(The Burke Brothers, #2 Dirty Past ) - Emma Hart

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Ella

South Carolina is seriously lacking in skyscrapers. The Deep South—right now, it’s all rolling green fields, cowboy boots, and barbecue. A million miles away from the bustling streets of Upper Manhattan that I’ve lived in my whole life. The numerous state parks, the lakes, the mountains—they’re all alien to me. And they’re all, thankfully, so much more charming than endless summers in the Hamptons. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and glance at the clock on the dashboard. The Hamptons— the place I should be right now. Preparing for my wedding in four days. Yep. I’m that girl. The runaway bride, the jilter, the disappearing act. I fully expect panic to be ensuing at my parents’ sprawling house as they wake and realize I’m no longer there. Knowing my mother, she’ll be having some kind of miniature breakdown, ensuring all eyes are on her, while my father paces and angrily shouts into the phone for someone to find me. He’ll call all of the NYPD, demanding they pull their heads out of their asses and utilize every resource they have at their fingertips. My mother will continue to hyperventilate and be seen to by a flurry of people, namely the people whose family I was supposed to marry into. And he—Matthew Hamilton, my darling betrothed, my perfect dream—my utter bastard of a fiancé. He’ll have his mask in place, every traumatized word falling from his lips a lie. His anger will be barely contained by the necessity for his pretense. I shift in the seat and wince. My back is stiff from one break in nine hours of driving—through the night, no less. No. I grit my teeth. The pain isn’t from driving, although it probably hasn’t helped. I won’t make excuses anymore. In around ten days, when the bruising has gone, I’ll no longer have anything to hide. I won’t have to spin endlessly in front of the mirror to see if my outfit covers every discolored blemish on my skin. My phone lights up from its place on the passenger seat. Damn. I could swear I turned it over. His name flashes on the screen, and I grit my teeth even harder. The call clicks over to voicemail. I quickly reach over and flip the phone so its screen-down. I don’t need the distraction of the calls. I don’t need the fear that every message he leaves tells me he’s coming after me. I don’t need the fear that he knows where I am. So I keep driving. Just drive, drive, drive. Don’t look back.

I made the right choice. I know I did. I wasn’t born to be a punching bag. I won’t be the wife that cowers in the corner before her husband arrives home from work. I won’t be the woman afraid she left a speck of dust on the mantel or undercooked the potatoes just slightly. I refuse to be afraid to breathe for fear it’d be too loud. I tighten my hold on the steering wheel and make the turn into downtown Charleston. The saddest thing about this is I didn’t jab my finger randomly on a map and set my GPS to the destination. I planned this. I’ve known for three days I would be here, and that’s the only reason I was able to get through the last time Matthew was allowed to touch me. The only thing that makes the bruises that cover my lower back and snake around to my stomach bearable is the fact he’ll never get to do it again. The early-morning rush provides a welcome noise to silence the voice inside my mind. It’s not New York, but it’s enough. It’s comfort and safety in an unfamiliar place. Comfort and safety I’m glad for. I follow the GPS’s directions to the Viscount Hotel on the Charleston seafront. I must be crazy—truly crazy. Twelve hours ago I was a Harvard graduate preparing to enter a job at a prestigious New York law firm. I summered in the Hamptons, delighting my parents with my abilities to entertain others. I was about to get married to millionaire Matthew Hamilton, heir to Hamilton Enterprises, in the wedding of the summer. Now I’m a Harvard graduate about to join the team of America’s favorite rock band as their personal assistant. I might not be able to hide from my family or now-ex-fiancé, but I can keep running. Joining Dirty B. on the final leg of their countrywide tour is definitely the best way to do that, even if I did have to have “two hair appointments,” “a manicure,” “a pedicure,” and “two pre-wedding facials to ward off a spot break out” in the last three weeks to apply for, phone interview, and subsequently talk to their current assistant to get this job. It was almost worth the mini-beating for spending so much money on myself. I pull into the Viscount’s parking lot and kill the engine. My eyes are burning with exhaustion, and the only thing I want to do right now is meet some girl named Sofie and go to my room to sleep for hours. I pick up my phone and unlock it. There are over a hundred missed calls from my mother, father, Matthew, his parents, and his brother, accompanied by a ridiculous slew of text messages and voicemails. After a moment’s hesitation, I open one of the messages from Matthew. Ella where the fuck are you? If you have any sense, you’ll come home. Now. That’ll be a negative on the coming home. My fingers twitch with the urge to respond. I can just imagine it: a snarky, hotheaded response that won’t earn me a physical payback. Call me senseless when you graduate college with higher grades than me, dickhead. I smile to myself and exit the message before I type exactly that. I dial voicemail, purely out of curiosity. I wonder just how different those messages are. “Ella, baby, where are you?” I listen as his recorded pleas fill my ear. “God, I’m going crazy here. I’m so worried about you. Just . . . call me, please. When you get this, just call me and tell me you’re okay. I love you, okay? I love you so much.” I hang up, a sick feeling churning my stomach. I don’t know how he can go from abusive to darling in less time than it takes me to pee in the morning. Either way, it’s scary.

My phone rings, and yet again his name fills my screen. I stare at it until the call switches to voicemail and get out of the car. Crossing the busy street to the side of the hotel, I run down the tiny road coming off it. A car engine rumbles in front of me, so I dart to the side and run between some trees. I spent enough time gazing at the satellite image of this place on Google Maps in a dreamlike haze. Now it’s time for my final act of freedom. Coming out on the other side of the trees, I jog down to the walkway that reaches out. Boats bob on the surface of the water, docked and waiting for their owners. Given that the sun is already high in the sky, they probably won’t be docked for much longer. I lean against the railing and look down at the water beneath me. It looks cold, dangerous, getting gradually deeper as you reach the middle of the river that leads into the ocean. A smile tugs at my lips. I could walk farther up, but I won’t. I’ll just stay here. I bring my arm back and throw. Hard. My phone sails through the air, my eyes following it until it finally falls, entering the water with a dull splash. As it sinks, my heart flies. One of my father’s first moves will be to track my phone and credit cards. Even my debit card. I’m not naive or stupid. I stopped at an ATM in Brooklyn and withdrew every last dollar from my bank account, then cut up all of my cards. I threw the shattered plastic pieces into the nearest trash can. Now, with a couple thousand dollars tucked into my suitcase and my phone languishing at the bottom of the river, I do declare that I win round one of the runaway-bride saga. I turn and run back up the dirt road to the hotel. After grabbing my purse and suitcase from my car and locking it, I head inside toward reception. The white marble floors and elegant decor isn’t new to me. I stayed here last summer with Matthew when his aunt got married nearby, and I won’t deny that I shivered when I was told to come here. I approach reception and wait for the woman in front of me to finish on the phone. It takes her a few minutes, but when she’s done, she shoots me a dazzling smile. “Good morning and welcome to Viscount Hotel. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help you today, ma’am?” “Hi.” I rest my hand on the counter. “I’m supposed to meet a Sofie Callahan at reception?” “Is it Ella Dawson?” she asks, flipping through a notepad. “Yes, that’s right.” “Two seconds, please.” She picks up the phone and presses a number. “Hello . . . yes, this is reception. Ella Dawson is here for Sofie. . . . Perfect. Thank you.” She sets it back down and smiles at me again. “She’ll be down in a moment. Please take a seat.” “Thank you.” I offer my own smile and wheel my suitcase over to the seating area. I sink back into one of the plush black chairs and clasp my hands in my lap. God, what am I doing? I must be insane—driving through the night to go on tour with a rock band? Was I hit over the head with a brick or something? This is truly crazy. I don’t know the first thing about managing a band, much less four twentysomething guys, and I sure as hell am not used to living on a bus and out of hotels. And if Matthew finds out? I’m done for. I’m so, so done.

I should probably run out of that door right now before Sofie gets down here. I should probably run and make up some crazy lie about needing to drive to get something for the wedding and leaving my phone at home. Only . . . I can’t. I made my bed the second I drove away from the Hamptons, and now I have to lie in it. No matter how uncomfortable the mattress. “Hi! Are you Ella?” I look up at a blond-haired girl holding a toddler on her hip. From TMZ, I recognize the little girl instantly as Conner Burke’s daughter and the woman holding her as her mom. “Yeah. Hi.” I stand awkwardly. “Hi! I’m Sofie.” Sofie grins and puts the little girl down. “Mila, stay here, okay?” “’Kay.” Mila follows it up by tottering across the lobby with a dolly trailing behind her. Sofie sighs. “Ajax, can you get her?” “From security to babysittin’,” a tall, muscular man with cropped hair sighs. “Mila!” Tiny giggles fill the air. My lips twitch as I watch him stride after her and swoop her up onto his shoulder. Sofie laughs and turns back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “The guys are practicing, so I couldn’t leave her upstairs.” “Oh, it’s okay. She’s beautiful.” “Thank you.” Her cheeks flush. “So.” She sits down, and I do the same. “Did you get my email?” “The one with a list of job requirements?” At her nod, I go on. “Yes. And it’s fine. Really. It can’t be that hard.” “It’s not the job that’s hard. It’s the people you work for.” She laughs. “But don’t worry. I’ll help you out for the first couple weeks, until you get to know their routine—if Tate doesn’t switch stuff up again.” “Oh, it’s okay. I’ll figure it out.” “Please, let me help you.” She cups her cheeks with her hands and leans forward. “I have been surrounded by pure testosterone for two weeks. The only female interaction has been courtesy of a twoyear-old who demands Peppa Pig and Frozen ten times a day. I am so ready for some company.” I laugh. “Well, I don’t imagine company would be a terrible thing to have.” “Great!” She sits up and claps her hands once. “Let me grab your room key, then we’ll go up. You look like you need some rest.” I smile apologetically. “I drove through the night. I’m sorry. I probably won’t be much help today.” Sofie stops at the reception desk and turns to me. She studies me slowly, her blue eyes regarding me with interest. Just when she opens her mouth to say something, the receptionist asks how she can help. “Key for room 435, please.” She takes her eyes off me only when the key card is placed in her hand. “Thank you. Ajax?” She looks over her shoulder, but when I look, too, the security guy and Mila are nowhere to be seen. “Where did they go?” Sofie waves her hand dismissively. “To the playground out back. I’ll see ’em in an hour. Come on.” I follow her into the elevator and she presses the button for the fourth floor. We whizz up in seconds, leaving me with a little vertigo, and exit. “So you’re from New York?” Sofie asks, guiding me down a hallway. “Yeah. I’ve lived there my whole life except for college.”

“Awesome. I can’t wait to go in a few weeks. Will you see your family when we go back?” I swallow. “Um, I’m not sure. They might be on vacation.” “Oh.” She slides the card into the slot for room 435 and the door clicks open. “Your room is more of a mini-apartment. There’s a hot plate, a fridge, and there’s a laundry room at the end of the hall. We have the whole floor booked out, and I’m right next door to you, so don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.” She grins widely and hands me the card. “I have your number, so I’ll call you later when we have a dinner reservation and you can meet the guys. I’ll let you get some sleep.” “Thank you,” I say softly, watching her walk out of the room. She pauses by the door and smiles kindly, then shuts it behind her. I take a deep breath and look around. The suite is spacious. A corner sofa on one side, a small kitchenette on the other, and a door just off of there leads to the bedroom. I dump the suitcase by the door and drop my purse on the kitchen counter. Fear nothing, right? Yes—fear nothing. Except the four men I have yet to meet and the abundance of tasks I know nothing about. Sofie sent me a list, sure, but what about little things? Do I run for coffee? Water? Sandwiches? Condoms? Oh my God. I’ve never bought condoms in my life. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Okay. I can do this. I can absolutely flip everything I’ve ever known upside down and live a completely different life. I can do this. I wave my hands absentmindedly at my mental tangent and walk into the bedroom. One look at the queen bed and I’m kicking off my shoes and crawling beneath the covers.

A loud knock on my door jolts me from sleep. What the . . . I roll out of bed and stumble through the suite to the door. “Who is it?” “It’s Sofie!” Oh. Crap. I open the door, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.” “Oh—shit. I’m sorry.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I tried to call you but it went straight to voicemail.” I pause, my knuckle digging into my eye. “Oh. Yeah. Um. I forgot to tell you earlier. I kind of don’t have a phone anymore.” Sofie raises an eyebrow and walks into the suite. “Okay. What happened to it?” “I, er . . . I threw it into the river.” “As in . . . the river in front of the hotel?” “That would be the one.” Her lips twitch. “I’m sure there’s a story there somewhere.” A giggle escapes. “But I’m not going to push you. Not right now anyway.” She grins, and it’s so infectious I can’t help but smile back. “I just wanted to tell you we’re having dinner downstairs tonight. In, like, fifteen minutes, actually.” “Oh, it’s okay. If you could give me a few minutes, I can freshen up now.”

“Great!” She sighs happily. “Conner has Mila and it’s the happiest I’ve seen her all day.” She drops onto the sofa, locates the remote, and turns on the TV. I smile and grab hold of my suitcase. “I’ll just be a minute.” “Take your time. They won’t do anythin’ without us if they know what’s good for ’em.” She winks over her shoulder. I wheel the suitcase into the bedroom and drop it onto its back. I close the door quietly, then rifle through the case for a summer dress and clean underwear. The bathroom is large and glittering white, the brightness almost blinding as I change and freshen up. A touch-up of mascara and I’m ready. Ready to go and meet the band that three-quarters of America have their panties all bunched up over. My new employers. I look in the mirror. My dark hair falls softly around my face. My eyes are full of freedom, something that hasn’t been there for two years. I swallow, and my tongue flicks out to wet my lips several times as I leave the bathroom. I hesitate by the bedroom door—I’m still insane. Still completely, utterly, certifiably insane. “Hey, Ella? Are you ready? Apparently my daughter is screaming the place down for her pizza.” “Oh, yes. Sorry. Just . . . I don’t know.” I shrug a shoulder and follow Sofie into the elevator. She glances at me knowingly. “Scared?” “Uh, not in the way you’d think.” I smile reluctantly. Because I’m not. I’m not afraid to meet America’s hottest crush. I’m afraid to be in a room full of several men I’ve never met in my life, which is ridiculous, because I’m not in danger here. I’m safe, hidden away, in a world entirely different from my own. But my body wants me to look over my shoulder, just in case. “They’re not bad. Well, most of the time. I promise. Come on.” She takes my hand with a beaming grin and opens the door to the private dining room. Noise fills it—laughter, toddler giggles, loud, booming male voices—but they all silence when Sofie yells, “Hey! Hey!” Four sets of eyes land on us. “Now y’all better be nice or I’m gonna kick some butt,” she says firmly, tugging me beside her. “This is Ella. She’s your new PA.” Conner Burke is the first to stand and offer me his hand. I shake it, then he tugs me in for a hug. “It’s great to meet you, Ella. If we get too demandin’, just tell us where to go.” “Someone’s suckin’ up because he wants to get laid tonight.” There’s a chuckle from the corner, then movement. Kye Burke approaches me with a cocky grin, and before he can say a word, Sofie slaps his arm. “Try it. I dare you.” Her tone stops him dead, because he holds his hands up and shrugs. “I wasn’t tryin’ anything, Sof. I was coming over to be nice.” He shoots me a wink. “Kye.” “Hi,” I say quietly. “Ignore him.” Aidan Burke, Kye’s twin, stands in front of me. “He thinks he’s the big man, but he’s still stuck in puberty.” “Y’all are gonna get my shoe up your butts in a minute. Stop trying to hit on her. She works for you,” Sofie snaps. “Ads, sit down before I make you.”

“Sof, you’re five foot nothin’.” “I’ll be five feet of terrifying if you don’t start actin’ like a gentleman. All of you.” She sweeps her eyes over the three single Burke brothers. “Tate? Your manners get lost inside your beer bottle?” Aidan sniggers and sits back down. “Tay! Be nice!” Mila calls from the corner, smacking tiny hands against the high chair tray. “You nice!” I hide my laughter behind my hand. Conner catches my eye and winks at me. “Well?” “Fine.” A beer bottle hits the table, and my eyes fall in the direction of the sound. And, oh. Okay. Turquoise eyes the color of the ocean at the height of summer stare back at me with a brooding glint. His dark hair is spiked to the side, rough stubble lines his jaw, and his lips curve up to one side when his eyes connect with mine. My gaze drops to his body, because I can’t help but look at the tattoos that cover his arms, the full sleeves stopping in perfectly straight lines at his wrist. I can’t make any of the designs out, except for a few music notes on the inside of his left forearm. And, oh man, he has nice arms. And shoulders. And stomach. But it doesn’t matter. Because Tate Burke is walking right up to me.

Tate

Long, dark hair. Mesmerizingly dark eyes. Pouty pink lips. A soft jaw. Eyelashes longer than a doll’s. And a really great fucking pair of tits. This is my new PA? And I’m expected not to fuck her. Good job, Sofie. Good damn job. I approach her, this Ella, and stop in front of her. Her eyes climb up my body until they meet mine, and she holds my gaze steadily. No wavering, no lip quivering, no blushing. If it wasn’t for the way her tongue is flicking against her bottom lip, I’d say she couldn’t give a shit she’s standing in front of me. “Ella,” I say slowly, trying her name out. It rolls off my tongue perfectly. “Hey.” “Hello,” she replies demurely, holding my gaze for a second longer. Demure. Shit. I don’t do demure. But then again, I can’t do her, so what does it matter? “You think you can keep up with a rocker’s lifestyle?” “I’ll give it my best shot.” My lips tug to the side. “I’m sure you will, darlin’. Are you used to showin’ girls out of hotel rooms?” “Not particularly, although I’m sure it’s something I’ll have to get used to pretty quickly. Am I right, Mr. Burke?” Mr. Burke? What the fuck? “My name is Tate.” “To those close to you, and forgive me for saying so, but I’d rather like to keep my distance.” She smiles, unruffled, and steps to the side. “It’s really great to meet you all. I’m sorry we’re late. It’s my fault.” She pulls out the spare chair between Sofie and Kye and, smoothing her dress under her ass, takes a seat. She sweeps her hair around to one side, exposing her neck to my line of view as I walk around the table and sit back down. Shit. What’s with the hot PAs? Can’t we hire some ugly-as-shit girl? Someone I won’t want to flip on their back every time they walk into a room? I can already tell Ella is going to be more of a problem than Jenna was when we first hired her. Ella’s gonna test my resolve, pushing at patience I don’t fucking have. She smiles widely at something Conner says. Yep. She’s gonna be a fucking pain in my ass—just because of her existence. “You look like you’re ready to get to know her,” Ads mutters and leans over. “And not in the way the rest of us are.” “Fuck you,” I reply. Grabbing my beer, I bring the bottle to my lips and swig. “Next time, I’m hirin’ the fuckin’ assistant.”

