh. Yeah. You’re in trouble.” I throw my hands in the air. “The fuck did I do?” “Well, obviously something to make her ‘fine,’ ” she retorts. “Don’t you remember Easter when I was around nine? Dad forgot to pick up stuff for the egg hunt and Mom didn’t find out until late the night before?” Ah. Yeah. That was the year she hid his guns, he knifed the piñata, and Mom proceeded to try and pawn his beloved weapons as payback. “Fine” is definitely not good. “How do I make her not fine again? I mean, the good fine. Is there a good fine? Fuck, help me out, Lei.” My sister purses her lips and meets my eyes. A long moment passes with only the sound of Chelsey running the tap in the kitchen to break the silence between me and Leila. “You know how you’re the nice one out of all of us?” “Yeah?” “Don’t be the nice guy right now. She won’t come to you.” In other words, go after her, piss her off, then kiss her until she sees sense. Dear balls: I’m gonna miss you like fuck. I drag my hand down my face in resignation. If “fine” Chelsey wasn’t bad enough, angry Chelsey is like walking through the fires of hell. I should know. I’ve seen it. I’ve been at the end of her wrath, and I feel like I’m about to be again. Scratch that. I know I’m about to be again. I scratch the back of my neck as I walk into the kitchen. A cold breeze is filtering in through the sliver of a gap between the door and the frame, and she’s obviously sneaked out. She’s running again—figures. She should sign up for the fucking Olympics. She’d win gold by a mile. Just have me chase her ass around the track. Stepping onto the back porch and scanning the yard, I see that the sky is pale blue, and a mixture of light gray and white clouds are fighting for airspace above the beach. If I didn’t have this strange pull

toward my girl, I’d have missed her standing in the shadows at the edge of the grass. I pull off my socks and dump them on the steps. The grass is cold and a little damp against the soles of my feet, and goose bumps run up and down my arms, but I keep walking toward her. She’s wearing the long yoga pants she had on when she arrived this morning, plus the dark pink sweater, but I can see her shivering. She has her arms wrapped around herself and her socks are rolled into a ball, sitting next to the tree trunk she’s leaning against. “Go away, Kye,” she says, her voice carrying on the wind. “No. I want to talk to you.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” Her shoulders rise and fall. “I’m just tired. Sorry.” An inexplicable burst of anger jolts through me. How the fuck can she think there’s nothing to talk about? Tired or not, there’s a fuck ton of stuff we need to talk about—stuff I haven’t tried to bring up, or have let drop when she said to. Stuff I’ve ignored and lived with for the last couple of weeks, even though it’s killed me to. Time to drop the nice-guy act. It’s about time we got answers—both of us. I step in front of her and ignore the way she jumps. “No, we’re gonna fuckin’ talk, Chelsey. I don’t care what bullshit excuse you throw at me. Your apology doesn’t wash with me. I’m done playin’ around.” She narrows her eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to talk.” She moves to grab her socks, but I close my fingers around her wrist, stopping her. She freezes and, slowly, moves her head around to face me once more. “We’re gonna talk,” I repeat, staring her down. “We’re gonna lay out right now exactly who we are to each other, what we’re gonna do about it, and why you’re so fuckin’ tangled up in yourself today.” “We’re two people that fucked a few times. We’re doin’ nothin’ about it, and I’m ‘tangled up’ in myself because I’ve realized that, okay?” She snatches her arm from me and takes a couple of steps back. “Not that it matters. Not really.” Vulnerability flashes in her eyes. I see it—the lie. The shadows that almost eclipse the usual brightness of her gaze are simple deceit. “Why doesn’t it matter, Chels? Because you said so? Because it doesn’t matter to you?” “I can’t even remember the first time! So no, it doesn’t matter. Sex is sex. It’s just a thing that people do.” “You . . .” I stop as the realization of what she just said flashes in her eyes. “You can’t remember?” “I’m a bad drunk. I remember bits and pieces sometimes, but most of the time I forget. I can’t remember our first night together.” “And the other time? The power outage?” “It doesn’t matter.” She takes a few steps back. My stomach twists. Those words. Those fucking words. “Doesn’t matter? It does to me!” “Oh, I remember! I couldn’t forget.” She swallows. “It would have been easier if you’d just never reminded me! So it doesn’t matter. None of this”—she sweeps her arms through the air—“matters. Not a damn bit.” “To you. It matters to me. All of it. Every single bit. How can it not to you?” “Because you’re leaving!” she yells the words, then covers her mouth with her hand. It trembles when she lowers it, and she wets her lower lip before she says anything else. “Because you’re leaving, Kye.

That’s why it doesn’t matter. You’ll be in Los Angeles, and I’ll be here.” “You think that really makes a difference?” I shake my head. It physically hurts to keep our secret inside; we might not be leaving, but I can’t say for sure, and if we end up going, it’ll only break her heart again in the end. “You honestly fuckin’ think that me being there and you being here affects the way I do and will feel about you?” “Yes!” She runs both hands through her hair and turns, only to spin back around to me immediately, like she can’t not look. “Yes,” she repeats, this time more desperately. Her voice is growing hoarse with emotion, but it keeps rising in volume. “I think it’ll change everything you think you feel! I think you’ll go there and remember how fucking simple your life is when you aren’t trying to catch a girl who bounces off you more times than a yo-yo bounces on its string. I think you’ll go and see just how difficult I am.” “Are you seriously tellin’ me you’re in this mood because of stories and reasons you’re makin’ up in your head?” Unreal. Un-fucking-real. “Why don’t you just talk to me, babe? Why don’t you just fucking say the words instead of letting them eat at you?” “Because they don’t matter!” She looks away before I can confirm the glimmer of tears in her eyes. I can’t believe that after everything I’ve done and said and proved to her she’d still fucking think she isn’t everything to me. That she can’t believe she’s at least something. “Look at me,” I demand. She doesn’t. “Look at me!” She inhales and snaps her head around. Her eyes collide with mine with the force of a bullet exploding from a gun, and the raw emotion in her gaze hits me right in the gut. It makes me pause for a moment, because I’m damned if I’ve ever seen someone look at me with as much passion as she is right now. “Look at me and tell me you think anything, anyone, could change my feelings for you.” I brush my thumb across her rosy, cold cheek. “Look at me, and if you believe that’s true, then you don’t believe in me. Not a fucking bit. And after everything I’ve done to prove to you that you can trust me, if you don’t, then go. Fucking leave.” Indecision flits across her face like a cruel trick. “And don’t you dare lie.” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard to steady it. “Don’t you dare tell me somethin’ that ain’t true, because I’ll know. I know you.” Chelsey sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. The way she scrapes her teeth over it makes it turn white, and my eyes follow the way her lip plumps back out as she releases it. Her tongue flicks over it almost immediately, and I force my eyes back up to hers. I put everything into this look. Every ounce of reassurance, of honesty, of rawness, of emotion. Desperation. Pleading. Determination. Resilience. Love. I pack every fucking heartbeat of love into this one look in the hope that’ll she see it for what it is and think about what she’s gonna say. I don’t think it works. “You have a life, Kye,” Chelsey whispers. She takes my hand and lowers it slowly. “You have this whole life that I don’t know if I can accept. It doesn’t matter what I think you are—but if you doubt yourself . . .” Her breath catches, and she drops my hand, taking another step back so I can’t touch her. “If

you doubt it, you’re amazin’. Shit,” she breathes. “You’re something else, Kye Burke. You are sexy and sweet and so many things. One day you’re gonna make someone so damn happy it’ll hurt me to see it. One day you’ll find the girl worth crying for, worth fighting for, but she isn’t me. I’m sorry.” She covers her mouth with her hand again, like she can’t believe what she’s saying. “I’m so sorry.” “You’re lying,” I yell after her as she takes several steps back from me. With her hand still hugging her mouth, she shakes her head. Tightness builds in my chest, and my heart pounds. Fuck, it pounds. Every beat is a desperate plea for her to stay right here and stop fucking walking right now, because I don’t know if I can take her disappearing from my view. “You’re wrong.” My voice cracks, and this time, I’m the one to run my fingers through my hair. She’s looking at me, but she’s hesitant in the way she’s backing away. “You are so fuckin’ wrong it’s unreal, Chels. Have you listened to yourself? Do you know how fuckin’ crazy you are?” “Yes!” she chokes. “I’m crazy, but so are you!” She jabs her finger in my direction. “You’re crazy!” “Fuck yes I am!” I swipe away the branches that hinder my path to her. “I’m fuckin’ crazy, and babe, it’s for you.” “Stop,” she gasps, shaking her head. “Don’t, Kye.” “No.” I grab her hands and hold her still. A tear falls over her lower eyelid, and even as the guilt punches me, I ignore it as it trails its way down her cheek. “I won’t stop. You wanna know, Chels? You want proof that I won’t go to L.A. and forget you? You wanna know how I’m so fuckin’ sure that no one there will compare to you?” “No.” She yanks her hands from mine. “No. I don’t care.” “Liar,” I growl. “You know what? You won’t lay it down, you won’t be honest, then fuck you, Chelsey. But I will be, even though I know this will break my heart.” Her harsh inhale in the growing darkness is a sting to my heart. “It doesn’t matter, babe. It doesn’t matter how many goddamn fuckin’ miles are between us, because I’m gonna love you across every single one of them. I will love you for every mile I travel away from you and toward you. I’m so in love with you right now that you could be hopping on a rocket to Mars One and I’d still love you for every second of my life that’s left.” My heart clenches, and it takes everything I have to fight back the emotion that’s bubbling inside me. “I love you. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter how far away from you I am. I’m gonna love the hell outta you anyway.” “Stop,” she whispers, both hands over her mouth. “Stop, Kye. Don’t.” “And you love me,” I challenge her, my whole body tense. I can feel my heart pounding through every single vein. “I can see it in your eyes. Say it, Chelsey. Admit it. Say that you fucking love me. You know you do.” She shakes her head, but the tears spilling out of her eyes are enough. “Say it!” I yell, walking toward her. “Stop fuckin’ lyin’ to yourself!” “I’m in love with you!” She gasps as if she can’t believe she actually said it, but the words only close her off from me. “Fuck, you weren’t my plan.” Tears cascade down her cheeks. “You weren’t supposed to be so perfect. You shouldn’t have been so sweet and amazing and perfect. You shouldn’t have made me laugh the way you do. ’Cause you’re only gonna break my heart, Kye. Don’t you get that? You’re only gonna hurt me. I don’t want that. I can’t do it.”