Kye snorts. “Sofie gave you the chance this time. You were busy with, what’s her face? Angelica?” “Who the hell is that?” “Stacy? Nora? Penelope?” I point the neck of the bottle in my brother’s direction. “Penelope. She sounds familiar.” Ads chokes and knocks his fist into his chest. “Jesus. Why doesn’t this prick have a little black book yet?” “Rumor has it that they don’t make them big enough,” Ella chimes in. I dart my eyes across the table to Ella’s, ignoring my brothers’ laughter. At least Sof tries to hide hers. Ella’s lips curve up around her glass of wine. She takes a small sip, her eyes dancing with unrestrained amusement, and I lean back in my chair. “Mr. Burke, and now this? I don’t think I like you very much already.” Her smiles widens, and she sets her glass down. “Good. Then I already accomplished the first job on my list.” “You.” I turn my attention to Sofie. “You’re on the top of my shi—eet list,” I correct, glancing toward Mila. “Right at the top.” Sofie sips her drink, completely unaffected by my words, and I turn my attention back to Ella. Whatever bravado she had just seconds ago is gone, because instead of looking at me, she’s staring at the table. I lean back in my seat and keep my gaze trained on her. She calls me out, then refuses to look at me? Fuck no. If you’re gonna sass me, keep it the hell up. Don’t back down—and if you’re gonna, don’t fuckin’ start sassing in the first place. If this is gonna be a pattern, she’s gonna last all of a week as our personal bitch. The waiter comes in and takes our orders one by one. Still, I look at Ella, waiting for her to look back. She doesn’t. She keeps her gaze firmly on the menu, her voice quiet and hesitant as she orders. My head tilts to the side. How the fuck can she sass me so bad and then turn into a motherfucking mouse? “Filet mignon. Medium rare.” I hand my menu to the waiter over my shoulder. He takes it and presumably writes my order down, because he leaves the room a minute or so later. “Pizza, Dadda! Pizzaaaaaaaaa!” Mila bangs her high chair tray like a drum set, and Aidan snickers from next to me. Conner shoots him a hard look as he soothes Mila by passing her a juice box from her bag under the table. Sofie leans in to Ella and they share a smile, and Kye turns to me, but I cut him off. “Where are you from, Ella?” “New York.” Her answer is barely audible across the table and the level of chatter. “Where?” “Manhattan.” “Rich man’s playground.” “Yes.” She grabs her glass, still looking at the fucking table, and ends our conversation. I tap my fingers against the tabletop. Fuck, I hate it when people don’t look at me when I talk to them. I especially hate it when a girl fucking ignores me so blatantly. I can’t fuck her, sure, but it doesn’t mean I can’t make her putty in my goddamn hands. It doesn’t mean I can’t sweet-talk her hoity-toity ass into bending to my every whim and desire.

“Eyes down, bro,” Kye mutters. “To her tits? No problem.” I laugh. “To your beer bottle, asshole,” he responds with a laugh of his own. “She’s off-limits.” “Never been very good with those limit things.” I swig from my beer bottle. “They get in the way.” “No shit,” Aidan adds in a low voice. “That’s the fuckin’ point.” I cut my eyes to him, smirking. “You are a genius, Ads. Fuckin’ unbelievable.” He flips me off in response, and my gaze finds Ella. “She’s odd, huh?” “Odd because she isn’t on the floor panting with her legs open?” “That, too. No—she’s quiet, don’t you think? I just tried bein’ a nice little boss and she fucked me off.” “That’s because you’re a jackass,” Kye inputs. “Watch and learn.” He turns his attention from me to Ella and taps her arm. Slowly, she faces him with a hesitant smile. “Yes?” “Where’d you go to college?” Kye dives right in. “Sorry,” he adds when she blinks harshly. “Just wanted to know more about you. That’s all.” He follows his words with a charming smile, and she relaxes. “Oh, I’m sorry. It caught me off guard.” She straightens in her chair. “I studied at Harvard and am preparing for school.” Conner chokes on his beer. “No way. What the fuck are you doin’ here sortin’ our shit out for?” “Bad Dadda!” Mila gasps, pointing her finger at Conner. “Bad!” Ella’s smile widens, just a little. “I needed a change of scenery.” Dirty little liar. “All the boys in Manhattan too clean cut for you, darlin’?” I ask across the table. “Actually,” she responds calmly, folding her napkin in front of her, “you could learn a thing or two from them, Mr. Burke. Like manners.” “I’d love to, but men don’t take lessons from boys.” “Tate, you’re about as manly as a goldfish,” Sofie butts in. “The day Mila finally liked you, you sang nursery rhymes for two hours and built sandcastles with her for four. Oh, and didn’t you dump Nina because she messed with your family?” She raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean a thing, Sof,” I throw back. “Whatever. Lay off Ella and find some other girl to release your obvious frustration on.” Our eyes meet in a tense stare that’s only broken by Mila’s excited shriek when our food is brought in. Sofie drops her eyes to the plate of pizza in front of her and grabs her knife and fork to cut it, ending our wordless battle as easily as she ended the conversation five seconds ago. Being soft with a two-year-old girl is way different from being soft with other people. She’s so damn blinded by my relationship with Mila that she forgets I was a total fucking asshole to her for years. Once again, my gaze flicks to Ella, but hers is firmly focused on her plate. I grab my fork and look at my own dinner. Sofie, Aidan, Kye, Conner . . . she looks at all of them when she talks to me. Like I’m a piece of fucking shit not worth being on her shoe. Ella’s soft spoken, but it’s controlled and precise. Like every word is prepicked, and she’s trying not to offend. Hell, even when she says something that could be offensive it’s nice as fucking pie.

I don’t believe she wants a change of scenery. You don’t go from the bright lights of New York and the harsh regime of Harvard to being a runaround for a band. It sure as hell isn’t for the money we’re paying her either. She’s already admitted to a privileged upbringing, and if she didn’t, it’s obvious as fuck from that perfect hairdo and that damn dress. All she doesn’t have is a sense of entitlement. The girl is one big motherfucking enigma, and hell if I don’t want to crack her code, if only to get under her skin and piss her off. Empty plates are cleared from the table, and Sofie darts around Conner to clean Mila’s sauce-covered hands and face with a wipe. Or five wipes, as it turns out. Sofie mumbles to herself about “freakin’ pizza” as she balls the wipes up and leaves them on her side plate. Ella watches them with a light smile, but it drops when she glances at me and sees me watching her. Our eyes meet for a split second, but something flashes in hers. Something that doesn’t usually glint in girls’ eyes whenever they look at me, so it’s sure as hell not good. “Sofie,” she says softly, turning away from me. “I’m going to head back upstairs. It’s been great to meet everyone, but I need to arrange for a new phone and credit card.” Sofie nods without questioning her. “Of course. I’ll stop by your room at nine tomorrow. The guys will be practicin’ all day, which translates to us running around like headless chickens after them.” “We ain’t that bad,” Conner grumbles. Sofie raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t respond. Ella smiles. “Sounds like . . . fun. Night, everyone.” She stands, waves awkwardly, and heads out of the room. Why does she need a new phone and credit card? “Where are you goin’?” Sofie sighs heavily, looking at me. I get up and flatten my hands on the table. “I’m goin’ to tell her what you forgot—that she’s our employee and we’ll get her a fuckin’ phone and credit card if she needs one.” She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I could tell her, but she’d laugh at me. I can tell.” “Sure she will. You’d give up convincing her after one ‘no.’ ” I pause at the door. “But she’ll do whatever the hell I say because I’m her boss.” “Don’t be a dick!” Aidan yells after me. “Tay! Ad! No!” Mila rambles. “Bad!” I swallow my laugh. Damn, that kid is something else. She’s a fucking star. I walk through the restaurant to the lobby and see Ella leaning against the reception desk, nodding at something the receptionist says. Without the judgment of my brothers, I stop and look at her. Her hair falls halfway down her back, and her dress clings just tightly enough that I can tell it’s concealing a fucking killer body—and her legs go on forever. Aw, hell. She smiles and straightens, turning for the elevator. I jog across the lobby and beat her to the button, my thumb pushing it just seconds before hers does. “Oh. Hi.” My lips tug to the side. “Hi.” “Are you following me?”

“No, darlin’. I’m the followed, not the follower.” I put my hand on the side of the door and let her walk into the elevator before me. I push the button to the fourth floor and lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “Obviously. Well, can I help you with something?” There are so many fucking things she can help me with, namely my rapidly hardening cock. “Dangerous question,” I remark, ignoring her subsequent eye roll. “You said you need a new phone and credit card.” “Correct.” She tucks some of that dark hair behind her ear. “Sofie should have told you that we’ll arrange that. For as long as you work for us.” “That isn’t necessary, Mr. Burke. I’m perfectly fine doing it myself.” “Sure you are, Ella, but you’re not going to. You’re our employee and we’ll take care of you.” And boy oh fucking boy, would I love to take care of this chick. “Well, thank you, but like I said, it isn’t necessary.” She smiles shyly and steps out of the elevator ahead of me. My jaw clenches. I don’t give a fuck if it’s necessary or if she wants it or not. “They’ll be in your name. We’ll take care of the phone bill, but the credit card is on you.” Her shoulders heave and she turns her head halfway over her shoulder, her eyes on my feet. “Thank you, but no thank you.” She slides her key card into the slot, but before she can open the door, I snatch her hand away. She flinches in shock, and I spin her so she’s facing me. Still, though, her eyes are on my shoulder. “When you wake up tomorrow there’ll be a phone and credit card in reception waitin’ for you, and you will take it. And, Ella?” I cup her jaw and force her eyes upward. They crash into mine, blazing with annoyance, and I tilt my face toward hers, enjoying the hitch in her breath. “For someone concerned about my manners, you have a serious lack of them. When I talk to you, you fuckin’ look at me. Understand?” Wordlessly, she steps back, and I let my hand fall. She nods once, quickly, and yanks on the door handle. She disappears inside the room in a split second, leaving me standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the closed white door. Wondering why the fuck her annoyed gaze was riddled with fear.

T he Charleston Stadium is in darkness except for the stage. Silence fills the stands, but the first few rows and stage are, again, a different story. Final practices are always fucking crazy, because there’s always something that needs changing before tomorrow’s sound check. Like can I not eye up the tall girl with bottle-blond hair with the clipboard? The girl has tits that defy gravity and a top that doesn’t. No, I can’t stop looking at her. “Tate. Seriously,” Carla, our manager Marc’s assistant, snaps. “Can you focus?” “Can you get this chick out of here?” I nod toward Tits. “Until then, no, I fuckin’ can’t.”

Carla presses her fingertips to her forehead and turns toward Tits. “Jodie, go backstage to wardrobe and ask them for a damn turtleneck.” Jodie. Huh. She doesn’t look like a Jodie. Maybe an On My Knees Waiting for Tate, but not a Jodie. And if that shit isn’t a real name, it should be. For a lot of girls. Carla looks at me once Jodie’s left and narrows her eyes. “Now can you concentrate?” I stare at her, not saying a word. Seriously, she should know better by now. It doesn’t take much to distract me—and if a girl has a rack like that, she’s gonna distract the hell out of me. “Can you think with your fingers and not your penis?” I smirk. “I can think with them and I can act with them, Carla.” “Get your head in the game, dickhead, and maybe she’ll let you get your head somewhere else after practice,” Aidan calls to me. “No one will be getting heads anywhere after this!” Carla shrieks. “Can we be professional? For five minutes?” Conner groans. “Sure we can, baby bro. On Saturday, where there are a fuck ton of girls out there begging for my head.” I half-grin. “Enough!” Carla’s voice rings out through the stadium. She looks at all of us, but her eyes linger on me for a second longer. “Y’all have to perform in twenty-four hours. Tate, if you need a break, I’ll send someone for a Playboy, all right? And you,” she turns on Aidan, “stop encouraging him with promises that won’t happen. Jodie is staff. Do you hear that? Staff.” She glares. “Tate?” “Jodie is staff and off-limits to my cock,” I respond dutifully, setting my guitar on my lap. “Thank you.” Carla steps back and sits down. “Can we start with ‘Broken Heart’?” “Yep,” Aidan says before I can argue. Fuck. This isn’t my favorite song. He knocks his sticks against the side of his drum and counts us in. My fingers move to the strings of my guitar almost automatically. “Broken Heart” is one of our first songs, and no doubt the one that made girls all over the country fall for Conner’s drawl. It’s more country than rock, more emotion than music, one he wrote after Sofie disappeared. Now, he hates it as much as I do. I hate it because I don’t understand it, and he hates it because it reminds him of the past. He sings, his voice taking on the same low and husky tone it always does when we play this song, and my eyes half shut. My fingers, my body, they don’t understand my dislike. They understand the vibrations of the music. They understand the humming of the strings, wave after wave of melody. Each note is a transportation to another place, where only us and the music reside. It’s always been the same, even when there’s thousands of girls screaming at us. As soon as the notes hit, it’s us, at home, in the garage, dreaming of something bigger. The echo of the stadium doesn’t exist. The endless fucking resonance of the music doesn’t exist. It’s us, a bunch of young guys with an unattainable dream. Not us, America’s favorite band. It’s a bunch of fighting brothers, snapping at each other, all battling for the same thing. Now that we’re here, it doesn’t make a difference. We fight like fuck because we care. Because this damn dream isn’t a dream. It’s real, and none of us want to let it go. None of us will let it go. Because the dream isn’t all lights and freedom and relaxation. It isn’t all fun and fucking laughs like we thought it would be. It’s hard work, it’s long hours, and it’s worth it.

“I got a broken heart because of you, shattered and smashed, it won’t go back,” Conner sings. “You broke it good, baby, ripped it apart. But it still beats, boom boom, yeah it still beats, boom boom . . .” His last word is long and drawn out, fitting with the echoing vibrations of the guitar strings. As we do after every song, we look up at Carla for her approval. It’s an instinctive movement now, because we might have a PA to keep our asses in line, but Carla is the chick that whips them into shape. And fuck, I shouldn’t have thought about our PA, because now all I can think of is Ella’s long legs disappearing beneath her dress. “Tate. Are you listening?” “Agree with every word, Carla.” I snap my eyes to her. “You didn’t hear a thing I said, did ya?” I shake my head slowly. “Not a damn thing.” She shuts her eyes briefly and jerks her head to the side toward the door. “Lunch is here. Y’all take an hour. . . . Tate, maybe you should take two or I’ma kill you.” “Carla.” I set my guitar down and clasp my hands to my chest. “I’m hurt, baby. You’d kill me?” She smirks. “Keep your puppy-dog eyes for Saturday night, Tate Burke. You ain’t charming me. I’m here to make sure y’all don’t mess shit up and that you don’t cause any more media frenzies.” She waves and turns. “If y’all need me for some dumb reason, you have my number.” With that, she slips past Sofie and Ella in the doorway and disappears. “Are y’all being pains again?” Sofie sighs, Mila on her hip. “Us?” Kye snorts. “Just Tate.” “Tay!” Mila shrieks, pointing a chubby finger at me. “You bad!” “Me?” I gasp. “No!” “Lieeeee!” She wriggles, and Sofie puts her down. Mila toddles to the stage and peeks over the edge, again pointing at me. “You lieeeeee! Lieeeeee!” When she finishes with a giggle, I glance at Conner. “Her new favorite word?” He nods, his lips twitching. “Watch her, brother. She’s got you pegged.” “Great.” I rub my hand down my face and walk to her, crouching in front of her. “Okay, I’m bad. Slap my hand?” I hold it out for her, but she shakes her head. “Tar. My play tar.” She grins. “Mimi,” I fake-whine. She giggles again at my nickname for her, then stops, pouting, and gives me puppy-dog eyes. “Peez, Tay. Peez.” She blinks several times in quick succession, and I stare at her. Fucking damn her cute little ass. I sigh heavily. “Okay. Come on.” I lift her onto the stage and she stomps over to my guitar, laughing wildly. I can’t help my own chuckle—the kid has the charm of I don’t know what. And somehow, she always gets her own damn way. “Dum dum dum!” She attacks the strings harshly, and my eyes widen. “No, Mimi!” I sit, grab her onto my lap, and trap her with my arms. “Gently, remember?” “Ohhhh,” she coos. “Genty. Kay.” I lift the guitar onto our legs. “Ready?” “Duuuuum, duuuuum, duuuuum,” she hums slowly, pinging each string softly. “Duuuuuuuuum!”

“Great job!” I clap my hands in front of us. “Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!” she gasps, giggling when she catches her breath again. “Good, Tay. Ree good.” “Real good,” I echo, grabbing my guitar. “Lunch now? Mama has stars.” Mila gasps and looks toward Sofie. “Mama, sars?” she yells, not caring that Sofie’s deep in conversation. She jumps off of me. Sofie snaps her head round. “Uh, yes. After a sandwich.” “No, now. Tay said!” She stomps her little foot. “I didn’t!” I defend, putting my guitar down. “I just said you had them.” Sofie looks at me flatly. “You know, Tate, this newfound friendship is about to be shoved in a very uncomfortable part of your body.” “Sorry, Sof.” I jump off the stage and lift Mila down with an exaggerated swing. “I don’t get things shoved in me. Shoving something somewhere else, however . . .” Ella wrinkles her face and looks at Kye. “Are you all always so crude?” “Nope.” He swigs from a bottle of water. “Just him.” “How do you cope?” she directs that at Sofie. “I drink a lot of wine.” Sofie bites into her sandwich and looks at her seriously. “Don’t worry. I have a stash of it for situations like this. Ajax is an awesome babysitter. Right, Ajax?” She yells that over her shoulder. “Babysitter . . . bodyguard . . . does it matter?” he responds from the door. “Not where Sofie is concerned,” I snigger. A bread crust promptly hits me in the face. “Bite me,” she snaps. “Be nice, princess,” Conner says. “He’s in a good mood today. We don’t want to anger him.” I click my tongue. “Fancy your ass kicked, little brother?” “Ass! Ass!” “Mila!” Sofie gasps. “Tate! I don’t know who to yell at!” “Tate,” Ella responds, hugging her knees to her chest on her seat. “He said it first.” “You just took the top spot on my shit list,” I tell her, trying not to focus on the way her shirt pulls her tits together. Because, fuck me, that cleavage is begging for my face to be buried in it. “Good. That means you’re less likely to try and seduce me.” “Hey, Mila, let’s go get a juice,” Sofie says wisely, scooping her up. “Conner,” she adds in a firm tone, then glances at the twins. “Not movin’,” they say together. The side door to the stage shuts, and Ella swallows. Her apprehension is evident, and I don’t blame her. I can feel this tension between us, the one I felt last night, and it’s going motherfucking batshit banana crazy. Leaning forward, I lick my lips. “Not necessarily,” I tell her. “Because if there’s anything you need to know about me, darlin’, it’s that I don’t try to do anything. I do it straightaway. So if I was tryin’ to seduce you, you’d be fuckin’ seduced.” “Should I be honored?” she replies in a small but strong voice.

“That I haven’t seduced you?” “Yes.” “Maybe. For all I know, you’re the kind of girl who needs to be pinned against a wall and kissed before you realize you’re seduced to fuck.” She pauses, or rather, she freezes, her eyes flashing with a hint of that fear I saw last night. “Good luck trying to find out,” she retorts, standing and smoothing her shirt out. Her eyes linger on the floor, then rise to mine. “I can guarantee you won’t, Mr. Burke, so kindly stop assuming you will, because you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Ella

His eyes blaze at my words. And I know that, inadvertently, I just challenged him. I also know guys like Tate Burke will take a challenge and follow it through. It’s their fire, and I just handed him the fuel to ignite it. “That right, darlin’?” he speaks slowly, each word drawn out into a stomach-fluttering drawl. “Our relationship is strictly professional,” I remind him, looping my thumbs through the belt loops on my shorts. “I’d prefer it to stay that way.” “We’re gonna be buttin’ heads somethin’ crazy, then.” His eyes are still fully on me, and I swear they’re holding me captive. The power of his stare sends a hard shiver down my spine. “The only things we’ll be butting is schedules.” I grab my water bottle and sandwich packet. I need to do something with my hands because they’re trembling, and it’s obvious. At least to me. “Good-bye, Mr. Burke.” I take a step forward and he stands, towering over me by several inches. I draw in a sharp breath and keep my eyes down, even though I flinch as my sandwich packet crumbles against me. My muscles are taut, reacting instantly to the shadow settling over me, waiting for a hit. “Did you get your card before we left? And phone?” My head moves jerkily in something that vaguely resembles a nod. “Do they work okay?” Again, I nod. This time it’s a little more controlled. “Good.” He doesn’t move. Neither do I. I’m still staring at our feet. The toes of his deep blue Chucks are inches away from mine, and I flex my toes in my sandals. My body is screaming and flitting between fight or flight, but my feet are fully in the “flight” camp. He still doesn’t move. Why won’t he move? I can’t until he does. My body isn’t trained to run, no matter how it wants to. Matthew never let me run. And the one time I was stupid enough to, I “accidentally kicked the solid wood table leg to get to the burning stove and broke two toes.” Which, of course, means I was shoved into it and in my fight to regain my footing, slammed into the thick table leg. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly at the memory, a shudder racking my body. Fear inches its way from my gut to my heart and clenches it tightly, and at the loud opening of a door, I jolt backward.

“Ella?” Tate’s voice is quieter this time. My breathing is short and harsh, and it aches. Each inhale burns my lungs, and I swallow. “I have some things to do. Excuse me.” He steps to the side and I walk around him, trying my hardest not to run. Because I want to. I want to give in to the panic buzzing through my veins and run, run, run. “Ella?” Sofie’s soft, caring voice makes me pause. “Are you all right?” I nod, looking up to meet her eyes. “I have a bit of a headache. I’m going to find some Tylenol, then do that thing we talked about earlier.” Her brow furrows and she frowns at me. “You know, the . . . the thing.” I glance at Mila. “Oh! Yeah. That thing.” Her forehead smoothes out again, and she smiles. “Oh! Of course. Why don’t you go back to the hotel and take a nap? You might feel better.” I glance at Conner. “Is—is that okay?” “Sure,” he replies slowly, his eyes uncomfortably intense. “We’re pretty laid-back. If you’re sick, go sleep it off.” “Thank you.” I avert my eyes and dart through the door. But not quick enough, because I hear Sofie hiss, “Tate! What the hell did you do to her?” and him reply, “Nothin’!” I dump my half-eaten sandwich into one of the trash cans outside the arena and lean against the outside wall. The fresh air swirls around me, filling my lungs with a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness inside. Jesus. I have nothing to be afraid of. Except my own fears and my memories. Those I fear, even if he can’t touch me anymore. It’s still too real and raw to consider for a second that no one else will either, not the way Matt did. Note to self: work on the scared little girl routine. She isn’t the girl inside. She’s the girl the outside has been molded into. She’s the perfect, smiling, charming trophy-wife-to-be. Inside, she’s different. I’m different. Maybe I don’t know exactly who I am yet, but I know I’m not afraid. Fear is a habit. And I will break it.

A soft knock at the door jolts me from my mindless staring at the TV set mounted on the wall of my suite. After the showdown with Tate—which I’ve definitely made more frightening in my mind since—I’ve felt nothing but fear pumping through my body. Every voice outside my door was Matthew coming to find me, and every knock at the door was him finding me. So for all my bravado, the past has crept in.

I’ve been sitting curled in a ball, watching reruns of sitcoms and game shows, attempting to remind myself that the voices outside the door were Dirty B. and Co., and the knock on the door was just room service with my nachos. “Ella? Are you there?” Sofie calls, knocking again. I swallow, swing my feet down from the sofa, and cross the room quickly. I pause, my hand hovering just above the handle. Dammit, I wish there was a peephole. Opening the door, I offer a small smile. “Hi. Sorry. I was just getting dressed.” Sofie glances at my yoga pants–clad legs. “Into yoga pants?” “Err . . . I was half out of them. It was easier to put them back on.” I shrug sheepishly and step to the side. “Is everything okay?” Sofie nods, smiles, and drops onto the sofa. “I was just coming to tell you we’re leaving in thirty minutes.” “Oh, all right. I’ll just get ready.” “Um, are you okay? I know you were sick yesterday, and I didn’t want to bother you then, but, well, my mama instincts are coming out here, and I’m kind of worried because I didn’t hear from you.” Her smile turns hesitant. “Oh—oh, yes, I’m fine, thank you.” I tuck some hair behind my ear and look down. “I took it easy when I came back here.” Note to self: whenever a “thing” needs doing and you fake sickness, text Sofie. “Oh, good! If your headache comes back today, let me know and you can take ten.” She smiles. “I’ll let you get ready.” “Thanks.” I turn back to my room. “Shorts! Shorts,” she calls after me. “And tie your hair up. They’re crazy on these days, and all the runnin’ around makes you hot.” “Got it.” Now to find the clothes I was supposedly just getting changed into. Thankfully my suitcase is open, because I’m too lazy to keep zipping and unzipping it—and I’m reveling in the newfound freedom of everything not having to be completely perfect like before. And, yes, that is yesterday’s shirt peeking out from beneath the desk. It’s invigorating. I flip the top of the suitcase and push my things around inside until I find some denim cutoffs. Grabbing a loose, light pink shirt and underwear, I straighten and change quickly. I keep Sofie’s words in mind as I brush my hair and tie it in a scruffy bun. “Hey, are you good?” Sofie peeks her head around my bedroom door. “Oh, yeah.” I look across the room at her with my mascara wand in my hand. “What’s up?” “I . . . um.” She walks through and perches on the edge of my bed. “Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, because Tate is a giant asshat, okay?” “Uh, okay?” “I got your ‘that thing we spoke about’ cue yesterday, and I’ve noticed that whenever you’re around him you get kind of . . . skittish.” She frowns. “That might not be the right word, but whatever. Anyway,” she meets my eyes, “and after he’s pulled his ‘me macho man’ crap, you’re the same around the rest of the guys. If Tate is makin’ you uncomfortable in any way, tell me, and I’ll talk to him.” “Oh.” My cheeks flush. “It’s okay.”

“Ella, seriously. Y’all have to work together and be comfortable around each other, and you definitely shouldn’t be uncomfortable enough that you have to leave.” “It’s not Tate.” I replace my mascara into my makeup bag. “I just . . . I’m not a guy kind of girl.” “Oh!” Sofie claps her hands over her mouth. “Well, I just put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I? I’m so sorry! Wait—no, I’m sorry, I’m an ass, not that . . . you know.” My eyes widen as the implications of my words settle in. “Crap! I don’t mean—oh hell.” I cover my face with my hands. “Well, this is awkward. I’m not into girls. Like, I don’t mean it like that.” My eyes are seriously doing some kind of shifty dance right now. “I mean I’m not looking for a relationship. With a guy. Right now. I like guys. Oh God. I should probably stop talking right now.” Sofie laughs loudly. “Oh shit, now I really am sorry!” She gets up, still giggling. “Okay. I got it. But if Tate does make you uncomfortable, you’ll tell me, right?” I want to join her in her laughter, because since the second I met Tate Burke’s eyes, I’ve been uncomfortable. “He’s okay. He just has a distinct lack of understanding about personal space.” We share a smile at that. “That’s because no one generally complains when Tate encroaches on their personal space. He’s invited in most times.” She holds open my room door and passes me the key card. “Here. I need to go back to my room to get Conner and Mila. Could you just knock on Aidan’s and Kye’s doors and tell them we’re ready to go? They’re the next two rooms. Tate’s at the end, but I’ll get his lazy ass.” “Oh. Sure.” I ignore the flutter of uncertainty. “Just knock and tell them it’s time to go?” “Yep. They need a ten-minute warning because they’re a bunch of girls.” She smiles and opens her room door. “Who you callin’ a bunch of girls?” Conner appears in my line of sight, Mila clinging to his back like a sea snail. “Your brothers,” Sofie replies without missing a beat. “Ella’s about to get Kye and Ads, then I’ll get Tate in a minute. Can you take Mila down and strap her in to the car?” “Yes, ma’am.” Conner winks at me and drops Mila on the sofa. “Idiot.” Sofie rolls her eyes, then turns to me with a wide, reassuring smile. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes.” “Sure.” I smile, but it’s weak. Lame. Pathetic. Sweet hell, she only wants me to knock on doors and tell them it’s time to go. Not rub myself against them like a cat. I don’t even have to have a conversation, right? Just, “Hi, we’re going in ten. Bye!” Simple, right? Yeah. Simple. I just . . . ugh. This is so dumb. I should not fear knocking on a door, for the love of all nachos and wine! The door to Sofie’s room closes and I lean against the wall. With my purse by my feet, I drop my head back and close my eyes as an overwhelming sense of apprehension floods me. Was I really this weak with Matthew? Am I really so afraid and run-down that knocking on a door is fear-inducing? Dammit all to hell. I slap my hands against my cheeks hard. “Pull yourself together, Ella!” I whisper. “Talkin’ to yourself is the first sign of insanity,” a voice behind me says.

I turn and look at Kye. Or is it Aidan? Dammit, they look so alike. I drop my eyes to his left arm. A pocket-watch tattoo peeks out from beneath the sleeve of his tight-fitting shirt. Kye. “Then I’m probably already halfway there.” My lips twitch. “Did you just work out who I am by my tattoo?” He points to his inner bicep. My cheeks heat. “Um. Yes.” Kye’s lips form a wide grin, and his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Smart. It’s kinda awkward when a girl can’t tell you apart from your twin.” My face gets even warmer at his insinuation. “I didn’t want to be rude and ask, but I guess that was kind of rude anyway.” “It was cute.” He winks. “For the record, I’m the better lookin’ one.” “I plead the Fifth.” I offer a soft smile. “Sofie said to tell you we’re leaving in ten minutes. Which is more like five now,” I add apologetically. “I just need to get Aidan.” “Got it. Meet in the lobby?” “Yes.” I nod unnecessarily and, actually, kinda awkwardly, then pass him. I approach Aidan’s door and knock lightly three times after Kye has disappeared. If one person seeing me make an idiot of myself is one person too many, then two people is definitely overkill. “Ella.” Aidan pulls the door open and—sweet baby Jesus where is his shirt? My eyes widen. “Oh. Aidan. Hi. Um.” And now my eyes are flitting over his chest and stomach. Still wide. Awesome. “Are you okay, Ella?” “Yes! I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to be, um, shirtless.” I cough and meet his eyes. “Sofie said to be in the lobby in five minutes.” “Sure.” He smiles charmingly. “And you’re livin’ with a bunch of guys for the next couple months. You should probably get used to the no-shirt thing.” “Got it.” I smile awkwardly and turn, hugging my purse to myself. “Put a fuckin’ shirt on, Casanova.” Tate’s gravelly, annoyed voice follows me down the hallway. “Ain’t nobody around here that wants to see you naked.” Aidan laughs. “You feelin’ threatened, bro?” I pause by the elevator and glance over my shoulder. “By what? Your weak ass? Fuck off.” Tate looks up and catches my eye. “What d’ya reckon, Els? Is this prick hotter than me?” My lips part. Swallowing in a desperate attempt to kill the dryness in my mouth, I reply, “My name is Ella.” “That wasn’t the question.” Tate’s lips quirk to the side. “Is he hotter than me?” “Obviously I am if you gotta ask,” Aidan scoffs, shutting his door behind him. This time with his shirt on. “Well?” Tate pushes, ignoring him. “I, er . . .” I straighten. “I really don’t think I should answer that question, to be honest.” Tate’s eyebrows go up. “It ain’t hard, darlin’. All you gotta do is say my name.”

I don’t know if I should laugh or be shocked by his brashness. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. He’s completely arrogant, but not in an unlikable way. Which makes absolutely no sense to me, because the most arrogant person I know is the person I hate the most. “But if I say your name, you might think I like you.” I hook my thumb in my pocket. “And then that would boost your ego, and if it gets any bigger, I’m afraid you won’t fit on the stage tonight. So, as your assistant, it’s in my best interests not to do that.” Aidan bursts out laughing just as Kye’s door opens. He looks around and opens his mouth, but when he sees Tate, he shuts it again. If Tate’s eyes could spit fire, I’d be going up in flames. His shadowed jaw is set tight, and I can see the tiny tic in his cheek from the pressure. I reach behind me and push the button for the elevator. “You have to be downstairs in two minutes, ready to leave.” I look between all three of them, then step back. “Oh, and Mr. Burke?” I focus on Tate, my gaze steady. “To answer your question, I’m going with Kye.” His eyes darken and he moves to speak, but it doesn’t matter, because the doors close on his words and end the conversation. I drop my purse to the floor and flatten my back against the wall of the elevator. I stare at the doors, holding my breath. I don’t know what that was—that switch from scared to sassy. It’s not the first time it’s happened since I got here, and I don’t know where it comes from, but I think I like it. It reminds me of the girl I was before any sense of myself was beaten out of me. I retrieve my purse from the floor and step out of the elevator. The lobby is bustling with the guys’ security team, and I can see why. Outside the hotel there’s a large group of girls barely being held back by yet more security guards dressed head to toe in black. “Is it always like this?” I ask Ajax, stepping up beside him. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies. “We take it in stride.” The elevator doors ping open and I turn to see Conner with his arm around Sofie and Mila, flanked by Aidan and Kye, and finally, a still-angry Tate. I fight my urge to shrink back as he approaches us. Instead I cross my arms over my chest and defiantly hold his gaze. “We ready to go?” he asks—presumably—Ajax, his eyes still on me. “Yes, sir,” Ajax responds. “Conner, you and the girls get in the car first.” “Got it.” He nods. “Ella?” “She rides with me,” Tate says firmly. “We need to have a word or two.” My chest heaves. Maybe it’s his words. Maybe it’s the visible tightness of his tattooed arms stretching the material of his shirt. Or maybe it’s the look in his eye. The one that’s scary and . . . a little . . . exciting . . . at the same time. “Ella?” Sofie questions, moving slowly toward the door. “He’s the boss,” I reply, blinking harshly. Tate’s jaw clenches. “Get in the second car,” he orders through clenched teeth. He storms past me, and I force myself to inhale slowly. He isn’t him. He isn’t him. He isn’t him. I chant relentlessly inside my mind as I follow Tate’s tensed, muscular body to the car. Girls are screaming his name, but he ignores every one, determination to get to

the waiting vehicle evident in every one of his steps. He yanks open the door of the black SUV. “Get in,” he demands, nodding at me. I climb into the backseat and scoot along it. “Then ride with Ajax,” Tate snaps to someone over his shoulder. He jumps in the backseat and slams the door behind him. I edge a little closer to the door as he leans forward and closes the partition. My heart thumps—that thing, it’s soundproof. This is a tiny space. Enclosed. Totally private. I wipe my now-sweating hands on my thighs. “All right, Els. Let’s have a talk.” “My name is Ella,” I snap. “It’s not hard.” Tate rests his hand on the seat between us and leans forward. “I’ll call you ‘assistant’ if that’s what I wanna call you. I’m your fuckin’ boss, and if I wanna call you Els, I’m gonna call you Els. You got it?” Annoyance warms my stomach. “What? Is Ella too complicated for you to remember? Two syllables too many?” His fingers twitch. “You talk too fuckin’ much.” “So do you.” “I can remedy that.” “I dare you.” I glare at him. When he doesn’t move, I continue, “As you just said, you’re my boss, and yet again this is a highly inappropriate conversation. Unless you have me in here to discuss something serious with me, I don’t wish to continue this.” He clicks his tongue, and a tension-filled silence ensues. And, boy, I’d hate to get into a staring contest with Tate Burke, because he’s relentless. For what seems like the millionth time, his eyes are on me, studying me, unnerving me. Intense and angry and fiery, those turquoise eyes are so bright they’re rendering me immobile. “Watch your damn mouth.” Each word is edged with anger and saturated in restraint. “I don’t give a shit how you spoke to people in your fancy-ass, upper-class world back in New York, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna have some stuck-up daughter of a high roller comin’ into my world as my fuckin’ employee and talkin’ to me like I’m worth less than her.” Did he just—? “Excuse me?” I gasp. “Talking to you like trash? If you demand respect, Mr. Burke, you should perhaps try and respect other people. Funnily enough, that doesn’t include turning every conversation into something remotely sexual. Not every woman you meet wants to take a ride on what’s inside your pants.” I put my hand back on my purse as we pull up outside the arena. “And you’re right. You don’t know a thing about my life in New York, so don’t sit and assume I’ve lived twenty-two years of glittery rainbows and frolicking unicorns.” I’m shaking as I shove the car door open and get out. Fear and anger are swirling through my body, both of them battling for dominance with the adrenaline pumping through my veins. It’s unnerving, the anger. It’s so out of place for me, and so are the words I just spoke. I don’t argue. I don’t answer back, and I sure as hell don’t disrespect people. I didn’t. I didn’t. Ella Dawson, perfect fiancée of Matthew Hamilton, didn’t.