“I’m not your father,” I growl. “I’m more than that, better than that. Stop the comparison, babe, because I’m not goin’ fuckin’ anywhere.” “You don’t know that.” She breathes harshly. “You could. You will. I don’t . . . I love you and I can’t be so hurt. I’m so afraid.” She’s backing farther and farther away from me, and my heart is clenching tighter and tighter. “Go. Go to Los Angeles. Go find the reason for you to breathe.” “I did. She’s right in front of me.” I walk to her, stalk to her, but she runs back. “Kye, stop chasing me, please.” “No. I won’t. I won’t stop until you realize just how much you’re inside me, Chelsey. Do you get that? Chels, I won’t stop chasing until you stop running.” Her arms are crossed over her chest now, and the tears are still streaming down her cheeks. I shake my head again, and my long legs enable me to close the distance between us. I grab her hands and pull her against me. She’s cold, but her shaking isn’t from the temperature. The frantic way her teeth chatter isn’t from the weather. It’s from the fucking tears that are still paving their way across her gorgeous face, down her sweet cheeks. “I love you,” I rasp, dipping my head so she hears it. “You get that? I love you, Chelsey. Difficulties and insecurities and all. I love you, Jack Daniel’s obsession and all. Every fuckin’ thing about you, I love the shit outta it, and a couple thousand miles ain’t gonna make the tiniest bit of difference. I’m gonna love you no matter how many miles are between us.” Her fingers tighten on mine, then in the barest of whispers, she says, “You won’t.” My mouth slams down onto hers. There’s nothing gentle or even loving about this kiss. It’s raw and primal. It’s instinctive. Even if she walks away from me right now, she’s going with my touch branding her skin and the taste of me on her lips. If she walks away from me right now, she will have no doubt that every single part of me loves every single part of her. Every. Single. Fucking. Piece. Her fingers dig into my sides and grasp my T-shirt, tugging it harshly into her. She leans her head back and takes every single assault my mouth unleashes on her. Shit, if she only knew how much she belongs to me. If she stopped for a second and realized how her body responds to me just minutes after admitting she loves me . . . well, then I’d bet she’d be a whole lot nicer to me. I didn’t ask her to fall in love with me. I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. It just happened—like a fucking shooting star, we fell in love. Brightly, hotly, and so damn quickly that you’d miss it if you blinked. Chelsey pulls away from me, her hands going to her throat. More tears spill from her eyes, and just now I notice the salty taste on my lips. Her lips part, and she walks backward. It takes only a few steps for her to almost trip over the porch and turn. Here, I watch as she turns her back to me and disappears inside the house. I close my eyes as the sound of doors slamming rings out over the angry sea and the forceful wind. I let her go. I sink down to my butt, noticing her socks on the ground, and lean back against the tree trunk.

Didn’t see that coming. I let her walk away, her touch branding me, and her taste on my lips.

Chelsey

My feet slap against the kitchen floor as I grab my phone from the table and make for the front door. I can focus on nothing but getting home, so I ignore Leila as she calls my name and slam the door to the Burke family home behind me. My shoes are still in the hallway, and I regret it as soon as my feet touch the loose stones that make up their driveway. Somehow the pain in my heart eclipses the pain in the soles of my feet. I unlock my car by blindly stabbing at my key fob. The numerous flashes of the lights are blurry to my tear-filled eyes, but I find the door handle and get in. The slamming of the door sounds too final to me, and I cry harder for the loud noise that puts me what feels like a million miles away from Kye Burke. God, no. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like my insides are being turned outside. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Or does only self-inflicted heartbreak feel this way? Self-inflicted, surely. Normal heartbreak can’t hurt this much. Normal heartbreak isn’t tinged with this much regret and guilt. Is it? No. Normal heartbreak can’t feel like my heart is being torn out of my chest with a bare hand. What have I done? Those are the last words that filter through my mind as I wipe at my eyes and rev the hell out of my car. I slam my foot on the accelerator and, with tears still blurring my eyes and my heart thundering and my stomach so tight it could be a forever knot, I drive across our tiny seaside town toward my apartment. The ice has all but melted on the ground, even though it seems like mere moments since Kye and I were stranded in the storm. I swerve onto the hill and reduce my speed as I navigate it. The apartment building completely dark on the ground level. The only light comes from the streetlight at the end of the lot, my headlights, and the distant glow from the windows floors above. I pull into my normal spot and kill the engine. I tug my sleeve down over my hand and slide it across my nose, wiping the unattractive snotty dribbles from the edges of my nostrils. It feels gross, but better than the alternative. I blink harshly, looking up at the top of my car. God, Chelsey. Pull yourself together. Get your fucking shit together, girl. Fuck. With one final breath of composure, I grab my things and get out of my car. I push the button to lock it and take an odd comfort in securing the gold key to the main door between my thumb and forefinger. Holding the tears back is damn hard as I climb the stairs. What if I just made the biggest mistake of my life? What if I made the best decision of my life? What if I “what if’d” too damn much and screwed everything?

What the fuck. I might have just said good-bye to the most incredible guy I’ve ever known. I could have just said good-bye to a future of stomach flutters and giggles and the kind of lingering kisses that warm you all over. I may have just said good-bye to the only man I will love this fiercely. I stumble onto the landing and down the hall toward my apartment. My keys are clutched tightly in my hand, and I scramble to find my door key through blurred vision. My lungs are burning with the breath I refuse to expel, because I know the tears will flow with it. So I hold it in. I hold it in until everything hurts more than it did before and my door is open. With one loud, devastating slam, I push my door closed and my heart shatters. Only now do I let the breath leave on a whoosh that’s more of a pained moan, and my back slides down the door. Tears spill from my eyes, each one hotter than the last, and every breath is harsh as I struggle to breathe deeply enough to regain any sense of calm. But I don’t think there’s a single cell in my body that’s calm. Every inch of me is so frantically cooped up fighting with love and heartbreak and regret and guilt, and that fight is ultimately battling the voice inside my head that says I’ve made the right choice. That it’s better to be hurt now than in a year. Than in five years. That it’s better to avoid than to try. I can’t decide if that voice is wrong, but I know it’s probably closer to wrong than right. I’ve seen it firsthand. I’ve seen how heartbreak can eat at you. I’ve seen how it can destroy you. I watched it destroy my mother. When my dad left, so did the light in her eyes. Cancer killed her body, but heartache killed her soul. My keys clatter to the floor beside me with a noise that echoes throughout my apartment. It sounds deafening, and the way it ricochets off the walls in the dark is creepy. Empty, too. Even if it doesn’t compare to the emptiness of the Kye Burke–shaped hole carving its way into my very soul. Maybe that’s the way I love him. Maybe real love doesn’t come from your heart at all—maybe real love comes from your soul, an inexplicable and unprovable part of human existence that goes beyond all reason. After all, doesn’t love go beyond all reason? Isn’t love the greatest form of insanity anyone can experience? I think so. If love is insanity, then heartbreak is reality, and I’m strung between the two in a no-man’s-land, like I’m hovering on the edge of the cosmos. Four sharp raps against my door jolt it against my back. I bury my mouth into the crook of my elbow, breathing deeply through my half-blocked nose. More knocks shake my body. “Chelsey Francesca Young!” The sound of my best friend’s voice carries through the keyhole. “Open this goddamn door right the fuck now!” She knocks again, and she keeps it up until I stand and pull the door open, sniffing. I really need to take her key away from her.

“Thank God,” Jessie mutters. “I thought my knuckles were gonna shatter.” Then she looks up, and I offer her the lamest smile I’ve ever smiled. “Oh, Chels.” She launches herself at me and wraps her arms around me. Her touch is the comfort I’ve always craved when the tears have won out, and I hug her back as a fresh wave of devastation rockets through me. Expertly, Jessie shuts my door and pulls me toward the sofa. She pushes me down and drops herself on the cushions next to me with her arms out, and I curl into her side. And in the way only a best friend can, she lets me leave mascara stains on her shoulder and snot onto her boob until I’m too numb to feel anymore. And then, just like a best friend should, she plies me with The Notebook, wine, and tortilla chips with salsa—The Notebook so I’m not the only one who’s a heartbroken, blubbering mess. And the wine, chips, and salsa because a girl’s gotta keep her strength up for that much crying.

“Carlos Sanchez, I don’t care if you tell me my tits look fantastic in Chinese Mandarin, you’re not getting me to tug this shirt lower.” I purposely reach down and pull the neckline up. “You’re not the only guy to hit on me in Spanish—which I have a basic understanding of, thank you very much—so sign the damn check and go behave.” Carlos, a thirty-year-old recent divorcé, sighs dramatically. “You can’t blame a guy for tryin’, Chelsey,” he says with a light Mexican accent. He signs his receipt with a flourish and hands it back to me along with the pen. “Thank you very much,” I say, flashing him a half-grin and a wink. It’s pretty much the go-to now. It’s life working behind a bar. You’re gonna have guys that’ll hit on you, whether they’re nineteen and spinning you some bullshit about forgetting their ID or are fifty and have forgotten what perky boobs look like. They’re gonna give it a go, even though they know they’re never going to get anywhere. Usually, it’s annoying. Today, it’s a blessing. Since I turned up to work five hours ago, I’ve sufficiently managed to keep all those thoughts out of my head. Kye has become but a fleeting wisp of a thought as I’ve been run off my feet by people returning from their last-minute shopping trips to Percival Town and even farther afield. Apparently the flavor of the day is shop, drop bags at home, go to the bar. I’ve barely been able to sip a glass of water, but I’m grateful for that, too. If I stop, I’ll think. And if I think, that silly ache in my heart will come back, and I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to keep feeling that. The last day or so has been full of enough pain. So I focus on collecting glasses, pouring drinks, plastering smiles and winks on my face, and calling for last food orders. I laugh with my regulars and advise on last-minute Christmas presents. I do everything my job requires of me until Clarissa comes in and takes over for the final few hours of opening. “Careful,” she advises me before I step through into the back. “It’s getting real icy out there. It’s freezing.” “Thanks, Clarissa,” I say, disappearing into the staff room. I wrap up warm in my coat and wind my scarf around my neck. I hook my purse over my shoulder and make my way through the bar with a wave or two of good-bye to various people.