As of two days ago, I’m not her. I’m Ella Dawson, not a victim, and not afraid. I fear nothing. If I keep telling myself that, maybe I won’t be so shocked the next time Tate Burke decides to annoy the living crap out of me and I bite back.

Tate

She’s a pretty fuckin’ firecracker all wrapped up with a demure little bow. One minute she’s wiping her sweaty, trembling hands on her legs, and the next she’s staring me down and twisting my balls so tightly with her words that they’ve turned blue from blood loss. And, sweet fucking Jesus, where the hell did it come from? Shoulda leaned over the damn seat and kissed her when she dared me to. To hell with being her boss. To hell with Sofie’s damn stupid-ass rules. To hell with Ella’s sassy little smart mouth. Next time she so much as glances at me with a hint of her sass, I’m gonna kiss it right out of her. It ain’t my fault she’s got pretty, pouty pink lips just begging for it. She goes from shy to confident faster than a damn yo-yo spins on its string. And I don’t understand it. Or her. A single fucking bit. I shouldn’t want to, but I do. From the point of view of her employer. If she’s gonna be all bipolaresque on our asses we should know. I roll my shoulders, ignoring the screaming coming from the front of the stage. Yeah. As an employer. That’s why I wanna know. “Five minutes,” Carla says, a headset on her ear and a tablet in her hand. “And—” “Don’t fuck up,” we all say, our voices echoing. “We know, Carla. We know,” Aidan adds. She frowns for a second. “Be ready. They’re screaming out there.” “We got ears, ya know.” I lean back. “Pretty sure I’ve heard them chantin’ my name more than once tonight.” Carla’s lips curl in both annoyance and amusement. “One day, Tate Burke, you’re gonna find yourself a girl that’ll rip you off your pretty little pedestal. I for one cannot wait. Three minutes.” She casts her eyes over us before disappearing again. Conner chuckles. I look over at him. “What?” He smirks. “She’s right. ’Cept I think I know that girl.” “Bro, Sofie’s got attitude, but not that much attitude.” I snort. “Ella, dumbass,” Kye interjects. “Right. The fancy-ass New Yorker that has to organize our shit. Yeah, that’s the one, man. She’s the girl that’s gonna bring me to my fuckin’ knees.” I shake my head and lean back in the chair. “Can’t you see? I attached my Chucks to my knees already so I’m prepared for the fall.”

“Attached them where?” Sofie asks, walking in. “To another girl’s bedpost? I wouldn’t be surprised.” I snap my eyes to the door where she’s standing, Ella at her side. “Yeah,” I respond, looking at Sofie. “That’s exactly where they are. Ready for tonight.” “Well, be back in time to take your niece to McDonald’s for breakfast like you promised.” She purses her lips. “Because I’m not taking her in place of your lazy ass.” Conner nods in agreement, and I glance between them. Holding my hands up, I say, “Y’all think I’m gonna let my Mimi down? Hell no. She got her mama’s attitude already, and I ain’t that fuckin’ dumb.” “Makes a change,” Kye retorts, grinning. I stare at him flatly. Yeah, I’m an asshole. I’m a fucking prick, a heartless dick, a love ’em and leave ’em guy. I don’t even love them. I fuck and leave. Simple. But letting Mila down is out of the question. The first time she grabbed at me, squealing “Tay,” she wrapped me around her chubby little finger. If that baby girl needs me, you bet your ass I’m gonna be there. And fuck it—if I promised her a McDonald’s breakfast behind her mama’s back, she’s gonna get it. “Two minutes,” Ella says softly from behind Sofie. “You guys needs to move.” I look at her, breathing heavily but slowly as the rush of adrenaline builds inside me. It’s always the same. Until the last call, until the moment we have to get off our asses, I’m cool. We all are. Then we’re called for two minutes, and we have to move into the wings, and it gets real. There’re more name-screams; the excited kind that tingle across my skin, and soon, there’ll be more echoing and deafening yells of our lyrics. Our damn lyrics. The ones we wrote over breakfast at the kitchen table, at family parties in the corner, and even the ones we wrote at Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary dinner. It’s another stage. Another concert. Another fucking sellout. Another dream come true. “Now,” Ella adds, her eyes barely lingering on mine for a second before they drop to the floor. Another moment of staring at her passes before I get up and turn away. Shit, I fucking hate it when people don’t look at me when they’re talking to me. This chick only does it when she’s pissed at me with some bullshit adrenaline-induced bravado. I slam the dressing room door open and walk the halls until we reach the wings. “Thirty seconds,” Carla whispers. Her eyes fall on each of us, one after the other, her gaze full of apprehension and confidence. A crazy mix, one that should make no fucking sense but does. It’s the feeling I have swirling in my stomach right now. I’m nauseated yet excited as hell. Ten steps and I’ll meet my Kryptonite, my dream, my happily fucking ever after. My guitar. “And . . . go.” Conner steps past me and leads us out the way he always does. The youngest leading the oldest—get a fucking load of that. But it doesn’t matter. Because the crowd screams. Conner grabs his mic. Me and Kye grab our guitars. Aidan spins his drumsticks. And the music is all that matters.

I down the bottle of water Ella hands to me and drop it into the trash. She nods softly, stepping back as we make our way back out for the second half of the show. There are the screams—always the screams. Shouts and yells and the damn screams that make my ears ring. I adjust my earpiece until the backing track starts playing. We fall into the music, Conner’s words unknown to us. All that matters here is hitting the notes and getting it right. Our names are screamed, we’ve hit the billboards and are on the verge of a platinum album—but we’re still teenage boys in our parents’ garage. We’ll never fucking forget that. I never will. Our priorities are what they were then—getting it right. The song peters out and Conner rests his mic in the stand. “Phew,” he says, wiping his brow. “Hey, can I get a towel here? I’m doin’ an Olaf and meltin’!” Cries ring out as a towel comes flying and lands by his feet. Conner bends down, grabs it, and wipes it across his forehead. “Damn,” he drawls, throwing his towel into the darkness of the wings. “It’s a good thing y’all are worth meltin’ for. Am I right?” My lips twitch up. Fucking crowd-pleaser. That’s why he’s the front man—he makes them swoon even when he ain’t singing. “All right, ladies, keep them panties on,” Conner teases, laughing. “Y’all can form an orderly queue to give ’em to Tate after the show. There are even Sharpies provided for your number-writin’ convenience.” He turns back and winks at me dramatically. “You know I ain’t turnin’ that down, baby brother,” I answer, just like they expect me to. Same shit, different concert. “Back door, ladies,” I cast my eyes over the crowd, “I’ll make sure security pass ’em on.” Aidan adds a drum roll for good measure. Quietly, he laughs, then smirks at me. They all know I don’t call those fuckin’ numbers. If you’ve got the balls to walk up to me and be honest, I’m on that shit like a whore in a brothel. Hand your scribbled-on panties to my security and they end up in the trash. “All right, all right,” Conner interjects to the swoony-screamy thing going on. “Y’all want some music or are you here to see my brother?” There’s a mixture of “music” and “brother,” and I chuckle. Grabbing my mic, I say, “How about I sing y’all a little somethin’? Yeah?” The four of us meet eyes as they scream. It’s for sure. Every time. Conner might make them swoon, but I make them melt. Their panties, that is. End of story. “Okay, ladies. Y’all ready? Grab those panties,” Kye says, strumming on his guitar. “Shit’s about to get real.” I look down at my guitar and run my fingers across the strings. Aidan counts us in, and I close my eyes, the music humming across my skin.

Word after word, the lyrics fall from my mouth, giving them something to dream of, to believe in, although it’ll never be theirs. They hope anyway, grasping onto my words until everything is gone. One night only, Grasping sheets, A crinkled quilt, The rising sun, One last good-bye, baby, I sing. The beat picks up, and . . . The butterflies, they’re nothin’, The heart pounds, mean nothin’. One night, that’s all you get, It’s all we got, take it now, One last good-bye, I’ll give to you, One last good-bye, baby. I strum the last chords of the song, the final words crushing everything the song built it up to be. But— hey, if they’re gonna make me sing a fuckin’ song, don’t expect it to be a love ballad. It’ll be the damn truth. I’m too focused on the band for something more than one night. Aidan smiles at me from his perch on his stool and I glare back at him. He’s as bad as I fucking am. His longest fuck lasted a week—mine was Nina, before she sold my family out for her own ass. Even then, she was lucky to get ten days of my time. I look back at my guitar and let the next song flow over me. The music, the lyrics—they’re second nature, even our newest single is. They’re all buried under my damn skin, pounding with every beat of our collaboration. My fingers tease the guitar strings endlessly. The music flows through my veins, a rush and comfort. An exhilaration and a soother. A total contradiction, but one that makes sense nonetheless. Song after song it goes, one after another, beat after chord, chord after lyric, lyric after scream, scream after blackout. We set our instruments down softly and walk back into the wings. Ella is standing in mine, clasping a bottle of water. I close my fingers around the neck of the bottle, my pinkie barely an inch from hers, and pause. “You did good,” she says softly, swallowing before she looks up and meets my eyes. I stare into her dark eyes, the color of dark chocolate, of a black coffee after a night of no sleep, and I reply, “I know.” I take the bottle from her, unscrew the cap, and tip it up, walking past her. I don’t need my cute-as-fuck assistant getting into my head tonight.

No, I need some fangirling, groupie-ass bitch to bend over for me so I can relieve this stress. Stress? What fucking stress? From the stuck-up assistant? I’m done. I give the fuck up. I throw the empty bottle in the trash and walk outside before my brothers do. Sofie and Ella will get my shit—it’s their damn job. It’s what I pay their asses for. I don’t pay Sofie to fuck my brother, and I don’t pay Ella to get me wound tighter than my mom’s cross-stitch panels. I pay to make sure I get out of the stadium, get a girl, get off, then get her gone. Simple as fuck. I run my hand through my hair and shove the back doors open. There are a few VIP fans there waiting for us, and thankfully, my brothers are out right after me. We scrawl on sheets of paper, on books, on photos, and pose for endless smartphone pictures. A blond chick approaches and slinks up beside me, her arm wrapping around my waist as her friend takes our photo. I glance down—her tits are popping, and that’s all the encouragement I need. “The Viscount,” I murmur in her ear. “Room 445.” Her fingers stroke my side. I smile for one more fake photo and break away from her. I head for the SUV without waiting for anyone else and direct the driver back to the hotel. The drive is quick and easy, our route to the hotel unencumbered by anyone else. I get out of the car and stop to scrawl on sheets of paper and postcards. Carlos, one of our guards, flanks me, making sure the fans don’t take things too far. I work my way down the line to the lobby door and, at the last minute, dart inside. This bitch better turn up. I ride the elevator up to my floor and walk the length of the corridor to my room. No sooner have I shut the door behind me than I hear a knock. It’s the blonde—tipsy and grinning, her tits even more on show than before. I tug her through the door and slam against her. My lips push hers harshly, and the taste of vodka makes me feel sick. “Don’t you want to know my name?” I squeeze her ass tightly. “I don’t fuckin’ need it.” She moves with me to the sofa as I wrench her purse and phone from her hand. They land on the floor as I cup her pantie-covered pussy. I pop her tits from their concealment with my other hand and rub them, giving them a cursory nipple-lick, but I don’t give a shit about this chick’s pleasure. I rub her clit for a minute, then roll a condom on and shove myself inside her. She cries out but she grabs at me. Her nails dig at my back as I drive myself into her in the most selfish way I can imagine. Still, her pussy tightens, and with a few short pumps, she cries her release around me. I groan. It’s fake. I’m as fucking hard as I was when she walked in the door. I fake a couple harsh breaths then pull out of her. “I’m going to clean up. Leave by the time I get back.” Leaving her lying on the sofa with her legs open, I stroll into the bedroom and lock the bathroom door. I shower quickly, washing every inch of that easy whore from me, wishing I could scrub my fuckin’ mind clean of Ella Dawson.

I walk out with a towel around my waist. Blondie is still on the sofa with her skirt around her hips, but at least her bra is covering her obviously fake tits. “I thought I said leave.” “Tate,” she whimpers. “I thought it was all night.” I stare at her. Is she fucking serious? I grab my phone and dial Ella’s number. “Y-yes?” “I have a situation that needs taking care of.” She pauses. “You mean you have a girl that needs removing from your room.” “Aren’t you a modern-day fuckin’ Einstein?” I snipe, each word a sharp snap, because this bitch isn’t the brunette that’s been dominating my thoughts for the last couple days. “Five minutes, asshole,” Ella responds. She hangs up before I can reply. Asshole? Who the fuck is she talking to? There’s knocking at my door, finally, after many protestations from Barbie. I open the door to Ella, looking tired yet fresh, and Carlos. I meet his eyes. “Get her out.” I nod toward Blondie. “Tate? What?” she says. I stare at Ella as the blond chick is removed. Clingy bitches. Rolling my shoulders, I rest my hands on either side of the doorframe and ask Ella, “How’d you find tonight?” She steps back. “It was awesome until you called me to clean up your mess.” “It’s in your contract, darlin’.” Her eyes spark with annoyance. “Actually, it says nothing about removing your entertainment.” I lean forward. “Then I’ll make a note to amend it in the mornin’. And, for what it’s worth, that wasn’t cleaning up my mess. If I wanted you to do that I woulda called you five minutes earlier and had you in the fuckin’ shower with me, Els.” My eyes ghost down her body, lingering at her full breasts and toned thighs. Thinking of her in the shower, naked and wet, is doing fuck all for the erection I can’t get rid of. In fact, it’s downright painful right now. She stares at me stonily, that annoyed spark flaring into full-fledged anger. “Believe me, Mr. Burke, if the impossible happens and you somehow get me in a shower with you, I’d probably drown you, not clean you.” “Tate. My name is Tate.” “And mine is Ella.” With one last harsh look, she turns. I step into the hall and watch her walk to her room. Fuck. She really does have a gorgeous ass. “Oh—be ready for eight a.m.,” she adds, pausing with her hand on her door. “Gonna give me a wake-up call?” She glances at me. “With a rock? Sure. Otherwise, no. You have a cell phone with an alarm function, Mr. Burke, use it.” I laugh as she disappears into her room. Damn. I don’t have a chance in hell at working this chick out, much less her behavior, but it’s a fun fuckin’ ride.

Ella

Note to self: next time Tate Burke calls you to his room, make sure he has pants on before you go. I don’t know what annoyed me more, the fact he wanted me to get rid of that girl like she was a bag of trash or that he didn’t put his pants on before he called me. Worst thing is that I didn’t exactly hate that he wasn’t wearing pants. Maybe that’s why I was annoyed. Why I still freakin’ am. He pulled an asshole move, something totally disrespectful to the girl and to me, and I was still marginally attracted to him. Marginally. Just a tiny bit. Because, you know, it’s easy to find someone that looks, like, that incredibly attractive. With the selection of tattoos snaking up his arms and onto his chest, not to mention his lean, defined physique, he’s like a . . . I don’t know. A walking wet dream. I cover my eyes with my hand. Boss, Ella. No men, Ella. Find yourself before an orgasm, Ella. “Okay,” I whisper to myself. Sheesh—here we go again with the talking to myself. Maybe Kye’s right and I really am going crazy. I wouldn’t be surprised, after everything. At least Tate’s act last night proved something to me. He won’t hurt me. If I spoke to Matthew the way I spoke to Tate last night, I’d be dead right now. At the very least I’d be clinging to life desperately. But Tate. . . . He just stood there and threw words at me. They were sexy words, yep, but that was it. He didn’t slam me against a wall with his hand around my neck, or introduce his fist to my nose. He did nothing. Like a normal guy. Like a normal, non-abusive, level-headed guy. Well, I’m not sure level-headed guys actually treat women the way he treated Siobhan last night, but it’s close enough. “Cake! Oh my shit!” Sofie shrieks from the other room. I poke my head around the door. “Huh?” “Ella!” She claps her hands to her cheeks and looks at me, horrified. “I forgot to get Mila a birthday cake!” “Mama!” Mila stomps up next to me. “No cake?” “Oh shit!” “Mama, bad!” Sofie moves her hands to her mouth and looks at me, wide-eyed. “Mila, where’s Tate?” “Tay ahind.” She points a chubby finger over her shoulder. I glance in the direction she’s pointing. Tate’s sitting in a plush chair, slouched back, and is very obviously staring at my ass. I cough, and he snaps his eyes up to mine with a smirk.

“Did you already get breakfast?” Sofie looks at him. “And a cupcake,” he confirms. “A pink one with ‘sarkys, peez, Tay.’ ” My lips twitch into a small smile. “A cupcake? It’s not even ten a.m.!” “And she had McDonald’s for breakfast. What point are you makin’?” “I was coerced into agreeing to that because you already promised her and it’s her birthday.” Sofie glares at him. “Well, there ya go.” He holds his hands out. “It’s her birthday and she coerced me into a cupcake, didn’t you, Mimi?” Mila gazes up at Sofie, eyes wide, grinning. Sofie sighs heavily and laughs. “Okay. Sheesh. I’m gonna take her upstairs and then get a cake.” “I can do it,” I offer. “I don’t mind going to the store.” “It’s okay.” Sofie rests her hand on my arm. “I’ll get one of the guys to go.” “I’ll go with her.” Tate stands up and stretches his arms over his head. “Er,” I stutter. “Do you know your way around Charleston?” He raises his eyebrows. “I . . . no,” I admit. “There we go.” He looks at Sofie. “Sof, we’ll get her a cake. You go do your thing.” Sofie exhales slowly. “Okay.” “And stop freakin’ out. You’re drivin’ me fu—froggin’,” he glances to Mila, “crazy. She’s gonna have fun with us. Ain’t that right, Mimi?” He bends down, swoops the tiny girl up, and spins her around. Mila giggles. “Uh-huh. My lub Tay. Awww.” She wraps her arms around his neck, and Tate hugs her tightly. “My lub Mimi.” He smacks a big kiss on her cheek. “Be good and I’ll bring you another cupcake, okay?” “No!” Sofie snaps when he puts an excited Mila down. Tate grins playfully and looks at me. “Let’s go, Els.” I glare at his back. Him and that damn nickname. He gets one of the security guards to follow us and leads me into the private parking lot. The tour bus takes up most of it, but there are a couple of huge SUVs in the corner. Tate pulls some keys from his jeans pocket and points a black fob at one of the vehicles. “Come on.” He holds the passenger side door open for me. “Thanks?” I put my purse on the floor and grab the door to help get me in. Jesus—this thing is massive. “Eeek!” I squeal, feeling Tate’s hands on my waist. Fear jolts through me at the touch, but all he does is boost me up into the car easily. He walks around to his side, and I shake my head at myself. Wasn’t it only twenty minutes ago that I was telling myself I know he won’t hurt me? Looks like this habit of fear will be harder to break than I thought. “You all right?” Tate looks at me from the corner of his eyes when he starts the car. I nod my answer, because my mouth is too dry to speak. “Sure?”

Another nod. He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes flick to me every few seconds for the next couple of minutes. I shift in my seat. I’m uncomfortable with his silent pushing for me to speak, because that’s what it is. And it’s kind of working, because I want to snap at him to stop. Looking. At. Me. Now. “You planning on escaping, darlin’?” “Huh?” My head spins in his direction so fast my neck aches. “You’re so close to the door I think you’re about to fall out.” I slide back into the middle of my seat. “Oh.” “Oh?” “Oh.” He frowns, but the lights change at the intersection and his focus is forced back onto the road. Thankfully. I look at my hands resting in my lap for the rest of our journey to the store. When we get there, I push the door open and jump out of the car. I barely remember to grab my purse. I just know I need to get out of the small space. “Wait,” Tate calls. Another car pulls up next to ours and the security guy steps out. Of course—the Dirty B. boys rarely get to go anywhere without being mobbed by either fans or cameras, especially on tour. Tate and the security guy catch up with me halfway across the parking lot. Another car pulls up and a camera lens is poked out of a window. Immediately, I duck my head so my hair is covering my face. The more hidden I can stay, the better. Tate eyes me curiously but doesn’t say a word, and I’m grateful. We enter the store and walk through the aisles to where the boxed cakes are. Tate scans the shelves until he finds a Frozen one. He sets it in the cart gently, then turns to me. “Last month it was Peppa Pig. This month it’s all about Olaf.” “I have no idea what any of that is.” He stops and looks back at me. “You don’t know what Peppa or Frozen is?” “Frozen is a movie?” I guess. “Do New Yorkers live under child-hating rocks?” My lips twitch. “In my parents’ circles? Yes.” “Awesome.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “I have approximately thirty minutes to educate you on Frozen.” I blink at him. Did he just—is Tate Burke seriously going to tell me about a kid’s movie? Twelve hours ago I was kicking someone out of his room. Now I’m about to get a lesson in Frozen. This must be the Twilight Zone.

I stare at the snowman-style tea set. “That’s Olaf?”

“The snowman.” Tate nods. “If you really want to get her a birthday present, she’d love you forever if you got this.” “Right.” I pick up the box and study it. Disney sure has come a long way since The Little Mermaid. “I still don’t understand the movie.” Tate wheels the cart down the aisle to the books. I follow him and stop next to him. He grabs a Frozen book off the shelf and hands it to me. “Here. Educate yourself, Els.” I cut my eyes to him. “You want me to stand in the middle of the aisle in Target to read a children’s story?” He shrugs. “Or in the car. I’m buyin’ her the book anyway. Conner loves to read stories.” His grin is mischievous. “I think the car will be best,” I say slowly, putting both the tea set and the book in the cart with the cake. “Do you have wrapping paper?” “Am I supposed to?” “Um, yes.” I roll my eyes and hook my finger over the end of the cart. “Come on.” I tug it. “Seriously, you know all the kid’s shows but you don’t know to wrap presents. And you say I lived under a rock.” “Frozen. Peppa Pig. Sesame Street. Doc McStuffins. Mickey Mouse.” “I know Mickey Mouse!” “Clubhouse?” “What is that?” I stop by the rolls of paper and look back at Tate. He shakes his head. “Amateur.” My jaw drops. He grabs four rolls of paper then drops them into the cart. “I don’t have any kids in my family, and neither does my ex. I’m not used to . . . this.” I look at the contents of the cart. “Ex, huh?” I freeze. “What? Just because you don’t have one, you think no one else does?” Tate spins on his feet, twirling the cart round with him. “No. I’ve just been wonderin’ how and why you ended up as a PA with a degree from fuckin’ Harvard, and now I know. You’re runnin’ from an ex.” “N-no. I’m not?” His lips twitch. “You don’t sound so sure there, darlin’.” “I’m not running,” I repeat, forcing my voice to be steady. “So why are you here?” “I needed a change of scenery.” “Riiiiight.” Tate rings the items through the self-checkout, even mine, and deposits them back into the cart. “I can pay for mine.” “Sure you can, but I’ve done it now.” “I’m paying you back.” “I’m sure you will, Els.” “Will you stop calling me that?” “Will you stop lyin’ about why you’re here?” I inhale slowly when he opens the trunk and puts the shopping bags in. “I’m not lying.”

“Mhmm.” He pushes the cart to the security guy, who wheels it over to the cart shelter. Then he walks to me, slowly, and reaches around my body to the car door. With his fingers curled around the door handle, he leans his face toward mine. “Then why,” he whispers, “don’t you look at me when you tell me?” I avert my eyes to the side, saying nothing. He’s standing so close to me, and he smells good. Like, really good. Like coffee and cinnamon—warm and comforting. Nothing like the harsh cologne Matthew used to wear, and definitely nothing like the whiskey and cigarette smoke he occasionally smelled like. “Huh?” he prompts, his voice still a gentle breezing whisper. “That’s what I thought.” “Leave it alone,” I reply, finally bringing my eyes to meet his. They’re burning into me, thrilling and scary, and it’s all I can do to ignore the shiver that cascades its way down my spine. “Please,” I finish quieter. “Never.” He steps forward. There’s barely a breath of space between our bodies, and my heart is pounding double time, but I don’t know why, because this is wrong, he’s wrong. “I will get it out of you, Ella Dawson. I’m dyin’ to know why a pretty little city girl like you is slumming it on a tour bus with a boy band. And, darlin’ . . .” He runs his thumb along my jaw. “I will get it out of you, even if you’re on your back beneath me when I do.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Still not happening.” “The telling or the fucking?” Defiantly, I stare at him, despite the quivering of my hands. “Neither.”

M ila is hands down the sweetest little girl in the world. After she demolished every inch of paper on her present from me, she clapped her hands to her cheeks and gasped. Seconds later, she launched herself at me for a giant “skeezy hug.” Which is apparently a really, really tight squeeze around your neck. Everyone got the same treatment as she made her way through the stack of presents in the corner, but Tate won the battle of the gifts. The life-size Olaf—which is bigger than the birthday girl—almost reduced her to tears, she was so excited. Now she’s sitting on the sofa next to me, with Frozen on the giant plasma-screen TV, explaining every scene to me. Well, as good as a toddler can. “Ven! Ven!” She claps her hands excitedly. “Ahh, Ven! Get Anna! Go, go!” I glance down at her and smile. “Does he get her?” She looks at me and sighs. “Watch, Ella. Watch.” She points vigorously. “Okay, okay.” Tate perches on the arm of the sofa next to me. “You get the story yet?” I jump at his sudden arrival, then nod. “I’m going to move to Norway and find my own Olaf.”

“Don’t bother. Mila already convinced me to be Olaf for Halloween.” My lips form a grin, and I turn my face toward him. “For real?” He shrugs. “She agreed to let me be zombie Olaf.” “Unbelievable.” I laugh as Conner calls for Mila. She whines in protest until he mentions the c-word —“candy.” I’ve quickly come to realize that Mila’s absolute favorite thing in the world is Sour Patch Kids, and that Conner always seems to have a stash of them somewhere around his person. He uses them for anything, including bribery. Hey, it works. I’m not judging. I’ll probably do the same one day if I ever have kids. Mila climbs down from the sofa and runs across the room to where he’s standing. “Hey!” Tate shouts, sitting up straight. “Where you goin’?” “Dadda,” Mila answers simply, her hand clasped around her bunny’s ear. “Uh, where’s my kiss?” Her eyes widen and she toddles back over, trailing her rabbit. Mila stops in front of Tate, lifts her rabbit, and presses its mouth against his. I cover my mouth with my hands as she skips away laughing manically. Tate gets up, and in a few long strides, swoops Mila up and over his shoulder on her back. “That wasn’t a kiss, Mimi! Was it?” “Was too! Bunna kiss!” She attempts to make kissy noises, but it’s completely overshadowed by her ear-ringing shriek when Tate blows a raspberry on her belly. I laugh hard, leaning on the back of the sofa. Oh my gosh. I challenge someone to find something cuter —and hotter—than a sexy, tattooed asshole loving on a two-year-old girl. You won’t find it. Ever. “Kiss kiss!” Tate laughs to himself, the effectiveness of his raspberries declining severely. “Tate—what the hell?” Sofie stops in the doorway. “What are you—never mind.” She giggles softly. “Dammit, Tate!” Conner straightens. “Now how am I meant to sneak her candy?” “Grab her and run, bro!” Tate darts across the room, deposits Mila into Conner’s arms, and blocks the doorway. “I’ll hold Momzilla off.” “Momzilla? I’ll Momzilla your ass, you dick!” Sofie rushes toward him, but Tate wraps his arms around her. “Go, Con, go!” he shouts, carrying a squirming Sofie over to the free couch. She screams when he throws her down. “Tate Burke, I’m gonna kick your sorry ass!” She scrambles up, pushes her hair from her face, and half-giggles, half-frowns at him. “How do you think you’re gonna manage that, short stuff?” “I’ll call your mom.” She folds her arms across her chest and smirks. “You wouldn’t.” “Mhmm. And I’m sure she’d be real pleased to hear how her eldest baby disrespected a woman last night.” “Evil bitch. And I thought we were finally friends.”

“Behave yourself.” She puts two fingers to her eyes then points them at her. “I’m mom around here, doll. I’ve got my eye on you, and I have your mom on speed dial.” I bury my face in my hands at the horror in Tate’s eyes as Sofie walks backward out of the room. I have to laugh. I can’t help it. The biggest asshole of Dirty B. can be brought to his knees by a two-year-old girl and her mom. This. Is. Priceless. “What are you laughin’ at, Els?” I stop and glare at him. “You want me to get your mom’s number?” “You wouldn’t dare.” “You sure about that?” He launches himself toward me and, with his hands on the back of the couch on either side of my head, leans forward. Inches are separating our noses, and I wish like hell he’d stop getting so freakin’ close to me. There’s this crazy warmth that radiates from his body, and I’m not gonna deny that my eyes are flicking to his tensed biceps. So I’m an arms girl. I can’t help it. “I’m sure,” he breathes, his eyes hot on mine, begging me to look up at him. I do. For some reason, I damn well do. Bright and hinting at that turquoise color I’m coming to recognize, his eyes are intense, serious yet teasing, mischievous. And I breathe in, slowly, because he shouldn’t be affecting me. I don’t want him to know he’s affecting me. “You won’t call my mom because you’re too fuckin’ nice to. You’re too quiet and shy, despite that crazy-ass sassy mouth of yours that pops up now and then.” Of their own accord, my lips move into a small smile. “How do you know my sassy mouth won’t pop up and call her for my shy self?” “Because if it does, I’ll have to kiss it into fuckin’ silence.” He leans forward, just a little more. Enough that my inhale isn’t all that slow or quiet. “How do you do it?” I whisper. “How do you go from woman-using rock star to adoring uncle to . . . this?” “What is . . . this?” “I don’t know. Gentle asshole?” “I’m still your boss, y’know. I should have had your ass for calling me an asshole last night.” “Why didn’t you?” “I was too busy staring at your ass as you walked away from me to remember.” He smirks. “For what it’s worth, you have a real fuckin’ nice ass.” “Thanks. I guess.” I raise an eyebrow. “And back to my question?” He smiles, his eyes sparkling, and drops onto the sofa next to me. “I love my family, Els. And Mila most of all. She fuckin’ hated me the first time we met. First time she looked at me, she burst into tears.” “Seriously?” I turn to face him. “I don’t believe you.” “I swear. She didn’t let me go anywhere near her until I returned her Bunna to her. Since then she’s been like my best friend.”

“But you’re such a dick to everyone else.” “Me and my brothers—we’re like that. Do you have any siblings?” At the shake of my head, he continues, “We’re together all the time, especially when we’re on tour. It grates on you. We gotta bitch at each other or we go fuckin’ crazy. It’s better to bitch playfully than have it go too far, because that’s ended up physical more than once.” I swallow. “But Mila? Dammit.” He shakes his head. “I love that kid somethin’ fierce. I’d kill anyone who tried to cross her.” I look at him. The darkness of his hair, the brightness of his eyes, the curve of his jaw. “But if you can love so much, why are you so hateful to the girls you sleep with?” He opens his mouth, but I sit up and interrupt him. “Oh, come on. I might not have known about Frozen this morning, but I read the tabloids, you know?” In secret. On my phone. On the toilet. “Your reputation isn’t exactly a secret.” His lips purse and he straightens. “Seriously? You wanna know why?” I nod slowly. “It doesn’t make sense in relation to this other person you are. I swear, you’re giving me whiplash with your multiple personalities.” He laughs. “All right, Els, darlin’, because it’s you.” “Because I’m so special.” He winks. Leaning forward, his expression becomes stoic. “All the girls are interested in is my money and my fame. They wanna be a notch on my bedpost, my arm candy, my spoiled bitch of a girlfriend.” “So why do you even take them home?” He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t trust anyone, Els. Only my family. Too many people have betrayed me for me to give that shit out like it’s candy on Halloween.” His eyes convey his meaning: he doesn’t trust me either. That’s cool. I don’t particularly trust him. “I don’t blame you,” I reply softly, looking away. “I don’t trust anyone either. It’s more hassle than it’s worth.” Tate stands, his eyes still on me, despite the fact that mine are staring at the credits for Frozen on the TV. “Trust Sofie,” he says, breaking the moment of silence. “She’ll never lead you wrong. She’s fucked up plenty, but she’s also made all her mistakes right. She’ll be your best fuckin’ friend if you’ll let her.” I swallow hard, and I meet his eyes for a brief second. “I’ll try.”

Tate

I pack the guitar into the case and carry it out to the bus. Another city done. Next stop: Atlanta, Georgia. Where the girls are hot and the sex is hotter. With any luck, I’ll find a chick to fuck Ella out of my system. For real, this girl has been our assistant for six days and I’m going stir-fry motherfucking crazy. I can see her now, standing in the lobby of the hotel, a notepad and pen in her hands, laughing and smiling with everyone. Despite her initial shyness, she’s fitting right in. Everyone seems to love her. She’s gorgeous, she’s quiet, and she’s sweet. She’s a fucking walking dream, if you like that shit. She’s soft and gentle—even down to her laugh. I swear to God that when she laughs, the clouds part, like something out of the Bible, and every giggle is accompanied by an angel singing. Shame about the shadows in her eyes whenever I ask her why she’s here. It’s the ex—of that I’m damn well sure. She clammed up when I asked about him. It’s bugging the ever-loving shit out of me, because she’s so out of place here. She really is the upper-class girl I took her for the second I looked at her. She ain’t made for sleeping on a tour bus as we drive between cities. She ain’t a coffee-getter, a schedule-maker, and she sure as hell ain’t a girl-kicker-outer. The disgust in her eyes when she did it made that point perfectly fucking clear. Next time, I’ll call Sofie. But, hell, she’s damn well doing all the shit I’m throwing at her, and she’s taking it all in her sexy little hip-swaying stride. “Are you ready to go?” I turn and look down at Ella. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she pushes her bangs out of her eyes when she gazes up. “Yep. Which one are you ridin’ on?” I nod back to the buses. “You goin’ with Sof?” “Ah.” She briefly shoots a look over her shoulder. “Sof said I should ride with you three. Something about getting to know you and getting familiar with your schedule.” Her voice quivers when she says “getting to know you,” and fuck, it shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. I’d give her a fucking raise if it meant she’d let me get to know her more. And I’d like to know her very, very well. As long as you count her body as “her.” “All right.” I pull the door open and motion for her to enter. “Ladies first.”

Her eyes flick to me suspiciously, and she slides her purse strap from her elbow to her hand to clasp it tightly. With her other hand, she grabs the rail and makes her way upstairs. I drop my eyes to her ass. Shit me—those shorts shouldn’t be legal around me. Or any other man. “Ladies first,” Kye sniggers, “Because he can’t stare at your ass if you’re behind him!” I punch his arm. “Fuck off. You were lookin’, too.” “Hell yeah, I was. She’s got a killer ass.” My little brother darts past me and runs into the bus. I follow him up and glare at him. “Back off, Kye. She’s not your next plaything.” “I didn’t realize you’d already claimed her.” “Wait, are we claimin’ Ella?” Aidan adds, walking through from the bedroom. “At least wait for me to make this shit fair.” Ella looks between the three of us. Her eyes are wide and shining, with the embarrassment causing her cheeks to burn red. “Um, no one is claiming me for anything. And I’m no one’s plaything. If I want to play, I’ll play with myself, thanks.” I sit on the seat next to her, grinning. Oh, sweet fuck. The image of her lying back, dark hair spread over pillows, head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted, with her hand between her toned thighs is too much for my cock to bear. It hardens quickly, pushing against my zipper. Motherfucker. That’d be a damn good way to start Atlanta’s leg of the tour. Never mind the Southern chicks—I’ll take the Northern one and let the twins have their fun. “Wait!” She covers her cheeks with her hands. “That came out wrong. I mean—I don’t—play with—oh God.” I fight my laughter and see my brothers doing the same. “You don’t? Way to ruin a guy’s day, Els.” She stands and grabs her purse, her cheeks still flaming. “I think I’m going to go with Sofie and Conner.” “Sit down, darlin’. We’re fucking with you. If you’re gonna work with us, you gotta get used to it. We might be in our twenties, but we’ve got the mind of sexually frustrated teenagers.” “Yeah,” Ads agrees. “Besides, if we take it too far, just tell us to fuck off.” “Um,” she says softly. “I’m not sure.” “Hey.” I grab her wrist and tug her down next to me, then rest my hand on her back. “We’re sorry—we really were just messin’ with you.” “I know,” she replies, just as quietly. “You fit with us so well it’s easy to forget you just got here and don’t really understand us yet,” Kye adds. “Seriously, we get carried away pretty fuckin’ easily, so just tell us when it’s too much.” “Okay.” Ella swallows. “I’m just gonna go use the bathroom.” She clasps her purse tightly and practically runs down the bus. I watch her go, and shit, yeah, I feel a little bad. She’s obviously uncomfortable as hell right now, and that’s our fault. She wasn’t exactly comfortable before we started being . . . well, us. “Damn,” Aidan and Kye whisper together. “That chick is real fuckin’ sensitive,” I say. “No shit,” they say, this time louder.