The biting wind assaults me as soon as I step through the door, so I shove my hands into my pockets as I use the dim light from the street lamps to guide me to my car. I’m not even far away from the building, but there really is shelter from the cold. My steps falter as I approach my car, because there’s something on the windshield, but the streetlight doesn’t hit it, so I can’t see what it is until I get there. There’s a single red rose clipped under my wipers, and next to it is a plastic square that looks suspiciously like a CD case—the thin ones you used to be able to buy in multipacks for the not-so-legal burning of music off your computer. I didn’t even know you could still buy them in this age of MP3s and YouTube. I pull the rose free and brush my thumb across a petal. Soft, like velvet. Pushing my nose into the center of the flower, I lift the CD case. There’s no writing on it, just a clear case with a disc inside. I frown, turning it over, but it’s unmarked. I know who left these things here. I should throw them in the Dumpster behind the bar. I don’t. I tuck them into my purse and get into my car, then make the drive home. The CD weighs on my mind the whole time, and I’m nothing short of desperate to hear what’s on it. I don’t even have a CD player anymore, so when I finally make it upstairs and remove the case, I have to boot up my laptop. I start my media player and get changed. My coat, scarf, and work clothes end up in a heap by my bedroom door, and I dress more comfortably in sweats, a hoodie, and big fluffy socks. By the time I’ve made it back to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, the media player is up and waiting for me. I push the drawer shut and sip my wine as my laptop reads the disc. There’s only one song on there, so it’s highlighted. The name is “Give Up On You,” and I breathe through the clench of my heart. God, I don’t even know if I can listen to this. I don’t know this song. If this is something Dirty B. has written and recorded, it’s not something they’ve ever released. Perhaps it’s new; perhaps it’s something one of them dug out from a five-year-old notebook. I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to. Which is, obviously, exactly why my traitorous finger double-clicks on my trackpad and the low hum of guitars fills my apartment. The slow beat of a drum is in the background, and whatever this is, it was a team effort. It was something they all did, because I can hear all their instruments as clearly as if they were playing live for me. The one difference is that when the singing starts, it isn’t Conner. It’s Kye. That low, guttural, raspy tone that wraps around your body until it’s seeped fully into you and is simmering through your bloodstream. That voice, that fucking incredibly perfect voice, it fills me with a longing like no other. The closest to this I’ve ever felt is when there’s no Ben & Jerry’s and Mama Nature is having her way with me. Thinking of him makes it better. Especially when he’s singing about blond hair and blue eyes and broken hearts and bruised souls. When he’s singing about ten-foot-high walls and being a human sledgehammer. When he’s singing about every time he’s tried, everything he’s done . . . When he’s singing about Jack Daniel’s and Truth or Dare.

About pizza and power outages. About rainstorms and romance. About nutcrackers and nonsense. About kisses in the middle of the sidewalk in the center of a small town. I smile, touching my fingertips to my lower lip. I can feel it, the kiss. His kiss. I can feel the way his mouth would coast over mine in the barest touch until he had enough and clasped the back of my head to deepen it. I can feel the way his fingers would caress my cheeks as our lips met in something that was so right in all the wrong ways. I can feel Kye Burke, little more than a memory, as if he were standing right in front of me. I wish he were. I wish it were just this simple and we didn’t have a thousand fears between us. I wish I could fall knowing I’d never have to pick myself up again. The last line of this song is the most haunting. Just six words, echoing in my empty apartment. “I won’t give up on you.” They reverberate around the room and perhaps cut as deep as to lodge themselves in my soul. They arrive with a fear, too. That he won’t. That I’ll forever be fighting a battle against my heart. The perfection of the final notes is marred by the rumblings of Tate, Aidan, Conner, and Kye. “We’re done, right?” “Jesus, end the fuckin’ recording, dumbass!” “It’s still goin’?” “She better damn well like this!” “Don’t be an asshole, Ads.” “Shut off the fuckin’ recordin’, you cock!” “Stop recording!” And perhaps that’s the most perfect part.

Kye

I’m amazed there isn’t a path worn into my bedroom floor from all the pacing I’ve done in the last twentyfour hours. I haven’t spoken to Chels since she stormed out of here, crying her eyes out. The only thing that stopped me from barging after her was Leila physically blocking the front door and shaking her head. The only thing that kept me here was her marching me down to the gym in the basement and holding the punching bag for me. I hit it without gloves until the skin that stretches over my knuckles tore open and blood marred the silver surface of the punching bag. Reckless? Stupid? Careless? Yes. But that was my point. I didn’t give a single fucking shit while I was wailing on that bag. The pain in my hands eclipsed the emotional pain until I thought it was buried. And then we recorded the song. Conner shoved a pen and paper in front of me and forced me to write down everything. He took the mess of my emotional word vomit and cleaned it up into something that made total sense. We worked until our wrists cramped, and then we worked some more. We worked until we had it all done. Unlike Conner and Aidan, I’ve never dealt with heartbreak. I saw the pain Con went through when Sofie disappeared, sure, and I stuck by my twin brother when his first relationship broke down, but it’s the thing I have most in common with Tate. The difference is that he never loved until Ella, and I never found anyone worth loving. The closest person I ever came to loving is Sofie, my best friend, and she was always Conner’s. Always. Not that I don’t love her, I do, and Ella and Jessie, but I love them the way I love Leila. As my sisters. I’d be gutted if that ever changed, for sure, but not like this. I wouldn’t feel like my fucking soul is tearing itself apart. That is Chelsey. That’s the difference she’s made to my life. She tore through my heart like the ferocious hurricane she is, and then she left, leaving nothing but the fucking horrific pain of her rejection. I wonder if she knows just how fucking much I’m hurting. If she’s hurting even an ounce as much as I am. ’Cause, fuck. I’ve never felt a pain like this. Never hurt like this. It’s like getting out of bed is a mammoth goddamn task and smiling is out of the question. Not gonna happen. I feel like a miserable bastard, but whatever. I am a miserable bastard right now. I open my bedroom door when the rumble of voices makes its way up the stairs. “That is enough, y’all!” Mom snaps. “I don’t care if y’all have moved out. My house, my rules, and there’s a sweet girl just through there who doesn’t care for y’all’s bitchin’!”

I make it to the bottom of the stairs in time to hear Mila utter, “Uh, Nana? Dollar.” I walk into the kitchen to find said sweet girl with her chubby hand outstretched and a look of total disappointment on her face. “Sorry, Mila,” Mom says, turning. She pulls a jar from the top of the fridge and extracts a dollar bill for her. Mila stuffs it in her jeans pocket, half of it sticking out, and plops down on her butt. Presumably she’s sitting vigil in case any more dollars come up for grabs. Toddlers. Smart as fuck. “Pops is in his shed, sweetheart,” Mom tells her, reaching for the back door. “He’s buildin’ again.” Mila’s eyes light up, but she looks visibly torn between my brothers and the shed. Free dollars or unlimited bashing with a toy hammer? If only all life’s problems were that hard. The crazy dark-haired toddler thinks it over for another moment before scrambling to her feet. “Otay,” she says, running into the front room. Tate and Ads share a glance when there’s a crash, but Mom and Conner look only mildly affected by the noise. “Hear,” she says, holding up a Disney walkie-talkie. Mom nods, and Mila toddles off outside. I peer through the window until she makes it to Dad’s shed and pounds on the door with a resounding, “Pop! Pop! Pop!” He lets her in and shuts the door. “Uh, Mom?” I ask, turning to her. She shrugs. “What’s she gonna hear? The other one is in the toy box.” Tate slams his fist on the table. “Right. Now that we’re free from dollar-demanding distractions and fuckin’ Misery Face has joined us, let’s sort this out.” Honestly, you’d think that with the three of them in their own places, we could meet anywhere but our mom’s house. “Why y’all can’t do this in your own homes is beyond me,” Mom cuts in, stealing my line. “This isn’t Dirty B. HQ.” “You wanna be? We’ll pay you.” Tate throws her a shit-eating grin. Mom slices him down with one scathing look. “I read on Facebook that some guy added up what his wife should be paid as a housewife for their one child. Somethin’ around ninety thousand dollars a year. Now I’ve got four of you plus your sister, so y’all owe me some serious money. You bet your ass you’re gonna pay me if you keep havin’ your dumbass panic meetin’s here!” “Hey!” Ads protests. “They ain’t panic meetin’s, Mom. They’re serious shit.” “Got a new manager yet?” The same scathing gaze she just hit Tate with coasts across all four of us, and none of us answer. “No manager is better than a corrupt manager,” Tate points out. “Panic meetings,” Mom finishes, flouncing out of the room without a care in the world. I glance after her and then focus on my brothers. “What the hell are y’all doin’ here?” Conner’s demeanor changes instantly, and I get the impression that he’d been keeping the anger now etched across his face hidden for both Mila’s and Mom’s benefit. “Some asshole wants us to wait until the New Year to sign a manager.” He nods his head toward Tate. “It’s Christmas this fuckin’ weekend!” Tate protests. “And we leave in three days!” Conner growls. “You’re not the one who’s bein’ asked to leave your daughter behind!”