“Y’all can fuck off with that creepy-ass shit.” I glare at them. Fucking twins—they ain’t five anymore. They can shove their mind-reading-simultaneous-speech crap where the sun don’t shine. They just shrug and pull their phones from their pockets. A door opens and closes at the other end of the bus. I look up, but when Ella doesn’t appear, I frown. Leaving my brothers doing whatever it is on their phones, I ease out from behind the table and walk down the bus. The engine rumbles to life and I grab the fridge to steady me as it pulls away from the hotel parking lot. I dart through the rest of the bus before we turn corners to the bedroom. I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. “Ella? You in there?” “Yes. I just need a minute.” “Are you all right?” She doesn’t reply. Dammit. Now I gotta go in there, and she’s probably cryin’ or some shit. I push down on the handle and crack the door open an inch. “Fear nothing,” is the whisper I hear. Her whisper. What? “Els, I’m comin’ in.” “No!” she shrieks, but it’s too late, because the door is open, and I can see her standing in front of the mirror. Her back is to it and her shirt is bunched up beneath her breasts. My eyes fall to the mirror and the markings on her back. Yellow mixes with fading blue and purple— or at least I hope it’s fucking fading. Ella shoves her shirt down, covering the bruise. “What the fuck is that?” “It’s nothing,” she rambles. “Just a bruise.” “Just a bruise? Fuck, Els!” I shove the door shut and cross the room toward her. She holds her hands out to stop me but I shove them away and yank her shirt up. The bruise covers most of the lower half of her back and disappears below her waistband. “That’s the worst ‘just a bruise’ I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. A blue mark on a kneecap is just a bruise. That’s a nightmare.” “It doesn’t matter!” she snaps, yanking the material from my hands and stepping away. She wraps her arms around her waist and looks at her feet. “Who did that to you?” “No one!” she protests, her eyes landing on mine, full of fear. “It was an accident.” I stare at her stonily, anger rumbling in my chest, and in return, she begs me with her gaze to stop. I won’t. You don’t get bruises like that from an accident unless it’s almost fatal. “You fell down the stairs, right?” “Maybe I did.” “Bullshit. Did your ex do that? Is that why you’re runnin’?” “I said it was an accident!” she yells, backing away from me. I step forward and she flinches, tears shining in her dark eyes. I freeze. And a moment passes between us. I don’t know what the fucking moment is, I just know it happens. “That’s one hell of a disrespectful accident.” I cut through the silence.

“What would you know about respect?” Her voice is a whisper, so quiet I can barely hear it, yet it fucking screams at me. The words hurtle toward me, and when they hit me, they hit me fucking hard. “You’re right. I am disrespectful to women,” I admit, “but I’d never, ever, fucking ever lay a finger on one.” “Congratulations. I’ll take you home and you can tell my stairs exactly why they can’t get a girlfriend.” My head shakes of its own accord. Because there isn’t a thing I can say to make her change her story and tell me the truth. And, really, it’s none of my business. She could have the dirtiest past known to man—hell, mine’s so fucking dirty you could bleach it and it would still be marked—but that doesn’t matter. What happened last week, before she arrived in Charleston, is irrelevant. She wasn’t my employee then. The only thing that’s my business is that she’s okay now, today. Something that would be easier to swallow if she wasn’t still looking at me with tear-filled eyes and trembling hands. I grab the box of tissues from the shelf and pull one from it. I throw the box on the sofa bed and walk toward her, tissue raised. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession but she doesn’t move away. She stands deathly still, apart from the heavy breathing and trembling, and I stop in front of her. Slowly, I raise the tissue to her cheeks and dab under her eyes. She looks at me the whole time, confusion mixing with the fear and anxiety. Her hand comes up and takes the tissue from mine, and I step back. “We’ve got a lot to go over before we get to Atlanta,” I say, my voice harder than I mean. “Get your shit together, darlin’.”

I slam the motel door on my way out and take the stairs down to the parking lot. I dig in my pocket for the keys to the car I rented as soon as we checked in at our hotel and run my fingers through my hair. That’s the most unsatisfying fuck I’ve had in a long time. Ten minutes is all it took. Walked into a bar downtown, sat at the bar, and she came right on over. Fluttered her eyelashes, shoved out her tits, and I knew she was game. Didn’t even buy her a drink. And all the damn sex has done is reinforce Ella’s point that I have no idea how to truly respect a woman outside my family. I do. I know exactly what it is. I have plenty of it for my parents, my brothers, Sofie, Mila, our team. I respect the hell out every single one of them. I just don’t respect the girls who think my dick is the way to my bank account—and my heart. They don’t respect me, only what they think I can give them. Someone needs to put out a fucking PSA, because without respect, you don’t get a damn thing. I refuse to give someone everything just because they

want it. I’d rather give everything to the girl who expects nothing. Wherever she is. Introduce her to me and I’d give up the bullshit in a heartbeat. I pull into the hotel parking lot and kill the engine. Yeah, all that sex did was make me smell like a bar mixed with a brothel. Fucking awesome. Now I’m disrespectful and a bastard. And it didn’t exactly help that I only came because I thought of Ella. Something that has, incidentally, reignited every ounce of sexual tension I was feeling earlier. Disrespectful, a bastard, a time-waster. What an ego boost. I roll my shoulders as I walk through the hotel lobby toward the elevator. “Tate!” I drop my head back at the sound of Sofie’s voice and stop. Fuck. I just want a shower and a beer in my room. “What?” Her palm connects with my bicep. “What the hell did you do to her?” “I didn’t do a damn thing,” I growl, turning on her. “I’ve never done a single fuckin’ thing to her. Why don’t you ask her about what her ex did to her instead?” “What?” She draws her brows together. “What are you talking about?” “We fucked her around a little, and she took a couple minutes on the bus. When she didn’t come back, I went after her. Found her in the bedroom, her shirt around her tits, looking in the mirror at a huge-ass fuckin’ bruise on her back.” My jaw clenches. “Fell down the stairs apparently.” Sofie’s eyes widen. “You don’t know that’s a lie.” “I took a step toward her and she flinched like I’d slapped her,” I hiss. “Stairs don’t make you afraid of people, Sof. You’re not that fuckin’ dumb.” Sofie shifts uncomfortably. “I can’t just come out and ask her, Tate. It’s not exactly wine and cake talk, you know?” “I don’t give a shit how you find out, Sof. Just do it. If her obvious fear of men is going to affect her ability to do her fucking job, then I need to know about it so we can make other arrangements. Got it?” Her mouth drops open and she stares at me, disbelief radiating from her. “Are you fuckin’ serious, Tate? She could have been abused, and you’re worried about her ability to do her job?” I stare at her stonily, and I’m marginally aware of the stares and interest we’re gathering from both the hotel staff and customers. “Yeah. She won’t talk about the bruise, so I’m focusin’ on her job.” Sofie runs her hand down her face. “Asshole. Even for you, this is a whole other level.” She turns and steps away from me. “Whatever. Just make sure you find out.” She throws me a hard look over her shoulder, her eyes radiating anger that fills the whole lobby. “You’re not my boss, big man, so shove your goddamn orders up your backside.” With that, she storms away and disappears into the restaurant. I jab the elevator buttons. Fuck me.

Ella

I stare in the mirror. It’s faded. In fact, it’s almost gone. Sure, I froze my butt off lying in an ice-cold bath for an hour last night, and I’m pretty sure I have a cold coming, but the bruise is better. Tate walking in yesterday has ruined everything I planned. I didn’t want anyone to find out about my hellish past. I just wanted to come in, do my job, find myself. It seemed so simple before—but before, I didn’t know Tate Burke. I didn’t expect him to push. I didn’t expect the Burke brothers to be so . . . immature, at times. Of course, if I didn’t have Matthew’s voice whispering in the back of my mind so often, if I weren’t a victimturned-survivor of both mental and physical abuse, I wouldn’t have been so bothered by their words. I’d have simply laughed and maybe said something snarky back in response. Instead I clammed up, got scared, and ran. And now my past isn’t so secret. He knows. I’m not stupid. I denied it until I was lacking in oxygen, but Tate knew. There isn’t a thing I can do about it either. I can’t make him un-see the blemish on my skin. I can’t make him forget that he ever walked in there or that I flinched whenever he raised his voice or moved toward me. I sigh heavily and grab a dress from my case. I slip it over my head and let it fall around my body. The material is light and easy, and I’m thankful it’s so hot here. Maybe I’ll sweat the cold out over the next week or so while we stay in the South. My phone buzzes on the bed. I grab it and open Sofie’s text. We’re taking Mila to the petting zoo. Wanna come with us? It’s the petting zoo or sitting here in my hotel room feeling sorry for myself. Sure, I type back. Leaving after breakfast? There’s a knock at my door and it pushes open. “It’s just me!” Sofie calls. I turn to her. She’s smiling widely, dressed in a bright yellow sundress, her blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. “Hey,” I say. “I was just messaging you.” I wave my phone. “I know. I got it,” she grins sheepishly. “I actually just needed to talk to you quick.” “Oh, sure. What’s up?” She licks her lips. “Tate told me what happened in the bus yesterday.” I inhale sharply. Damn him. “Don’t panic!” She holds her hands up with a reassuring smile. “I ain’t gonna ask you for an autobiography or anythin’. I’m just gonna say that if you want to talk to someone about it, I’m here. And if

you wanted to tell me whether you were tellin’ Tate the truth or not, well, that would help. I can tell the guys to lay off you. They’re not great with boundaries.” “You think?” My lips twitch weakly. I clasp my hands in front of me and look away. Telling her will help. I know this. But it’s hard. It’s so ingrained in me that if I tell someone, it’ll be worse next time. That phrase was Matthew’s mantra as much as I was his plaything. Except now there isn’t a next time. Now I fear nothing. “I . . . might have been creative with the truth,” I admit quietly. “I just . . . it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past.” “Okay. Now it makes total sense why you disappeared in the middle of the night.” She smiles gently. “Is there any chance your ex might find you?” I never thought—oh God. “Ella, Ella!” She walks to me and rests her hands on my biceps. “Don’t panic, remember? It’s okay. I’m not askin’ to scare you. If there’s a chance he might come after you, I need a picture of him or something.” “Why?” I whisper. “So security can put him on his ass before he gets within a hundred feet of you.” She smiles. “They’re there for a reason. Let them protect you, okay? You’re part of the team, and nothing will happen to you while you’re with us. All right?” I nod, letting out a breath. “I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t try and find me. There’s a slim chance I was supposed to get married a few days ago.” I wince. Sofie laughs. “I’m sorry. But, damn, girl. That’s how you run away.” My lips curve. “I guess it is. I don’t have a photo of him—they’re all on my old phone. Just tell security to search for Matthew Hamilton of Hamilton Enterprises. He’s all over the Internet.” “All right. I’ll send Ajax a message, since he’s not on babysitting duty today.” She winks and steps back. “Come on. Let’s eat bacon and watch my baby demon scare a bunch of animals.”

“B unna!” Mila gasps, trailing her own fake one by its ear. “Dadda, look! Bunna!” “Well, hey, so it is!” Conner takes her hand and leads her over to it. “You wanna cuddle it?” “Yeah!” She claps her hands and sits down on the floor with her arms out. I laugh as one of the workers opens the gate and pulls out a white rabbit. She sets it on Mila’s lap, giving her gentle instructions. Mila coos at the rabbit, grinning widely, and we all smile, too. “Ahh, bunna. Tay, you see bunna?” “Yeah, I see it, Mimi,” he replies gruffly, his hands in his pants pockets. “Tay cuggle.” Mila points at him. “I’m all right.”

She frowns. “Tay. Cuggle. Bunna. Now.” I raise an eyebrow at Sofie, and she steps back, laughing into her hand. “You know the new thing where they call their fans Divas? I’ll give you three guesses who inspired it.” “Noooooowwww,” Mila growls. “Ah.” I nod. “That makes total sense.” Tate shuffles forward and sits down next to Mila. He looks up at Conner and mumbles something, making him laugh. Tate, though, stays stone-faced, even as he takes the rabbit from Mila and she leans against him to keep petting it. It’s been tense between us since the moment he got out of his car in the parking lot and we saw each other. Honestly, if I knew he was coming, I would have stayed at the hotel or done something else . . . alone. I think being alone would be preferable to exchanging tiny, awkward glances with him. Hell, our nottalking is affecting everyone except Mila. Sofie keeps squeezing my arm in support, and all the guys keep offering me small smiles. I guess they know Tate’s temper better than I do, but I don’t have to be his best friend to see he’s mad. Really, really mad. There’s also the fact that I know Kye and Aidan heard our conversation. They heard Tate’s accusations and my replies. My blatant lies. That everyone here, except maybe Conner, knows exactly what happened to me before I got here. I just hope they think that’s the only time it happened and they never find out it’s been my life for two years. “Don’t let him get you down,” Kye murmurs in my ear from behind me. “He’ll get over himself soon enough.” “I’m not.” It’s kind of the truth. “Honestly, I’m glad. Maybe now he’ll leave me alone and we can have a decent working relationship.” Kye chuckles and squeezes my shoulder. “Oh, Ella. He won’t leave you alone until you tell him the truth.” “I was hoping you didn’t hear.” “Y’all were yellin’ pretty loud. Woulda had to take a different bus to make sure we didn’t.” “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to make it awkward for anyone.” Aidan laughs, coming up on my other side when Sofie joins Mila, Conner, and Tate. “Our lives are awkward, Ella. We breathe awkward. You’re adding some much needed brightness to it.” I smile at him. “Thank you for saying that.” He winks and joins the rabbit-stroking party. “Come on,” Kye nudges my elbow with his. “Mila will be onto us next if we don’t.” I follow him over to everyone and pause when the only space to sit is next to Tate. Still, I swallow and lower myself to the ground. He glances at me as I do, his eyes blazing. It lasts only a second before he turns away. “Ella! You like bunna?” Mila asks. “He’s cute, huh?” I offer her a smile. “So coot,” she sighs happily. “Dadda, my have a bunna?” Conner looks at Sofie, who grins and sits back as if to say, “She asked you, not me.”

“I’m not sure, baby. Let’s see when we get home, okay?” “My ask Santa for a bunna.” “Santa doesn’t bring bunnies,” Tate says, leaning back on his hands. “They’d get cold in the yard. He gives moms and dads tickets to buy bunnies in the summer.” Sofie purses her lips, and Conner looks like he’s going to murder him. Their reluctance makes sense, given that they’re away more often than they’re home. “Yeah,” Conner agrees. “And they give uncles extra tickets that tie them to rabbit-cleaning duties.” “Then it’s a good thing she’s got three to share that, ain’t it?” Aidan pokes Tate’s side. “Just because you’ve got your manhood all in a twist doesn’t mean you’ve gotta annoy everyone else.” I skirt back a little. Here comes the awkwardness. “Nothin’ wrong with me, bro,” Tate replies, handing Mila the bunny and getting up. He wipes the dirt from his jeans and turns away from us, his biceps tensed. I watch him as he walks away. He tucks his hands back in his pockets, slouching his shoulders, and disappears around the corner. I stare at the empty space where he just was, a small ball of guilt settling in my stomach. Guilt for him—but guilt because the sharp angle of his tightened jaw is burned into my brain, and so is the blaze of his eyes as he fought back his obvious anger. Guilt because I shouldn’t be thinking about how freaking attractive he is, even when he’s annoyed. And when I pull my attention back to the rabbit, everyone is looking at me, but only Sofie looks at me with the sympathy I don’t think I deserve.

T he Moscato here is good. Sweet and crisp and cold, it’s the perfect way to unwind, and quickly becoming my new favorite pastime. I almost forgot how fun it is to sit back in a bar with a friend and just sip cold, fruity wine. All this needs is cake. Cheesecake, to be exact. Presumably Sofie’s thinking the same thing I am, given the meltdown Mila had at leaving the bunny behind. She acted up so bad that she went to bed without dinner because she refused it. “Well, I’m never taking her to a petting zoo again.” She laughs. “Holy shit. How did I ever do this alone?” I smile. “Because you had to?” “That’ll be it.” She laughs again. “How are you feelin’?” I look into my glass and run my finger across the base, wiping up the condensed drops. “I’m all right.” “You don’t look it.” I shrug. “I guess I just feel kind of bad that Tate’s bad mood is because of me and now it’s affecting everyone.” I do. Being honest with him really wouldn’t have hurt anyone. Why is it so hard to admit that I had a crappy relationship that I ran from? Why won’t the words fall from my mouth?