“He’s got a point,” Ads and I say at the same time. Tate looks at us the way he always does when we do that. Old habits die hard, even if we do live apart these days. “Come on, Tate. There’s nothin’ wrong with Trident,” I tell him, getting his attention. “They’ve given us the most convincing deal so far, and they’re based in Charleston. Let’s negotiate down to a two-year contract and sign the damn thing. We all have reasons for staying here.” He takes a deep breath and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t wanna make the wrong decision. What if it’s fuckin’ stupid for us to go with some two-bit management team and everythin’ we’ve done falls to pieces?” Ads snorts. “Come on. That won’t happen. We’re still us no matter who manages us. We just lay down all our expectations and needs on our side of the discussions and then it’s problem solved. We were gonna do a world tour next year, so that’s gotta be in the agreement. The label’s gonna pay for that anyway; Trident can’t complain. They’d have it made with us.” “But do we have it made with them?” Tate asks. Conner runs his fingers through his hair then gets up. “Know what? My vote is yes, but you do what you want, Tate. Either way, there ain’t a chance in hell I’m missin’ my first Christmas with my baby girl.” His chair bounces against the side of Aidan’s, and Ads reaches out to steady it as Conner walks out the back door and slams it behind him. Tate looks between me and Aidan. We both shrug at the exact same time. “It’d mean more time at home,” Ads reminds him. “More time with family.” “I just wanna get it right,” Tate mutters, slumping in his chair. “We know, man. We know.” I lean against the counter. “But what if ‘right’ is what’s right for us as people and not for money making? We didn’t get into this for money anyway. We did it for the love of music. Now there’s a whole lotta people in Shelton Bay we love, and we can love them while we make music. What’s the problem?” Tate takes a deep breath, and when he meets my eyes, I sense his resignation and inner admission that I’ve just hit the nail on the head. “You know what, Kye?” He gets up and slaps my shoulder. “Nailed it, bro. Fuckin’ nailed it. Y’all email me specifications. I’m gonna go write up an email right now.” With those words, he takes to the front door and disappears, and an electric charge jolts through my body. “Well, shit.” Ads looks at me. “What does that mean for you? With Chelsey?” The realization that we aren’t going to L.A. filters through my bloodstream, hot on the tails of the electric charge. It’s a mixture of relief and excitement and determination, and not to mention red-blooded desire to get my girl back where she belongs—with me. My lips curve into a slow smirk as I meet my twin’s gaze. “It means it’s fuckin’ on.”

Chelsey

Leila puts her feet on my coffee table, a bit of bright red fluff falling away from her socks. I wrinkle my nose as it falls to my laminate flooring, but I don’t say anything. She is, after all, here to join me in my newfound hatred of Christmas. That, and she’s trying to take my mind off the fact that the guys are leaving today. I do keep thinking I made the right choice to walk away. This is for the best—otherwise, right about now, I’d have to say good-bye to Kye and would probably be having my heart broken by it anyway. That’s what I’m telling myself. Somehow it makes it better, even though I know I’m lying to myself. I’m bullshitting myself to the high heavens, but I figure if I say that I’m okay enough then I’ll believe it. I hate myself, though. That’s the one part I can’t shake, the murky cloud of guilt that’s resting on my shoulders so heavily. I hate myself for hurting him, because I can still hear him telling me he loves me. It’s all I’ve heard in my head for days. I sigh heavily and pick at a piece of lint on my leggings. I knew what I was getting into when I kept going back for more. There was never any fight from me, not really. I didn’t need his help to get my tree or even to trim it back when we realized how big it was. He didn’t need to stay whenever there was a storm, and he definitely didn’t need to be here the night my power went out. I didn’t need to let him do any of that stuff, but I did. I did, because I think, even then, I was powerless to refuse him. How do you turn down a guy who shows up at your apartment when your power is out just so you aren’t alone? Everything else aside, he didn’t need to do that. He didn’t need to do anything he’s done in the past two or three weeks, but he did it anyway. He did it anyway, even when I made it next to impossible for him to do it. He did it because he wanted to. And I kept going back, because I wanted to, too. And now he’s going to leave. He’s going to go to L.A., and he’s going to go without me telling him just how sorry I am. He recorded a whole song for me, and I can’t even apologize for being a giant piece of crap to him. Instead I just curled up like a hedgehog and ignored everything. I ignored the meaning of the song. Oh, sweet Jesus. He can’t leave until he knows I’m sorry. I bolt off the sofa, shocking Leila into jumping. “Whoa, what are you? A Chihuahua?” she asks, dropping her feet to the floor and sitting up.

I grab my boots from by the door and almost fall over in my haste to get them on. “When are they leaving? Are they still here?” “My brothers?” Leila frowns. She hits the Home button on her phone and looks at the clock. “They leave in ten minutes. Why? Have you had an epiphany? Angels part the clouds in song or somethin’?” “Yeah, sure, something like that.” I grab my keys. “Spare’s in my panty drawer if you leave before I get back.” I run out the door before she can respond and fly down the stairs. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say good-bye to him before he leaves—and apologize for being such a bitch. I can’t apologize for who I am, but I can for the way I’ve acted. And the way I’ve acted has been completely unacceptable. I hope that it isn’t too late to say sorry for that. Sure, I could text him. I could call, even. But that doesn’t feel right. He told me he loves me, despite the fact I’m a raging bitch. Maybe that’s why he loves me. He’s a bit of an asshole, but that’s why I love him. Isn’t it? I’ve been running for so long. . . . God. I’ve been running in the wrong direction, and the least I can do is apologize. And not by text. Or a phone call. Or an email. That’s still running. This time I need to run to him, even if I only walk away again in the end. My stomach ties itself in knots as I drive across town. The minutes tick by on my dashboard clock, and each time the number changes, another punch of regret barrels into me. It’s accompanied by the sweet sting of knowing that I will miss him, that this regret of hurting him will always stay with me. When I approach the Burke house, cars are lined up outside. I recognize them instantly as Sofie’s, Ella’s, and Jessie’s. Conner is standing with Sofie, Mila in his arms, and he has them both pulled into him. Ella is buried in Tate’s embrace, and although it’s not as bad for her, because she’s planning to join them after Christmas, I know she doesn’t want to be without him. Jessie has her arms tightly around Aidan’s neck, her face pressed into him. Mrs. Burke is flitting around each of them, fussing, while Mr. Burke stands by and shakes his head. This shouldn’t look like this two days before Christmas Eve. Whatever possessed them to agree to this, I’ll never know. I can feel everyone’s hearts breaking as I kill my engine and get out. My door slams and several sets of eyes turn to me. I take a deep breath as their questioning and surprised gazes settle over me. That’s all they are— surprised. None of them is cold or accusatory like I thought they would be. Aidan steps forward, letting Jessie go, and comes to me. “You lookin’ for Kye?” “I . . .” I wet my lips with my tongue. “Yeah. Is he . . . here?” His lips twitch into a smile that is so much like Kye’s it makes my heart ache, and he nods. “He’s in his room, hidin’ like a little pussy. Come on. I’ll take you up.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me gently as he guides me into the house. He releases me to take me upstairs, and I feel kind of sick as I take each step. This seemed like such a good idea ten minutes ago. Now that I’m here, in his house, and right outside his bedroom door, I want to run away. I won’t, though. I’ve done that more than enough. “Hey, bro?” Aidan knocks on Kye’s bedroom door.

“Yeah,” Kye says roughly. “I’ll be down in a minute.” “We got time.” Ads pushes the door open and pokes his head around. “Great. At least you’re not jerkin’ off this time.” “What do you want, Ads?” “Nothin’. Got someone here who does want somethin’ though.” He pushes the door wide open. Kye’s solemn blue gaze travels from Aidan to me. Slowly, he looks me over head to toe, and my stomach flips at the intensity with which he looks at me. Every bit of courage I had disappears when his eyes meet mine. “Hey.” “Hey,” I whisper, looking down. Ads glances between us before shuffling off downstairs. “Come in.” Kye swings his legs over the side of his bed and puts his phone down. “Shut the door so that asshole has to work a little harder to eavesdrop, will ya?” I take a few steps inside his room and quietly push the door closed behind me. I wring my hands in front of my stomach and look around like I’ve never been in here before. It looks a little empty without his laptop on the small desk in the corner, and the other things that are usually lying around aren’t here. The laundry basket in the corner has nothing in it, and the empty beer bottles are no longer on the nightstand. “Look, Chels, I don’t wanna be a dick, but we’re going in a few minutes.” “Of course.” I look back at him. His hair is scruffy and he looks a little tired, and guilt hits me again. “I just . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For . . . everything.” He raises an eyebrow and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to apologize for the way you feel.” “I know.” I drop my hands. “But I can apologize for the way I made you feel, so that’s what I’m doing.” He rubs his eyes and stands up. The space between us closes with his strong steps, and his hands hover at the sides of my face before I meet his gaze and he lowers them to my cheeks. My eyes flutter shut as the warmth of his palms spreads across my skin. When I open them again, he’s staring down at me with a look that’s too much like love. “Don’t,” he says quietly, his voice deep. “I should have listened to you when you said you weren’t interested.” He touches his lips to my forehead then lets me go. He reaches for a duffel bag and throws his phone into it, then takes it to the door. He looks at me for one last moment before he turns away. “I’m glad you didn’t listen.” My words are soft, but the falter in his step tells me he heard it. “Me too.” Those are the last words he says before he walks down the stairs and leaves me standing in the middle of his room. I wrap my arms around my waist and squeeze my eyes shut, dropping onto the edge of his bed. It’s still warm where he was sitting on it, and I breathe in the deep, earthy scent I’ve slowly come to associate with him. But the scent of him isn’t enough. The lingering warmth of his touch on my cheeks isn’t enough. I didn’t know how badly I wanted him until wanting him was no longer an option. It filters through me and it hurts everywhere. Just one more touch. Just one more moment of his skin against mine and then maybe this will be easier. Maybe the regret of my mistake won’t be as strong if I can still feel him.

I get up and run down the stairs just in time to see him hugging his mom at the base of the steps in front of the minibus that’s going to take them to the airport. His brothers are still standing to the side saying their own good-byes, and his name bursts from my lips before he can take a single step onto the bus. “Kye!” He looks up, and I jump off the front porch. The gravel of the driveway crunches beneath my feet as I run toward him. When I reach him, I launch myself at him without stopping and throw my arms around his neck. He takes a step back to steady himself but wraps his arms around my waist tightly. I bury my face into his neck and breathe him in, my heart thundering against my rib cage. God, he feels so good. I drop down to my heels and look him right in the eye. His breath warms my lips, and his slow exhale kills all my restraint. I press my lips against his, squeezing my eyes shut as an aching pain slices through me. The idea that this could be the last time I ever get to kiss this man is something I can’t comprehend right now. So I savor it. I block out the rest of the world and just savor the taste of his mouth on mine and the way it’s just one touch, but it’s one touch that I feel right down to the tips of my toes. It’s in the way my lungs constrict and my skin tingles. I step back, extracting myself from his embrace, and touch my fingers to my lips. “I just . . .” Say it, Chelsey. Just say the words. “You . . . You’re everything. To me. I just wanted you to know that. I didn’t want you to go and think I don’t care. Because I do. A lot. And I know I’m not always a nice person and that I’ve pushed you away more than I should have. But thank you for loving me anyway, and thank you for letting me love you. That’s all,” I whisper, walking backward a few steps. His eyes burn into me the whole time, and it becomes too much. The undeniable glimmer in his eye hurts too much to see, so I turn. I turn, run to my car, get in, and drive away, the whole time warring with the tears that are desperate to fall.

Kye

I throw myself into a chair at the back of the bus. Fuck. Why did she come here today? Why the fuck did she have to appear, apologize, then kiss me like that? Why did she have to do something so goddamn real? I know I’m not leaving. I know we’ll be back soon, but seeing the look on her face, on all the girls’ faces, I feel like a giant fucking asshole for even entertaining the idea that we can go and then come back to surprise them. I want to run off this bus and yell at them that this is a ruse. To tell them all that we’re just really fucking shitty at buying Christmas presents and this is the best we could do. Showing up on Christmas morning before everyone wakes up. Being there, sitting waiting for everyone to get up and find us. . . . That was it. To see their faces. God, we’re assholes. We’re all fucking idiots. This doesn’t feel like the epic surprise we had in mind. It feels like a total dick move. One by one, my brothers join me on the bus. Conner plops onto the seat opposite me and immediately drops his face into his hands. He’s facing away from Sofie and Mila, deliberately no doubt, and I can see the tension in his arms. “All right?” He shakes his head and looks up just enough that I can see the tears filling his eyes. “Who the fuck thought this was a good idea, huh? Leave and come back? It was pure fuckin’ genius, an epic surprise for them, until I just had to listen to my little girl scream ‘no’ because she realized I was leaving.” I glance out the window. He’s right. Sofie is crying silently while holding Mila, and that little girl is screaming inconsolably. She’s reaching for the bus, and Dad has to step forward so Sofie doesn’t drop her because her drive to reach Conner is that strong. Tate takes two steps onto the bus and drops his eyes to Conner. All he can see is the back of Conner’s head, but I can see the way my little brother’s tears spill over. He wipes harshly at his eyes and takes a deep breath. I look up and meet Ads’s and Tate’s eyes one by one. Nah, fuck this. I get up and grab Conner’s shoulder. “Up. We’re telling them now.” “What?” “We’re not gonna pretend anymore,” I tell him, dragging him through the bus to Tate and Aidan. Together, we meet each other’s gazes and wordlessly agree that this is the right thing.

If Marc was still managing us, we wouldn’t have a choice. But we do, and this was our choice to stay. If we had any idea just how badly Mila would be affected by this, we never would have tried to surprise them on Christmas morning. “Sweet fuck, Con,” Tate says, oddly gentle. “Go and stop my Mimi from cryin’, will ya?” He doesn’t need telling twice. “What are y’all doin’?” Mom gasps when we get off the bus. “So, this is kinda fucked up,” Tate laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his head. “And y’all are gonna kill us.” “Tate Burke, you explain what the hell you’re going on about right now!” Ella growls, marching toward him with her finger outstretched. Oh shit. She’s mad. And so is Jessie, if the narrowing of her eyes is anything to go by. Sofie just looks confused, but Mila is finally calming in Conner’s arms. “We signed a deal with a management company in Charleston,” Tate rushes out. “We’re using their studio there instead of in L.A. We planned on coming back on Christmas morning and surprising you with the good news then, but damn. We couldn’t leave Mila crying like that. So . . . Surprise,” he finishes lamely. “You’re . . . you’re staying?” Sofie breathes out. Conner nods in response, and she starts crying all over again. But it isn’t relief for her—it’s relief for Mila. I can feel it. “What does this mean?” Dad questions, holding Mom to his side and rubbing her upper arm. “What about the album?” Jessie asks, resting her hand on Aidan’s chest. “Doesn’t change anything. We’re on track for it,” Aidan answers. “Our label owns most of the lyric rights, and just because we sacked Marc doesn’t mean we’re changing recording labels. We just had to find a management company that worked with our label,” I explain. “We delayed the start of recording by a few weeks to get it done, that’s all.” I shrug. Ella gasps loudly and shoves Tate. “That’s what you’ve all been doing when you’ve been sneaking around! And that’s why you locked me out of your email! You bastard!” Tate grimaces, but has the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, darlin’. We all had this great plan. . . . But we couldn’t let Mimi cry like that. We were gonna drive to Charleston, sign our contracts, stay over in a hotel, then come back on Christmas morning like four asshole Santa Clauses. We even bought Santa sweaters, because clearly we’re not as funny as we think we are.” “I don’t believe y’all!” Jessie explodes. “Aidan Burke, I am so damn mad at you right now!” Aidan holds his hands up and takes a step back. “Now, Jessie . . .” I grin and shove my hands in my pockets. It seems like the only one not mad about the fact that we kept it a secret right now is Sofie, and I have the feeling it’s probably gonna stay this way. I pull my keys from my pocket and look around at my family, from the happiness of my youngest brother to the frustration of the other two as they try to explain our reasoning for keeping it secret. I can’t decide if Ella and Jessie are serious or are just giving them a hard time, but I back away and scoot quietly toward my truck. They’ve got their girls. It’s time for me to go and get mine. I should probably wear some protective gear or something. Like a cup. And a helmet. And shin pads.

Fuck. She might just kill me. Anxiety riddles my body as I drive to her apartment. Shit. How do I explain to her that twenty minutes ago it seemed like I was willing to let her go? Well, I wasn’t. I’ve never been willing to let her go, not for a fucking second. Everything changes with this new contract, and there really isn’t a chance I’m going to let her go. No long-distance relationship, no being separated for long periods of time—for the most part—and more importantly, more time to convince her that I’m what she needs. Who she needs. I stop outside the main door. Fuck—the buzzer. I lean against the wall and rest my head against it in resignation. Well isn’t that a damn wrench in the works of my master plan? Unless . . . I push the buzzer for another apartment and grimace as I wait for an answer. “Yeah?” A guy’s voice responds in a bored tone. “Hey . . . I accidentally left my key inside my apartment. Could you open the door for me?” “Sure.” His voice is the same low drawl, like he couldn’t care less, and the door clicks unlocked. “Thanks, man.” I push it open and step into the hallway. Thank fucking God. I take the stairs two at a time, and when I reach Chelsey’s apartment, my lungs are burning from the quick exertion, and my body is on fire with apprehension. I rap my knuckles against her door and grab either side of the doorframe, breathing deeply as I lean forward. The deadbolt turns. My heart thumps. The door opens, and Chelsey appears from behind it. She freezes. Her eyes are red and swollen, and there’s a tear halfway down her cheek. She sniffs and swipes at it, regaining her composure somewhat, and looks all over my face as if she’s checking to see if it really is me. “Kye,” she breathes. My lips tug to one side, and even though there are tears in her eyes, she looks so fucking gorgeous. “All right, babe?”

Chelsey

Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. What the hell is he doing here? He isn’t supposed to be here. And why is he grinning at me like that? I let the tear-duct pipe burst as soon as I barreled through my front door and snotted all over myself, and here I am, still unable to breathe, and he’s grinning. Why is he fucking grinning? And why does he look so goddamn hot doing it? “What are you doing here?” I mean to say it, but it comes out a whisper. Is this a practical joke? “You’re supposed to be leaving.” “Yeah . . .” Kye drops his hands and rubs at his chin. “About that. There’s a funny story to that.” My body stills, and I get the feeling it isn’t all that funny. The trepidation in his eyes just strengthens that idea. “Kye . . .” “Can I come in?” he asks, still touching his chin. “That depends,” I reply slowly. “Are you going to leave?” His eyes are firmly on mine when he says, “No.” Okay then. That might change a thing or two. I step back and release my grip on the door handle. He follows me into the apartment. The door clicking shut sets butterflies off in my tummy, and I eye the bottle of Jack on the kitchen counter. I’m fully aware of my tendency to turn to my good friend Jack in times of high emotion, but we all have a vice. My liver is saved by the fact that it’s not even midday yet. I pull a makeup-removal wipe from the packet I keep in a kitchen drawer and clean my face. I didn’t put any makeup on this morning, but my cheeks feel grimy from my recent tears, so just wiping those off makes me feel better and a little more like I can tackle the conversation we’re apparently about to have. Why is it always the guy who looks hot in these kinds of conversations? For once, I’d like to be the hot, composed one while he’s the snotty mess. “Okay.” I turn around and, ignoring the clench of my heart, meet Kye’s eyes. “What do you want to talk about?” “Us,” he says simply, putting his hands in his pockets. I open my mouth to respond, but he shakes his head and approaches me. He rests two fingers against my lips. “Just wait before you say anything, okay?” I nod slowly. I can do that. I can be quiet. Maybe. “When we agreed to leave for California, we were under our old management, and the guy was a shark. He was after money, money, money, and his ruthlessness is what made us sign with him in the first