Even to Sofie, I had to add in “maybes” and “might haves” like they softened the blow. “It ain’t your fault, you know?” she prompts. “He’s not happy because he isn’t getting his own way. He’s a big old baby, Tate is. He can’t get inside your pants because you work for him, and now you won’t tell him stuff he wants to know.” “You didn’t tell him?” I snap my eyes up. Sofie shakes her head. “Ella, no. It ain’t my place to tell him. I told Conner your ex was an asshole and you think he’s stalkin’ you. He didn’t ask me questions.” She shrugs a shoulder. “He probably is stalking me,” I mutter. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he was halfway to Atlanta by now.” “Well, if he is, and he finds you, he’s going to have a tough time getting anywhere near you.” “I hope you’re right.” I swallow and look down again. I’m petrified of that. Of him showing up. These people, they’re all so nice. They’ve taken me without asking any questions—if you don’t count Tate—and they’ve really made me feel like I belong here. And Sofie, well, I think she’s glad to have some female company that isn’t two years old, but even then, I feel like we have the start of a good friendship. Which isn’t something I’ve had in a long time, given that I rarely saw the people I call my friends, and that, when I did, it was never particularly enjoyable. It really would be perfect without the eldest Burke brother. Sofie starts talking about something to do with the guys’ schedule tomorrow, something about gym time and making sure they stop for lunch. The tablet is open to the notes section, but all I’ve written is a few words about breakfast and gym time, because I’m distracted. Dammit. I never should have thought about Tate. Now my mind is consumed with him—tall, strong body, certain stride, cocky smirk, bright eyes, intricately inked arms. And his attitude. His asshole, the-world-owes-me attitude and his unnecessary annoyance at something he knows nothing about. Because he doesn’t, and I don’t care if he’s my boss or the king of Spain, my past is not his problem. It’s mine. I roll my shoulder and nod my head at Sofie as my distraction level rockets through the roof. It’s almost as if a thousand bugs are crawling over my skin. I look up and, like something out of a corny romance movie, meet turquoise eyes across the bar. But there’s no butterflies, no happy sigh of the heart. There’s anger and annoyance glaring at me, and I feel it, too. Frustration swirls in my stomach, because he’s so mad with me, and he has no right to be, not really. I could have told him everything, but I’m not under any obligation to do so. Like Sofie said, he’s being a big baby and throwing a tantrum close to the scale of Mila’s earlier today. “Ella?” “Hold that thought,” I tell Sofie, taking a big swig from my glass and getting up. “What?” She spins on her stool. “Oh. Ohhh!” Tate turns and storms away, his muscles flexing with his every step, and I follow him. This ends now, because our relationship isn’t supposed to be personal, but he’s making it that way. He shoves open the door that leads to the private parking lot, and I catch it just before it swings shut again. “Don’t even think about getting in that car!”

He stops and, in the waning light, turns to me over his shoulder. “Last time I checked, you didn’t give the fuckin’ orders around here.” “And last I checked, Mila was the one with tantrum rights, not a twenty-five-year-old man.” He spins and his eyes crash into mine. “Is your sassy side out to play tonight, darlin’? Scared little Ella gone back into hiding?” His words jolt me, but I swallow the hit. “Yeah, the sassy side seems to come out around you if you hadn’t noticed. You obviously bring out the worst in me.” “Shame. It’s pretty fucking hot.” He folds his arms over his chest. “What are you doin’ here?” “Oh, sorry, am I delaying your next meaningless sex date?” “Yeah, actually, you are.” “I’ll make it quick, then.” “Please fuckin’ do.” I freeze. The words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to fall, but they won’t jump. Why won’t they come out? This isn’t the plan. No. I’m not afraid. He won’t hurt me. No one will. “Well?” I run my fingers through my hair. “Informative.” Tate turns and unlocks his car. He opens the door, and then . . . “You were right!” I yell, running my hands through to the ends of my hair. “Yesterday. On the bus. What you said. You were right.” He says nothing, and I swallow. I step sideways, closer to the tour bus, and clench my fists at my sides. “You don’t have a right to know, but I have to tell you because you’re stomping around like your mom didn’t give you any candy. You’re being awful over something that isn’t yours to be awful over.” “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” “Because it isn’t your business.” He slams the car door shut and hits me with his red-hot gaze. “Yeah. It is my fuckin’ business, Ella. It’s every bit my fuckin’ business because you are.” “I am not my past!” My voices hitches at the end as my words gain volume. “Do you know how hard it is to be honest? I can’t even say the damn words because I’m so afraid something bad will happen. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in fear every single day?” “No. I don’t have a fucking clue, but you’re not alone here. There are people here that can protect you from him!” “Sofie already did it!” I wrap my arms around myself. “Security knows who he is.” Tate’s jaw tics. “You should have told me. It’s my job to keep you safe, not Sofie’s.” I laugh in disbelief. “How is it your job? Because you’d have no one to annoy if he finally got me? Because I’m your employee?” “Because I fuckin’ want to!” He approaches me, each footstep echoing around the empty parking lot. I back up against the bus, flattening my hands on either side of me. My heart pounds loudly in my chest, and I can feel so many things swirling around my body. Fear. Anger. Adrenaline. A thrill. They all mix and mingle into an indecipherable feeling that thrums through my veins at warp speed. “It’s my damn job to keep you safe.” He flattens his hands above mine and leans down. He’s not touching me, but my skin is tingling all over. “I told you yesterday I’d never set a finger on a woman. I

meant it. I’ll also never let anyone else fucking do it either.” “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up,” I snap, raising my eyes to his. “Hardly, but let’s move on, shall we? Make our way down a list? Let’s clear up how you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ insane,” he growls, his biceps tightening on either side of me. “Excuse me?” “I went out earlier to pick up some chick and fuck out my frustration. Guess what? I came back here, still frustrated, unfucked, and I got me a pair of blue balls for my trouble. Couldn’t pick up a single fuckin’ chick because some hot-and-cold, dark-haired PA and her pain was consuming me like a fucking disease.” “I’m sorry my life is such a cockblock to you.” “Not your life, darlin’.” He drops his eyes to my mouth, and I feel them tracing the shape of my lips. It makes me draw in a sharp breath. “You. Just you. Doesn’t matter who I look at or think would look good in my bed, ’cause they don’t have your hair, your eyes, your smile, your mouth. Doesn’t matter, because they ain’t you, Els.” “Is that how you pick up girls?” “You’re real feisty around me. You know that, right?” He leans in further and his breath billows across my mouth, heating my lips, his eyes searching mine. “You wanna know why you’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ll ever have?” I purse my lips. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me, regardless.” “Damn fuckin’ right I am.” His voice is low, husky, rough, and against my wishes, my body shudders. “Because I can’t stop seein’ you yesterday, cryin’, scared. Scared. Of me, when I ain’t him. When I’d never touch you that way. I can’t stop seeing what I saw and wonderin’ how the fucking hell someone could hurt the sweetest girl I’ve ever met in my life. I can’t stop bein’ mad that someone did hurt you, Els, darlin’.” He drops his hand to cup the side of my head and strokes his thumb across my cheek. The soft touch sends a thousand lightning bolts across my skin. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the worthless piece of shit who did this to you could have walked past you in Charleston and I wouldn’t have known, or that he’s on his way here right now. And worst?” He pauses, his fingers tightening slightly on the side of my head. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how I couldn’t protect you because you refused to tell me the motherfuckin’ truth. And how I have to protect you because, yeah, I want to protect you.” He brings his face close to mine. So close I can’t tell where my breath stops and his starts. So close I’m shivering in the evening heat. So close my body is buzzing. So close I can feel each dip and bump of his muscled body, even though his hand is the only part touching me. “Els, I gotta protect you because no other girl has ever fuckin’ bothered me as much as you do.” “Well, thank—” His lips—they’re on mine. Hot, soft, smooth. They taste like coffee and cinnamon, and he smells that way, too. His hand falls to my side and it burns me through my dress. Every little touch, whether it’s his lips working mine or his nose brushing mine or his fingers flexing against my skin, is more intense than I could ever have imagined.

My hands creep up his body to his neck. I wrap my arms around him, falling into his kiss, letting him prove whatever point he’s trying to prove. It should be wrong. I should be running screaming. But I can’t move. It isn’t wrong. It feels a little right. Like every word we’ve exchanged since we first saw each other has been building to this. Like today, all day, every painful glance, has been foreplay for this kiss. His hand slides down to my thigh and up, pulling my dress up with it, and I gasp, because, whoa. But it’s nice. His touch is like a gentle spring breeze ghosting over my skin, until his hand rounds to my back. My bruise. “Tate,” I whisper, every one of my muscles freezing. His fingertips brush the edge of the bruise. “Say it again. My name.” “Move your hand.” Every word quivers. “Please.” I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my arms. No—he can’t touch that. He can’t touch where he did. “Els.” He cups my face. “Ella. Darlin’, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” But I remember. The shove into the wall because I didn’t get a chance to pick up my wedding dress. The punch to my back, then the push against the table. “Ella . . . Ella!” I open my eyes and look up, shaking. All over. Everywhere. Tate stares at me, every bit of anger gone. “Els?” I push at his chest, because he needs to let go. He doesn’t. He wraps his arms around me. Softly but strongly, wrapping me in his embrace. He holds me until I stop fighting him. Then he holds me some more. And he whispers, “You’re safe with me, darlin’. Always.”

Tate

Fuck everything. My name. My kiss. Her tears. Her fear. I rest my elbows on the dining table and run my fingers through my hair. I wasn’t supposed to kiss her last night. I’ve wanted to—fuck, have I—but I wasn’t going to. I was going to pull my big-boy boxers on, unravel my cock, and get the fuck on with it. Maybe I’d jack off once or twice, then be such an asshole she’d quit and leave. Now it won’t happen. That sassy, attitude-filled act she puts on is just that—an act. It’s fucking bullshit, a total performance so no one sees the scared-as-shit girl inside. So no one will get close enough to look into her eyes and see the pain there. She ain’t broken, though. She’s strong and resilient, despite the odd switches to shyness. She’s like a knotted ball of my mom’s yarn waiting to be untied and unraveled, ready to spin into something beautiful. Except she is already. Beautiful. Her smile, her eyes, her laugh—it’s all so fucking beautiful it pisses me off. She and her goddamn innocent beauty are fucking with me so bad, and she has no idea. I want to protect her. I want to curl my arm around her, hold her against my body, and keep her safe from something as small as a goddamn bee sting. She’s so . . . small. She’s so delicate and fragile that if I flicked her, she’d crumble. She’s nothing like what I like. She’s not self-confident or flirty or extroverted. She doesn’t flaunt her tits with every shirt, and her skirts and shorts always cover some thigh. She doesn’t step in front of me and see dollar signs or how she can bag me. She stands in front of me and tells me to go and fuck myself in the politest damn way I’ve ever heard. She intrigues me. She astounds me. She winds me tighter than a fucking nun’s vagina. And now she’s walking into the room, her head down. She tucks some hair behind her ear and slides into the seat next to Conner. I stare at her. Like I’m begging her gorgeous ass to look at me. I am. I want her to look up at me and show me that damn sadness isn’t in her eyes anymore. I want her to look at me so I can make sure her eyes aren’t ghosted with fear anymore.

But . . . she doesn’t. I can tell from her posture that her hands are in her lap, and the shifting of her shoulders tells me she’s fidgeting. Her hair falls on one side of her face, the side I’m looking at, like she’s leaving it there deliberately to obscure my view of her. Obscured or not, I’m still fucking looking. Kye nudges my side. “Y’all still fightin’?” “Nope,” I reply, not taking my eyes from Ella. “Well, I ain’t. You’ll have to ask her if she’s still ignorin’ me.” “Look like she is,” he chuckles. “The hair curtain, bro? Ouch.” I cut my eyes to him. He raises his eyebrows and returns to his breakfast, and I take a long drink of juice. The door slams. “Conner, take Mila upstairs. Now,” Sofie snaps. “What—?” he says. “Did I stutter, hon? Take Mila upstairs and call Ajax to watch her. Now!” she adds. “As in right the hell now, not in two minutes when you’re ready to.” “All right, princess, keep your panties on.” I turn in time to see her shoot him a death stare. “Come on, baby. Let’s go find Uncle Ajax.” Conner lifts Mila out of her high chair. “Yax! Yax! Yay, Yax!” She claps her hands together behind Conner’s head. Sofie watches as they disappear and shut the door. Then she turns on me, a rolled-up stack of papers in her hand, and she steps forward and whacks me on the head with it. “Fuck!” I scramble out of my chair and away from her. “The fuck was that for, you crazy bitch?” “You!” she growls, advancing on me. She smacks the other side of my head with the paper roll, and I duck away from her. “You absolute fuckin’ dumbass, Tate Burke! You complete and utter fuckin’ idiot!” “Shit! What did I do now?” “Oh, it isn’t what you did. It’s what you allowed to happen because you can’t keep your snake in its cage!” I hold my hands up. “Sof, I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” She unrolls the paper sheets and shows me the printed side. It’s a memo from Marc about a tip-off he’s had. I step forward to take them from her. “A fuckin’ sex tape, Tate! Sweet Jesus! After the hooker thing, you’d think you’d watch your damn back!” “You what?” Kye and Aidan yell, standing at my sides. I don’t even have the energy to be mad at them for their mind-reading shit. She’s right. Some girl I fucked in Charlotte apparently has it on tape, and she’s threatening to release it. Adrenaline is pounding through my veins—and not the fucking good type. It’s burning, searing every part of me. Fuck. I’m no reality star. I don’t need some sex tape to make it big. I already did that. I need to keep it that way. This won’t help. “What’s goin’ on?” Conner comes back in, and Sofie shrieks the news. My baby brother stares at me from across the room, shocked. “This for real?”

“Apparently.” I throw the paper on the table. My fingers scrub at my scalp relentlessly. “How could you be so fuckin’ stupid?” He storms across the room and stops right in front of me, squaring up to me. “Again, Tate? Really? Are you fuckin’ fifteen? Do you have a goddamn brain cell in your brain or is it full of air?” “Fuck off.” My jaw tenses. “Y’know what? No. You spent so long tellin’ me that Mila bein’ public knowledge would fuck everything up. Turns out that’s your job, brother.” “You think I like this shit, huh? You think I like these chicks coming out with this stuff?” “Obviously you do.” “You want me to sit them down with an NDA before I ask them to pull off their panties? That it?” “Yeah!” Conner yells. “Because we should be more fuckin’ important than getting your rocks off! We should matter more than those easy girls you drag back to your hotel room, because we’re your fuckin’ family, Tate! We’re the ones who got here, and we did it together!” “What are you sayin’, little guy? If I wanna go down I’m doin’ it alone, huh?” “That’s exactly fuckin’ it!” “Enough!” Ella’s voice cracks and she slips in between us. “Stop. Now. Please.” The last word is quieter, but it seems louder than every yell we just gave. “Ella,” Conner warns, “this is between us.” “No. It isn’t. It affects everyone. You, Tate, Kye, Ads, Sofie, Mila. Hell, even me. Everyone, Conner. And yelling at each other isn’t going to make it better. It’ll just make it worse.” “How do you know that?” “Because you won’t get through this alone,” she says softly. “The only way you are all coming out of this is if you stick together.” “She’s right,” Sofie agrees, stepping up and taking Conner’s hand. “Yelling at each other won’t fix this. Calling your manager and your lawyers will,” Ella continues. She swallows and steps to the side. To the table to be precise. She collects the papers and sits down, flicking through each one. “What’s she doin’?” Aidan asks. “I’ve done a few summer internships at law firms. Learned enough,” Ella replies, reading. “And she went to Harvard,” I add. Ads shakes his head and looks at her. “Shit! What’re you doin’ here?” “Saving your brother’s behind, apparently.” She looks at me for the first time today. “There’s no proof here. If she really, really had one and she wanted to exploit you for it, she’d post an image that would put you in a compromising position, or she’d post the whole video. It’s a stunt for fifteen minutes of fame.” Conner relaxes. The others do, too. “So what do we do?” Ella rolls her eyes. “I just told you. Call Marc and your lawyers. They can enforce a gag order and possibly a defamation of character, depending on what she’s actually said. The media will have been careful not to post any quotes that could damage your image, but they’ll have the full transcripts of the conversations.” She comes to me and slaps the papers on my chest. “Get them. It’ll cost you, but it’ll help.

Somewhere she’ll have said something incriminating. And in the unlikely event that the video exists and she posts it, you can sue her for damages.” I stare at her. We all do. Because, fuck. In the space of one minute she’s taken us from angry to calm, from flailing to planned. “You, Els,” I murmur. “Are a motherfuckin’ gem.” She raises her eyebrows. “And if I’m gonna have to give you all legal advice regularly, I need a pay raise.” With that, she turns on her heel and walks away from me. “Wait,” I call after her. “You gonna get Marc on the phone or what?” She glances over her shoulder at me, then pulls something out of her pocket. She turns, clicks on the phone, then throws it to me. “I’m sure you can tap the little green button to call him.” She turns again, and this time she walks right through the door. “Dayyyuuuum,” Kye laughs, pushing off the wall and dropping back onto his seat. “Really?” Sof wrinkles her nose. “Bacon? After all that?” “Shut up, idiots,” I say as Marc answers. “Oh, not you,” I say into the phone. “The guys.” “Right. You wanna explain to me what the fuck is going on there?” I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and explain the situation. From beginning to end. For the next ten minutes, I listen to my manager rip me a new asshole. My nether regions will never be the fucking same after this conversation. “I want your ass in rehab for sex addiction.” “Are you kiddin’ me?” I explode. “Fuckin’ rehab?” “Damn right I am, Tate. This is getting out of hand. I’m all for a bit of a scandal—it’s awesome marketing. But a sex tape? A year after the prostitute story?” “I didn’t pay her!” “The world doesn’t know. You gotta sort yourself out now.” “I’m not doing rehab, Marc. That’s a dumbass idea. We’re in the middle of the tour!” “Then I don’t wanna see you in the headlines, in the tabloids, front pages, trending, whatever, until after it. And if I do, I want it to be because you killed a fucking performance. If I see your face on there for anything but, I’m hauling you into rehab and canceling the tour quicker than you can make up a damn excuse. Are we clear?” I grit my teeth together. “Yes, sir. We’re clear.” “Good. I talked to your lawyers. They’re goin’ to call.” “Got it.” He hangs up, and I drop the phone onto the table. “He wants to send you to rehab?” Sofie whispers. I shrug and drop onto a chair. “I gotta behave myself.” “What are you gonna do?” Aidan asks. I take a deep breath and shake my head. I don’t have a damn clue what to do about this dumb plot twist in the craziness of my life, much less my manager’s demands, but I know exactly what I have to do to try and behave.

I’ve gotta give in to temptation. I gotta stay close to Ella—try to unravel her past without giving up what’s left of my own secrets. Failing that, it’s time to get a PornHub subscription.