place. He was what we needed then. We needed someone to help us get to the top.” Kye brushes his fingers across my bottom lip as he lowers his hand and leans against the kitchen island. “Then after that shit when he tried to use a photo of you and me to break up Ads and Jessie, we saw Marc for the asshole he was. We made the decision, as a band and as brothers, that leaving his team was the right thing. We consulted our label, put forward our argument, and they were in agreement. Things have changed epically since we signed. Sofie came back with Mila, so Conner had a family to think about. Tate had Ella, and even though she’s our assistant, she’s a homebody, too. She loves that apartment they’re renting, but they’re looking to buy next year, so that’s where half her head is at. Aidan met Jessie, and her family is here. Jessie would never leave Shelton Bay full-time, not even for him.” I’ve never heard a truer sentence. “And I . . .” He shrugs his shoulder. “I didn’t have anything except the desire to see my brothers happy. To see the girls happy, you know? That’s all that mattered. Until you.” He stares at me intently, and I lick my lips. “You changed the game before I even knew I was playing, Chels. You took game, set, match. You played checkmate. You scored the touchdown. The home run, before I was even at bat. You changed everything for me, and suddenly I had this desire to stay here, too. All four of us were on the same page, because we each had someone anchoring us to our hometown.” He runs his hand through his hair, and I won’t deny the thrill that ricochets through my body at those words. “Our label said we had to find a management company that already worked with them. We were determined to find one close by, whether it was in South Carolina, North Carolina, or Georgia. Between the three states we had to find someone that would take us and let us record here.” Realization burns through me like a lightning bolt. Charleston. The studio. Tate hushing the engineer. “That’s what you were doing in Charleston, wasn’t it? At the recording studio. Y’all were testing it out.” He nods, regret flitting across his face. “We used the duet as a partial cover. I won’t lie to you, babe. But I say ‘partial’ because we still have a little hope you’ll sing for us.” His lips quirk. “It seemed like the only way I could do everything I wanted and also show you that the team we could choose to work with isn’t full of young, hot chicks desperate for our cocks.” “You put it so eloquently,” I snort. “I do, don’t I?” He grins and reaches for me. I can’t resist anymore, and I step into him, and he clasps his hands at the base of my back. My fingers trail down his chest until they come to rest halfway down his stomach, where I can feel each of his breaths. “Anyway . . . we made the choice after that. It was our favored studio, and Charleston is close enough that we can drive in and out ninety-nine percent of the time. The management team gets what we want. We want family time, home time. We make music because we love it, not because we want millions. If we didn’t love what we do, we couldn’t keep doing it.” His nostrils flare and his chest rises with a deep breath. “So today, when we were supposed to head to California, we were actually driving to Charleston to sign our contracts. We were going to come back and surprise everyone with the news on Christmas morning.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek, and when the sting registers, I release it. “What changed y’all’s minds?” “Mila,” he answers honestly. “Fuck, the way she cried. She ripped our hearts out, babe. That was it. We got off the damn bus as quick as we’d got on it and as soon as I’d had my fill of Ella and Jessie ripping Tate and Ads a new one,” he grins, “I came here. To tell you.”

I glance at the door. The meaning of his words hasn’t exactly sunk in yet. It’s still hazy in my emotionally clogged mind, so I take a moment to breathe. I nod my understanding, or my halfunderstanding, and gently push away from him. He must sense I need a moment to let his admission register. “So the secret meetings the girls were talking about. The phone calls and emails and stuff—that’s because of this?” I ask, stopping in the middle of my front room. “Yep.” “I don’t know how I feel about that. Why would you keep it secret? Why wouldn’t you tell anyone what’s going on? Conner didn’t even tell Sofie? The mother of his child?” “We didn’t do it perfectly,” he admits, pushing off the island and shoving his hands back into his pockets sheepishly. “We had this grand plan. We were gonna be there when everyone woke up on Christmas morning and make everyone’s day, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. A screaming two-year-old will always change that shit up.” He shrugs. I guess toddlers do have the tendency to do that. Especially a headstrong one like Mila Burke. “So what does this mean, really? Everything, for you guys. What does it change?” “Recording won’t start for a few weeks, the album will be slightly delayed, the world tour will be pushed by a month maybe, but those are little things. We haven’t released any information on that stuff yet.” “No. I mean for you. In your lives. Not the band stuff. That’s logical stuff.” I wave my hand, trying not to hold my breath in anticipation. Is it bad that I’m hopeful? Fuck, though. I’m so hopeful. I can’t help it. Ever since I kissed him outside that bus earlier and fully realized there was a damn good chance I’d lost this incredible, sweet, thoughtful guy forever, my world shifted on its axis. Everything changed and blurred, leaving the only clear thing standing: him. That’s how it is now. My whole world is blurred, and Kye Burke is the only thing I can see clearly. His blue eyes reflect the hope I feel blossoming in my chest. “What does it mean?” He takes slow steps toward me. “It means we have time for our family. It means we can fuck around in Aidan’s attic every Saturday night if that’s what we want. We can invade Mom’s house for pot roast every Sunday. We can have a life as well as a career.” He stops in front of me, and I feel his presence everywhere, even though he isn’t touching me. I inhale deeply, my chest stinging with the desperation of my breath, and Kye swallows hard. “It means we have time for what we want,” he says in a low voice. His hand reaches up, and he brushes his thumb across my cheek, looking at me so softly that I turn my face into his touch. “And that is?” I whisper into his palm. “For me? You. You’re the one thing I want, Chelsey. You’re the only woman I want. And this? I hope it gives me a chance to have you, once and for all. You’re my happy place, babe. But know this,” he warns gruffly, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Know that if you fight this, it’s futile. I know you love me, and I’m so fuckin’ in love with you that the idea of letting you go is a fuckin’ fairy tale. I don’t do fairy tales. I do real life, and you’re my real life. I’m gonna fight for this, for you, for us, until you feel the same as I do.” “And if I don’t fight?” I cover his hand with mine, on red alert, on freak alert, on fuck-this-I’m-melting alert.

“Then you get me.” He lowers his face to mine. “You get me and everything I am, even though it ain’t always that much. You get every damn inch of me. You get someone who will love you unconditionally, even though you’re the most difficult person I’ve met.” I smile, matching his. “But you’re gonna get someone you can trust. I promise.” And I believe him. Am I annoyed he kept something this huge from me? Yes. Am I annoyed that he kept it secret when it could have made such a huge difference and saved us a lot of pain? Yes. “You know if you’d just told me all this before, it could have saved a whole lot of bullshit,” I tell him. “Yeah . . . but it was only just confirmed. I didn’t want to do this whole hope thing when it may not have worked out and we’d still be forced to go to L.A.,” he admits. And if I’d have known, maybe I’d have never realized just how much he means to me. I’d never have been slammed in the face by how much I truly love him, and I never would have gone to him the way I did. He never would have known what he is to me. “And earlier this morning?” “Yeah . . . I don’t really have an excuse for that. Fuck it.” I laugh. At least he isn’t trying to cover it up. He knows what he did wrong. I’ll take it. He tried to make it better. He did it in a totally fucked-up way, but he did it. “Okay,” I whisper with a smile. “Since you’re gonna be here anyway and you’re so insistent . . .” He whips me around and throws me onto my sofa. I shriek with laughter at the fall and the suddenness I hit the sofa with, but my heart is beating so harshly. “Okay?” he mutters, leaning over me. “Just okay? I just declared my everlasting love for you, and all you can say is ‘okay’?” “You kept a massive secret. I told you I loved you in front of your whole family in a movie-worthy scene, then you turn up at my door and all you could say was ‘all right, babe’? so I don’t really think you can use that one.” He pauses. “Shit. Yeah. There is that.” I throw my head back, laughing harder, and rest my hands at his waist. Before he realizes what I’m doing, I haul his hard, muscular body onto the seat next to me. I think he bangs his head on the hard part of the arm, but he doesn’t complain, especially not when I climb on top of him. I look down at him, my hair forming a curtain between us and the rest of the apartment. “I love you,” I say softly. “I’m kinda real mad at you right now, because I’ve cried a lot, and I don’t ever cry, but I guess I can forgive you if you love me, too.” His bright blue eyes twinkle with happiness and love as he gazes up at me, and his arms snake their way around my body. “I guess I have a lot to apologize for. No one is expecting me back anytime soon, so may I suggest we get started on that?” “Sure,” I murmur, fighting my smile. “My bathroom needs scrubbing, and my feet really hurt. . . .” He growls, and with the expertise of a guy who knows how to handle a woman, he flips me onto my back and leans over me. I laugh again—I’m always laughing around him—and wrap my hands around the back of his neck. My fingers tease his wild, dark hair, and lust floods me as he pushes his hips against me. “Really,” he breathes, lowering his lips to just millimeters above mine. “I was thinking more like apology by orgasm. Meaning, several of.” He grasps my thigh and lifts my leg so it hooks over his hip,

then slides his hand down to my ass. My clit throbs at the positioning, and I feel my teeth sink into my bottom lip. “Several of. You game?” he rumbles. “Plenty of.” “I think I could be persuaded to jump from several to plenty,” he mutters, kissing me deeply before moving to my jaw and peppering kisses down my neck. “On one condition—you admit that you’re mine.” I sink my fingers into his hair and force his face back to mine. I search his gorgeous gaze and smile. “I’m yours. But you’re mine, too.” He squeezes my ass. “I’ve been yours since the very first time your lips touched mine.” I can’t help but agree.

Kye

Christmas passed in a blur of happiness and one very excited, squealing toddler. Mila informed us in the middle of Christmas dinner just how many dollars she was owed from us from the revelation of our secret, but we soon realized that “best pezents!” trumped her dollars. For Christmas day, that is. For what it’s worth, we owe her seven tens and four singles. We took it without complaint and all snuck her an extra chocolate coin. Sofie pretended not to notice, but she did. She’s a real bad liar at the best of times. Chelsey has spent almost every second of her time at the bar between the holidays. Apparently the Christmas and New Year’s festivities mean she’s demanded there every second of every day, but aside from my brothers and me going to Charleston to sign our contract with our new management, I’ve been at her place waiting for her every day. Now, though, it’s New Year’s Eve, and she’s home. The first thing she did when she got back two hours ago was put on her beloved yoga pants—that aren’t real freakin’ pants—and search her cupboards to make sure there’s enough salsa to go with the giant bag of chips she brought home. Luckily for her, I brought her beloved Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of wine to boot. Pretty sure that gets me the Thoughtful Boyfriend Award. Chelsey takes a deep breath and lies back on the sofa, dropping her head back over the arm. “Isn’t life crazy?” “By life, do you mean yours?” “Yeah, I guess. A month ago I was reeling from sleeping with you, then shit went crazy, my father’s business was suddenly my business, but now we’ve made peace with each other.” Ah, yeah. I forgot Lukas flew in to talk to her. “How’d that go?” “As well as it could. I realized I was angrier at him for what he didn’t do than what he did. We chatted a lot, and he admitted that the money was his way of being there. He’s going to talk to his accountant and have four thousand dollars go into my savings account instead of my current account so I don’t have to transfer it anymore. He wants me to take the other thousand, for Mom. I don’t want to, but I promised I would. I think he feels really guilty after everything he didn’t do, and this is his way of making sure I don’t have to struggle like she did sometimes.” I stroke her thigh. “I’m glad you could sort things out. Did you talk about the baby?” “Yeah. She’s due in a couple of months, and he wants me to be there after she’s born. I think he’s trying to make amends. He also told me he’s going to retire.” I want to wince at the insinuation. His second baby and he retires? Ouch.

“Don’t.” Chelsey looks at me with a smile. “I thought I’d be bitter, but I’m not. I don’t exactly forgive him for the hell me and Mom went through, but he’s a lot older now. He was at the height of his career when I was born. It’s like Conner leaving the band to be there for Mila. It’s not realistic. This baby will be my sister, as freaky as the age gap is. But I hope he’s learned his lesson.” “Not such a heartless bitch,” I mutter, adding a smile to soften my words. She laughs, sitting up and slapping my chest. Her blond hair falls around her face, and each strand that brushes my arm is like a feather. “Only where you’re concerned, Kye Burke. I don’t see you fighting to break through my armor.” “I don’t need to fight, babe. I melted it with my superior wit and charm, and I fucked it into demolition with my incredible cock.” I curl my hand around her neck and bring her in for a kiss. She laughs the whole way through it, and fuck me, I don’t think I’ll ever get fed up with that sound. I think it’ll be the one thing I can listen to for the rest of my life and never be bored of. “You’re somethin’ else, Kye Burke,” she giggles into my mouth. “Somethin’ else that loves you fuckin’ fiercely,” I say quietly. “Right back at ya, Superior Monster Cock.” I grin and nip her bottom lip. “Keep that nickname. I like it.” That laugh, again. Fuck. “I know it’s early,” I say, kissing her. “But how about”—kiss—“we call it a year”—kiss—“and ring in the new one with my superior monster cock.” She pulls back, quirks an eyebrow, and puts one finger over my lips to silence me. “Only if you promise never to refer to your penis as a monster cock again. Ever.” I stand and pull her up with me, then wrap my arms around her and trap her against me. I lead her into her bedroom, kissing her in a succession of tiny brushes that somehow make me so ready for her. I throw her onto her bed and lean over her, looking down into the light blue eyes that I fell in love with so many weeks ago. “You got it, babe. You got anything you want.”

Aidan

Dried splashes of red hair dye in the bath. Again. “Jessie!” I growl. “Would it kill you to use a damn sponge? It’s like you murdered someone in here.” “Oh, shut your mouth,” she laughs, playfully kicking out at my leg while rubbing a towel around her long hair. “I turned the shower off like ten minutes ago. You’re a bathroom Nazi, Aidan. It won’t stain the precious bathtub.” I run my eyes over her. The black tank top she’s wearing is ratty, and she said something about it being her “hair dye” shirt so she doesn’t ruin her clothes. Whatever. “Why does it take you ten minutes to take the towel off your head?” She rolls her eyes. “The towel needs to soak up the excess water. I have a lot of hair, you know.” “So cut it.” “If I cut it, you’d have nothing to grab when you fuck me.” She raises both her eyebrows in challenge. Her lips curve into a smug smirk right as blood rushes to my cock.

I fucking hate when she’s right, and it happens way too often. I reach forward with a shit-eating grin and rip the towel out of her grasp. Her bright hair, still wet, drips down her shirt. She reaches forward for the towel, and I hold it behind my back. “It’s ten p.m. on New Year’s Eve. Why do you need to dye your hair now?” “Because it’s barbaric to start a new year with old roots?” She snorts and turns. Her hair flicks water across my face, and I wipe it down with a smidge of annoyance. “You’re gonna paint the walls red.” “Watch it, rocker boy. You said the bath looks like I killed someone. It wouldn’t be hard to make that a reality!” “Hey!” I smack her backside and she squeals, clapping her hands over her ass cheeks. “Fuck, Ads!” she eeks out, darting into the bedroom. “One day you’re gonna make my ass so sore I’ll ban you from touching it.” “Oh, be quiet.” I grab her and throw her onto the bed. Her laughter fills the room, and her eyes flash with defiance. “White sheets. Wet red hair. Oh dear.” Fuck! I throw the pillows on the floor, then go to the end of the bed and tug hard on the bottom of the duvet. The black sheet underneath I couldn’t give a shit about, but she can’t dye my covers. Not yet, at least. She rolls over onto the sheet as I pull the duvet from under her, and she’s laughing the whole time. I pin her down by her wrists, leaning over her. My eyes fall to the newly inked red salvia on the inside of her wrist. Mine glares back at me from my right arm, and a smile teases my lips. A red salvia means “forever mine.” Such a small thing, which you’d never know matters unless you were versed in the language of flowers. Now I’m no fuckin’ florist, but Google is a wonderful tool. Plus, matching tattoos, pretty dumb, huh? Maybe if you’re not completely sure that the girl whose eyes you stare into every day is the girl you’re gonna marry. One day, when we’re not as wild and crazy, I’m gonna marry Jessie Law. I’m gonna make her Jessie Burke. Make her mine forever without a shadow of a doubt. “You’re starin’ at me again,” she whispers, a smile turning up her pale lips. I’ve gotten more and more used to seeing her without her scarlet lips, but it’s the vibrancy of her eyes when they’re surrounded by her bare, dark eyelashes that always gets me. “What can I say? I’m appreciating the view.” “You’re so silly.” I grin widely. “I know, but I love you, so that counts for something, right?” She wrestles her hands from mine and flattens them against the sides of my face. She pouts playfully, laughter dancing in her eyes. “A little.” “A little?” “Everything,” she corrects softly, “counts for everything, rocker boy.” “That’s better.” I lower my mouth to hers and kiss her slowly, softly, reveling in the taste of my girl. “Now here’s an idea. Dry your hair so it doesn’t dye half the house and get your ass downstairs. I have a

little surprise for you.” “Uh-oh. The last time you had a surprise for me you made me so mad, Ads.” Yeah, that Christmas morning surprise didn’t exactly go as planned. “I know, I know. But you’ll like this. I promise.” She narrows her eyes, but says, “All right. Go pour me a glass of wine like a good Ads.” She pats my cheek, and I get up. Before she can move, I flip her onto her stomach and spank her tight, sweet ass. She screams with laughter, burying her face into the mattress. “You know better than to sass me, sunshine.” She crawls away. “That’s exactly why I sass you.” I shake my head and walk toward the door. “You. Downstairs. Five minutes.” I dart downstairs and do as she asked. Or told. Whatever. I’m pretty fucking used to her cute little demands—unless that demand is to see if I can pick her up some hair dye before she finishes work. Apparently I picked up the wrong shade of red. I didn’t even know they made different shades of red hair dye. She joins me downstairs a few minutes later, her hair now mercifully dry. Thank fuck. “All right. What’s this surprise?” I grab her hand and tug her down onto the sofa next to me. “New year, right? So start as you mean to go on and all that.” “If you’re proposing, stop right the fuck now.” I laugh. “Fuck no. Just giving you this, officially.” I pull the drawer open on the tiny side table next to my arm on the sofa and hand her the silver key dangling from a red heart keychain. “A key here. So if you want to officially move in, you can.” “Serious?” she gasps, taking the key. “You’re here at least five nights a week. We could both be home now. . . . Why not?” She stares at the key for a long minute. Then she clasps it in her palm and throws her arms around my neck. I smile into her hair—which is still slightly damp, actually—and breathe in the sweet scent of my girl. “You got it, rocker boy,” she says, pulling back to kiss me long and hard. “Prepare for this place to be Jessie’d.” “I’m terrified.” “Rightly so.” She grins. “Rightly so.”

Tate

“Nachos?” “Check.” “Steak?” “Check.” “Beer?” “Double check.”

“Wine?” her voice turns accusatory. “Triple. Fuckin’. Check.” I grab Ella and pull her against me, kissing her quickly. “Like I’d really forget the wine. I’m pretty fuckin’ fond of my balls, you know.” “Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not the violent one. I leave that to Jessie and Chelsey.” Oh yeah. I don’t envy the twins those two firecrackers. Shit, they’re ticking time bombs, even if they are sweet as hell most of the time. All right, some of the time. “I’m kidding,” Ella adds, grabbing a wineglass from the cupboard and searching for the bottle in the fridge. “What time is it?” “Around eleven,” I answer, holding my hand out for a beer. She shakes her head but passes one anyway, deliberately leaving the bottle opener magnet attached to the fridge so I have to come to her anyway. She grins when I pull it off the fridge and uncap my bottle. I let the cap fall to the floor, and she glances between it and me with a look that tells me I better pick it up. Since it’s impossible to ignore her, I bend down, grab the cap, and flick it into the trash can. It hits the wall and bounces into it. Ella purses her lips but doesn’t say anything. I make a kissy-face at her, and she desperately fights her smile. She can’t stay mad at me. I’m too damn cute for that shit. I’m like a fucking puppy on adorable pills. “Oh, hey! I want to show you something.” Ella grabs my arm and drags me through our open-plan apartment into the living room. Her laptop is open on the coffee table, and I try not to groan when I see it’s open on a realtor website. Ever since I mentioned thinking about buying a house, she’s been on a mission to find the perfect place. I think it started out as a dream for her. She’s what made me bring it up. When I went to log on to the email, she’d stayed on hers, and the top few were hits from a Realtor website. Curiosity got the best of me and I peeked, and she’d been gazing at houses. Modestly sized houses that are good enough to move into but not perfect for what I know she sees. Good-size yards. Family houses. Houses full of warmth and laughter. Somewhere she can call her own. And fuck, if I wanna give her anything, it’s that. I want to give her somewhere where she can be the whirlwind I know she is. Somewhere she can breathe her lightness into and make it the perfect place she’s always desired. “Now, don’t freak out,” she says softly, a hint of the old Ella simmering through like it does when she’s worried. It doesn’t anger me anymore. It’s ingrained in her, and it’s happening less and less. In all honesty, she could look at the fuckin’ White House and I’d do my best to buy it for her. I’d buy her the goddamn world if I could. “I saw this when I was browsing.” She clicks on the picture. “It’s out of the range of what I usually look for price-wise, and has more bedrooms, so it’s a little more expensive . . .” She trails off, her eyes flitting to me for approval. “Go on.” “Four bedrooms,” she says, a little excitement creeping into her voice. “Four baths, including an ‘en suite’ in the master. Two living rooms, a huge kitchen-dining room, a double garage so you guys can play

music there, too. Plus there’s a study big enough for books.” She sighs on the word “books.” A low, longing sigh that tugs on my heart. It’s only been recently that I’ve discovered her love for Belle’s library in that Disney Beauty and the Beast movie. And if she’s sighing “books” that softly, that desperately, I don’t need to see pictures. I don’t need to look at a single damn thing except the number for the realtor to arrange a viewing for her. “We’ll call as soon as they open in two days,” I say, reaching forward and closing her laptop. “But you didn’t look.” She goes to open it again, and I hold it closed. “Els, darlin’?” She swallows. “Yes?” “Does the idea of that house make you happy? Make you walk-on-fuckin’-water happy?” She nods, her gorgeous eyes coming to mine hesitantly. “Then it makes me part-the-ocean fuckin’ happy.” I smile slowly, setting her hand on her lap. “We’ll call, we’ll view, and if we love it, I’ll go and fuckin’ buy it for you. Clear?” “It’s not a bottle of wine, Tate,” she says softly. “It’s a house.” “But it could be our house,” I correct her. “Darlin’, as long as you’re happy and I’ve got a place to love you every day and every night, I’m happy. I’m goddamn ecstatic if I have that.” I cup her cheek and kiss the tip of her nose. “Got it?” “Got it.” She smiles and kisses my palm. “Hey, Tate?” “What’s up, darlin’?” “Love you.” I smile and bring her lips to mine. She tastes sweet like her wine. “Love you too.”

Conner

I kiss Mila’s forehead and hesitate in her room, making sure she’s fully back to sleep before I tiptoe out and close her door behind me. God, that girl. That gorgeous, sweet girl. Every day I love her a little more. Just like I love her mom. Every day that scoots past us puts so many things into perspective. Will I ever get back the time with Mila that I missed? No. I’ve come to terms with that, but I’m so thankful that Sofie didn’t try to hide her when she came back. I’ll be forever grateful to the only girl I’ve ever loved that she never lied when I asked her. I’ll be forever fucking grateful that she gave me the love of my goddamn life. I spent so much time lamenting the lost months, even after Sofie and Mila got on the tour bus in the summer. She screwed up, but I did, too. Our time has been marred by that. Add in Sof’s difficulties at adjusting to having a support system, and it wasn’t easy. We never tried to pretend it was. We’re there now, though. We’ve adjusted as well as we’re ever gonna, and the ticking of the clock has been taunting me for days now.

New year. New start. New everything. I want to begin it that way. No matter what’s happened, I love Sofie. I love her so fucking intensely that it physically hurts me sometimes. She’s mine. I’m hers. It’s the way we’ve always been. It’s always been us. It’ll always be us. I’m going to see to that. Tonight. Just as soon as I’ve grown the balls. “Is she okay?” Sofie cranes her neck back over the sofa. “She’s fine. She dropped Bunna.” I smile and hold my hand out for her glass. “Another?” She glances at the clock. “Sure. It isn’t long to midnight.” “Less than an hour,” I agree, taking the glass. My palm is quickly sweaty, and I dart to the kitchen. I wipe my hand against my sweatpants desperately, trying to get rid of the physical embodiment of my anxiousness. I pour her a glass of wine, a large one, and pull a dark brown bottle of Budweiser from the fridge. I uncap it with the bottle opener and drop the cap into the sink. My heart is pounding in my chest. This whole thing is so fucking cliché, but who cares? I don’t. I’d do it any day of the week, but after everything we’ve been through this year, tonight feels right. “Here.” I put her glass on the table in front of her and sit down, immediately chugging beer from my bottle. “Con?” her voice is gentle. “Are you okay, hon?” “Fine,” I reply tightly. Fuck, that’s convincing, isn’t it, dickhead? She doesn’t respond, but she gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me. It’s all right, princess, I don’t fucking believe me either. My hands are sweating again. My stomach is tying itself in knots and my heart is just about ready to explode. Meanwhile, I want to bang my head against the nearest wall until I pass out. Fuckety fucking fucky fuck fuck. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Sofie demands, cutting through my inner thoughts. She takes the bottle from me and slams it on the coffee table, and I focus on it. Nearly empty. Shit. Fuck you, nerves. “Conner!” she says, worry threading through her tone. “I can tell somethin’s wrong. What is it? What’s on your mind?” I bite my tongue and shake my head. Grow a pair, you fucking pussy! Ask her! “Con,” she repeats my name, this time softer, her voice like a lullaby. “Marry me,” I blurt, turning my head to her. She freezes, her eyes widening. “Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that.” I get up and bury my hands in my hair, facing away from her. Shit! There goes my master romance plan at midnight. Don’t worry, Romeo. I’m not taking your spot anytime soon. “How was it supposed to come out?” she asks shakily. I look at her. She’s recovered from my outburst and looks calmer than I feel. Except for the hesitant fear in her eyes. Fear I can assuage.

“It was supposed to come out on one knee right before midnight. Like it does in those damn romance novels you love so much.” She glances over my shoulder, tears glistening in her eyes. “It isn’t midnight, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do the rest,” she whispers. “Ask me, Conner.” This time, I don’t bother to wipe away my sweaty palms. Instead I bend down on one knee in front of her and take her hand. It’s as clammy as mine, and in this moment, it hits me. She and I, we’re birds of a feather. We’re one and the same and we always will be. She’s my soul mate. The anxiety drains out of my body. “Sofie Callahan, it hasn’t always been easy. We’ve hurt more than many people ever will, but we’ve loved harder than them, too.” Heated tears prick my eyes as hers threaten to spill over. “We could be eighteen or eighty and it wouldn’t change the way I love you. With everything. The way I love you, I mean. Everything that I have been, will be, and am right now.” “Con,” she stutters, covering her hand with her mouth. “It didn’t happen perfectly, but you gave me the greatest gift I could ever ask for from you. You gave me Mila. You gave me fuckin’ perfection, princess. And as her daddy, I have a duty to her to love her mommy for as long as I live. And the best part of that duty is that I can’t wait to fulfill it.” I pause, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Will you let me, Sof? Will you let me love you for the rest of my life? Will you marry me?” The longest moment passes between us, until she finally nods. Frantically, she nods again and again, tears pouring out of her eyes. She launches herself at me, and then she’s in my arms, and she’s so tiny. She’s crying and I’m crying, and the box is burning a hole in my pocket. “Oh fuck. I’m terrible at this.” I lean back, letting her go, and pull the tiny box from my pocket. I open the top, revealing a princess-cut diamond—the second the guy at the diamond place said what it was called, I knew I’d never pick anything else—and show it to her. “You’re such an idiot,” she half-laughs, half-cries, hugging me again. And it doesn’t matter about the ring. It doesn’t matter about the way I fucked it up royally. It matters that she loves me and I love her. It matters that both of us are exactly where we should be. Forever.

Make sure to check out the rest of the banging Burke Brothers series by Emma Hart! Conner Burke, member of Dirty B., is confronted by the girl who broke his heart, who returns with a secret.

Dirty Secret CLICK HERE TO ORDER

Ladies’ man Tate Burke hires a personal assistant with secrets of her own, but things get complicated when someone from her past turns up . . .

Dirty Past CLICK HERE TO ORDER

Bad boy drummer Aidan Burke of Dirty B. takes center stage in the third installment of the Burke Brothers series!

Dirty Lies CLICK HERE TO ORDER

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About the Author

Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of sexy new adult romance novels,

including the Call series and the Game series. By day, she dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books. Learn more at EmmaHart.org and Facebook.com/EmmaHartBooks. FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Emma-Hart MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

SimonandSchuster.com

Also by New York Times bestselling author Emma Hart The Burke Brothers Series Dirty Secret Dirty Past Dirty Lies The By His Game Series Blindsided Sidelined Intercepted The Memories Series Never Forget (includes Holding On 1.5) Always Remember The Call Series Late Call Final Call His Call The Game Series The Love Game Playing for Keeps The Right Moves Worth the Risk The Wild Series Wild Attraction Wild Temptation Wild Addiction The Holly Woods Files Series Twisted Bond Tangled Bond Tethered Bond Stand-alone books Blind Date

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Pocket Star Books An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2016 by Emma Hart All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Pocket Star Books ebook edition January 2016 POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Interior design by Yvonne Chan Cover image by iStock Images ISBN 978-1-5011-2435-8

Contents

Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Epilogue About the Author