M y fingers strum over the guitar slowly, and I lean into it, feeling the relaxing hum of the music flood through me. It’s the only thing in this world that can calm me, and given that my ass has been chewed out more times than a dog chews a bone, calming is the exact thing I need. I don’t even know what I’m playing. Just . . . notes. Random fucking notes that have no sense or rhythm or pattern. It’s just me and the music, each chord vibrating off the walls of my suite. I pause for a moment to sip my water, then I readjust my position on the sofa and go straight back to it. This time I lean back into the plush cushions and close my eyes. And I fall—into the music. I fall down and down and down until I’m lost in the motion of my fingers against the strings and the pounding of my heart. Knock. Knock. Knock. I look up, and at another, quieter, knock, I set the guitar down on the floor and walk to the door. It opens to reveal Ella, holding her purse to her stomach, her dark eyes traveling up my chest to meet my gaze. “Can I come in?” she asks, somewhat hesitantly. “Stupid question.” I step to the side so she can pass. She stands awkwardly in the room, her eyes traveling through it, examining everything. Eventually they fall to my guitar and she pauses. “Oh. Were you practicing? I can come back later.” “No—just messin’. What’s up?” I drop onto the sofa and eye her. Her dark hair is twisted into a braid that hangs over her shoulder, and her dress hangs loosely, stopping at mid-thigh. “I spoke to your lawyers,” she says quietly. “They’re going to try and see if they can silence her and forbid her from releasing the video, but they’re not hopeful. Now that it’s out there—and being clamored for by your fans, I might add, check Twitter—she may release it for financial gain. And if you approach her with money, it may seem as if you’re bribing or blackmailing her, which will get you in trouble.” “I thought you said it didn’t exist.” She chews on the inside of her cheek. “There’s evidence to the contrary.” Fuck. “Sit.” I move the guitar to the side and motion for her to sit down. She does, slowly. “So what do I do?” “Nothing,” Ella sighs. “There’s nothing you can do, Tate. Not until you hear from your lawyers. They’re already offering a significant amount of money to the media outlet to release the full interview transcript to them.”

Tate. “I love it when you say my name,” I murmur, my eyes set on hers. She blinks. “What?” “Tate. You said it last night, too. And just then. I fucking love it.” Again she blinks, but this time her eyelashes flutter in quick succession. “We’re not here to discuss what I’m calling you.” “Darlin’, you could call me Lord Fuckass Dickhead if you wanted, and it’d probably still be hot.” “Are you serious? I’m here to discuss your legal issues, and you’re more concerned about what I’m calling you?” “You just told me I can’t do anything about it. Why can’t I think about how hot it is when you finally say my name instead?” “Because. It’s unprofessional,” she manages, a slight stutter on her words. “Yeah?” I lean forward. “Was it unprofessional when your tongue was in my mouth last night?” “Yes! And it was wrong!” She slides across the sofa and grips the arm. I slide after her, and her grip tightens, and she really does stutter. My arm goes around her waist easily. Her breasts are against my chest, her breath tickling my neck. “Tate. I don’t . . .” she draws in a deep breath, and her fingers brush against my forearm. “You don’t what, darlin’?” I sink my fingers into her hair. “Think you should . . . I should . . . we should . . . um.” She pauses. “Do this. It’s not right.” I laugh low, because nothing has ever felt as right as kissing her, and I touch my lips to hers. A sharp squeak buzzes through our connection, and I tug lightly on her bottom lip with my teeth. Fuck, she tastes sweet, like candy and Moscato wine, like summer breaking through a fall day. She grabs my bare sides and I lean into her more, pushing her back onto the sofa. She goes with me, her grip on me tightening. Our bodies fall flush together, and as I kiss her deeper, swiping my tongue against her bottom lip, she eases her hands around to my back. Her hands are soft and so fucking warm, each touch is a burning trail across my skin, one I feel tingling everywhere, because, fuck, fuck, fuck. Too many girls, kisses, touches. None like this. No softness beneath me, no hot fingertips against me, no deliciously sweet lips against mine. No Ella. “Wrong,” she breathes. “You afraid?” I whisper. She inhales sharply, but she shakes her head. “No.” “Then it ain’t wrong, darlin’.” My mouth descends on hers once again, and I sweep my lips across hers. Her body is responding, slightly arching into me, but it’s her mouth, her kiss, that fucking consumes me. Her tongue meeting and battling mine sends me into another fucking dimension, some ten million light years above ours. Consuming me, fucking with me, she drives me crazy yet again. Knock, knock. “Hello? Tate?” “Sofie,” Ella breathes. “Oh hell. Off.” She shoves at me, then rolls off the sofa. She runs into my room and the bathroom door shuts behind her.

I close my eyes, still leaning over, and run my fingers through my hair. Motherfucker. Two kisses and we’ve been interrupted both times by something. “What?” I snap, sitting back. Sofie slides her key card and opens my door. “Did you see Ella tonight?” “Yep. She’s in the bathroom. She spoke to our lawyers.” Sofie relaxes. “Oh, good. Why didn’t she call all of us?” “Because it’s his crap to handle.” Ella stops in the doorway, her hair smooth and her lips so glossed that there’s no indication we were kissing just seconds ago. “It’s legal stuff. I had to talk to him first.” “Of course.” Sofie looks between us. “Y’all were going to tell us, right?” “Obviously.” I rest my elbows on my knees. “Once we’d spoken about it.” Her eyes cut between us again. “Tate . . .” “We talked,” Ella cuts in. “That’s it. I was just using his bathroom before I came down to meet you.” “You were supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago.” “She talks a lot.” I lean back against the sofa and grab my guitar. “Or, rather, you argue a lot,” Ella retorts, grabbing her purse. She looks at me. “I’ll meet you all after breakfast tomorrow, and we’ll go over your schedule for the week. I know you have to be in the gym at nine a.m., so please don’t be late. If I hear anything from Marc or your lawyers I’ll let you know.” There’s no backward glance as she sweeps past Sofie and disappears. Sofie stops, though, and she hovers two fingers in front of her eyes then points them at me. “I’m watching you,” she mouths, repeating the hand movement. I stare at her flatly until she closes the door. I bet she fucking is. Shame she’ll never see a damn thing.

Ella

I rub my hands over my face, ignoring the guilty twinges in my lower stomach. They popped up the second Sofie smacked Tate on the head yesterday and explained everything. Extra media attention on Dirty B. is the worst thing that could happen. Even if the #TateSexTape trend on Twitter tells a different story—and wow, are these girls so obsessed they’d watch him have sex with some girl? I knew this was a risk, taking this job. I wasn’t, and am not, naive to the fact that I’m very much in the public eye. I’m not so stupid as to think I wouldn’t get snapped on camera at least once or twice, but it didn’t matter, because petty celebrity matters are far beneath my family and the Hamiltons. Even my friends rarely checked the tabloids. Hell, I only did it on my phone when I went to the toilet, then I had to clear my browser history. No, this job is the safest risk I could have taken. Not least because I’m constantly surrounded by big, strong-as-hell men nearly sixteen hours a day. Sometimes the safest place is the most obvious. Hiding in plain sight. I shake my head to clear the crazy thoughts. I don’t have time to lament the past or the danger the media attention could put me in. I’m safe here. I know that. I. Am. Safe. Fear nothing. You’re only afraid of the things you let scare you. I grab my purse and head toward the elevator. With Sofie out with Mila, I’m left alone to manage the guys by myself for the first time. I’ve been here nine days, and while I can’t deny I’m nervous, I’m anxious to prove myself, too. Mostly to myself. That I can do this. I can do something I wasn’t forced into, and I can be around men without freaking the hell out. Then again, I think the fact I’ve ended up making out with Tate twice in as many days proves the latter point. God. No. I am not thinking about kissing him. I’m not thinking of the warmth of his hands on my skin or the soft pressure of his lips on mine. Nope. Nope. I am doing a job, dammit. And I’m going to stick to it. No kissing or being attracted to the boss. Simple. I run my fingers through my hair and dig the tablet from my purse as I walk down the hall to the gym. Sheesh, I need to clean this thing out. Or maybe not. I kind of like having random stuff like three pens, a mini-notebook, two ChapSticks, and a half-eaten Hershey’s bar in the bottom of it. Because God forbid I did that back home.

It’s the little acts of rebellion that make me feel strong. I hum Ariana Grande’s song “Break Free” to myself. Such a guilty-pleasure song, and I’m indulging in all the guilty pleasures right now. One bar of chocolate too much, one more glass of wine . . . kissing a handsome, tattooed rock star. Yup. So much for not thinking about him. It’s not even the kiss. It’s how he held me when I panicked. The words he whispered into my ear. You’re safe with me, darlin’. Always. And call me crazy, but I believe him. I bump the gym door open with my butt, still humming to myself, and swipe across the tablet’s screen. Looking up, I see Kye running on a treadmill, Aidan on the bench press with Conner spotting him, and Tate. . . . Oh Lord. Oh Lordy Lordy Lord. Tate. He’s sitting on the weight machine, performing chest fly after chest fly. His body is tensed, his tattooed biceps bulging, and I swallow at the sight of him shirtless. His tattoos swirl onto his chest, shaped to his pecs, and there’s a couple of things by his waistband I can’t make out. Sweat drips down his body, and his nostrils flare with every fly he completes. His eyes are down, and I can’t help the way mine ogle him unashamedly. I wish I could make them look away, but I can’t. Because, holy muscles. That’s it. Just muscle. And tattoos. The absolute epitome of the bad boy. “Fuuuuuuuuck!” Aidan groans, lifting the weight up. “Two more!” Conner encourages him. “Do it, you pussy!” “Fuck you!” Aidan roars back, lifting it again. “One more!” “Fuck off!” My lips twitch up to one side. “Done!” “I’m gonna break your legs, you little asshole,” Aidan hisses, wiping his hands down his face, completely spent. “Adding fuckin’ lifts to that. Ten more than usual!” “You’re lookin’ a little small, bro,” Conner replies. “It might ruin your reputation.” “I swear to God, I’ll kick your goddamn ass.” “Don’t be a pussy!” Tate yells to him, looking at him. “Muscles. Equal. Pussy,” Kye pants, the treadmill slowly coming to a stop. “Running doesn’t,” Conner chuckles. “Good to see you all have your fitness regime for the right reasons.” Four pairs of eyes snap around to me. “What? Never seen a girl in a gym before?” Tate’s eyes drop to my arm. “Not with a purse hanging off her arm.” I walk to the seats and set the purse down. “Better?” “Sure you should be wearin’ yoga pants?” Aidan asks, his eyes dropping to my thighs. I raise my eyebrows. “You want me to wear jeans to run on a treadmill?”

“Impractical,” Kye agrees. “And yoga pants are very, very practical.” With three sets of eyes on my hips and thighs, I twist my lips to one side and snap my fingers. “My eyes are up here, gentlemen.” “Up where?” Aidan asks, his gaze lingering on my chest. “Another few inches!” Tate snaps, standing up and grabbing a towel. He wipes his face, and when he drops the towel to his chest, where my eyes are lingering, I blink harshly and look up. He smirks, having caught me red-handed, and I swallow, looking back down at my tablet. With one last peek up I see if I can make sense of the smudges at his waistband. I can—two angel wings, one by each hip, hovering above the material of his shorts. “Keep your balls on, dude,” Aidan says, grabbing a water bottle from the crate next to me and sitting down. “I’m way too sweaty to hit on her.” “And Sof told y’all to lay the hell off her,” Tate growls back. “Told you, too,” Kye shoots at him. “Sheesh!” I explode. “Do I look like a china doll?” I stare at all of them, and when they don’t respond, I continue, “No. Exactly. While I appreciate the sentiment, don’t feel like you all have to hold back on me because my ex was a royal asshole. And, let’s be honest, you four are about as scary as the rabbit Mila carries around everywhere.” Conner laughs and makes his way over to me. He rests his arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “And this is why you belong with us, Ella. You took shit, and now you don’t, and I fuckin’ love it.” “Thanks?” I flick my eyes to him and away again. “I think.” “Personally, I take offense,” Kye says, dropping onto a chair. “I’m terrifyin’.” “Like a toddler with a sugar high,” I reply. “Can we get to the point now, please? My phone is blowing up with messages from people who somehow managed to procure my number and want a quote from you.” “What?” I look up at Tate. “My phone is blowing up,” I repeat. “You got it that time?” He stares at me flatly, annoyance sparking in his eyes. “It’s being changed.” “Excuse me?” “Your number. It’s getting changed. On a regular basis. Water please,” he adds, to Conner. He throws a bottle across the room. “Uh, why?” I question as Tate catches the water. He unscrews the cap and takes a long drink, eyes still on me. “Because,” he wipes his chin, “if media vultures can get your number, that fucktard can.” “I’m not afraid of him.” My voice is stronger than I feel, because I never considered it. “You sure?” “You plan on getting laid tonight?” Tate smirks in response. “Then there’s your answer.” I unlock the tablet once again. “Moving on, boys. Since you all decided to skip breakfast to hit the gym,” I glance at them all, annoyed. “I’ve had to haul my butt down here to sort you all out.” “Guilty,” Kye says. “Sort me out, Ella.”

Aidan throws his empty bottle across the gym at him. “I have the kick of a mule and several pairs of stilettos in my suitcase, so I’d watch what you’re asking for, Kye.” I bring up the week’s schedule. “Sit down and be quiet,” I add, rolling down the document to today. “You all have thirty minutes to shower and get ready to practice. The Royal Room is booked for you for the next three days and set up per your preferences. I have your performance song list here, and it’ll be printed and ready for you by the time you get there. Carla will meet us here tomorrow, and as of then, she’ll be watching your practices, and a certain one of you’s behavior.” “Els . . .” Tate warns. I ignore him. “I’ll go over tomorrow’s schedule at breakfast, so make sure you all show up.” “Ella.” “Now I’m going to work out. Try to keep your eyes up.” I put the tablet back in my purse and pull out my phone. I plug my headphones in and start my running playlist on Spotify. “Break Free” blasts into my ears, and ignoring the stares of the Dirty B. collective, I hop on a treadmill and start it up. Holding my thumb down on the speed button, I match the pace as it goes up and up. If there’s anything I have to thank Matthew for, it’s my fitness. His insistence that his fiancée be the slimmest, most toned woman in Manhattan means far too many hours were put in at the gym. Never mind that it was never enough—that my hips were always too wide, that my ass was too round, that my boobs were too provocatively big. I’m fit and healthy, and my boobs and hips aren’t something I can shrink. And hey, I like my curvy butt. The track changes to “Neon Lights” by Demi Lovato. Another favorite. Another guilty pleasure. Another addictive pop tune with a beat that makes my feet pound against the treadmill belt. Over and over, relentlessly, I run until I feel sweat beading on my forehead and the rest of the room melts away. “Ella!” The treadmill slows and stops, and I look up into Tate’s frustrated turquoise eyes. “What?” I snap, pulling my headphones out. “You wanna explain what that was a minute ago? About behavin’?” I glance over my shoulder and see the other Burke boys watching us. “Water, please.” I hold my hand out and Aidan passes me one. “Thanks.” I turn back to Tate, unscrewing the cap. “I’m not sure what your problem is, Tate. You have to behave, and you know it. I spoke to Marc. He told me in not so many words that the only hole your cock is getting is the one you make with your right hand.” Tate’s jaw tics, despite the laughter behind. He’s mad, I know he is, but dammit, I’m not going to let any of them know we’ve shared more than words. “You’re testin’ my patience, Els,” he says in a low voice that rumbles through me. “You’re testin’ it real fuckin’ good.” “And you’re testing mine,” I whisper, leaning forward. “If you think for one second I’m going to let anyone know you kissed me—twice—you can think again, Tate Burke, then you can shove those thoughts.” “Someone’s real sassy now that she’s not hiding.” “Someone’s finding who she was meant to be all along, sass and all,” I retort, just as quietly, then add louder, “You guys need to shower and get down to the Royal Room to practice in fifteen minutes.” “You gonna check up on us, darlin’?” Tate drawls.

“Unlike the women you usually associate yourself with, I have no issue checking up on your butts in my workout clothes before I shower. It isn’t pretty, so if I were you, I’d leave now.” I stare at him intensely, hoping he gets my message. Get the heck away from me. After a long moment, he presses the On button on the treadmill and steps back. Just as I’m thinking Thank God, a palm taps my butt and I squeal, looking over my shoulder. Tate backs out of the gym, empty except for me, grinning wolfishly. He points at me, then at himself, then at his mouth in a clear message. You. Me. Make out. Soon. I shake my head and turn my attention back to the treadmill. Seconds later, my phone buzzes in my bra. I pull it out and open the incoming message. You. Me. My cock. Your pussy. Comprende? My eyebrows shoot up and I almost trip. I steady myself on the handlebar and hit reply. You. Me. You wish. No chance. Comprende? You crush me. You’re supposed to be behaving. I just had the utmost pleasure of seeing your gorgeous, tight ass in yoga pants. Darlin’, there ain’t a chance in hell I’m behaving myself around you. I ignore that pound my heart does, because that thing is dumb, and tuck my phone back into my bra. I’m not sure what game Tate is playing, but he won’t win it. I need to break free from one man before another moves in—kisses not included. Kisses are . . . something simple and attraction-fueled. Something I never got to randomly experience until now. Yay for your parents choosing your future husband and forcing you to fall in love with him. Maybe I need to start a bucket list. Kiss just for fun: I can tick that off. Have random sex. Fall in love.

I lean against the doorframe as Dirty B. finish up their practice. They’re singing the song Conner introduced when they were back home a few weeks ago without clearing it with their label or manager. Turns out it was so popular among fans that they were forced to practice and perform it on tour, ready to record the second it’s over. They’re incredible, truly. Four brothers, each so different, so unique, yet they jell together like they’re quadruplets. I don’t think it would make a difference if Kye and Aidan weren’t twins. I think the four of them would fit together in the most perfect way anyway.

It’s easy to see why America—and no joke, the world—loves them. It’s easy to see why they have rabid, crazy fans. Why even moms and grandmas sing along to their songs. Dirty B. are magnetic, their pull so strong it’s irresistible. Standing here, listening to Conner drawl the words to the song, to Aidan banging a low beat on the drum, to Kye strumming his guitar, to Tate on bass, every part of me feels alive. Every beat of my heart is in time with the music, every pump of adrenaline matching the strum of the guitar. And I know that this is what it is to feel. Really feel. To relax and love, to be one with something positive. To understand the sweep of music through your veins. Each one of them has a different view of the song. It’s in their expressions. Even when they switch to another song seamlessly, never taking a beat or a breath, it’s evident. Every lyric means something different to each of them. I slide along the wall and take a seat on the chair in the corner. Somehow none of them notice me, so I set my purse on the floor quietly and lift my knees so I can hug them to my chest. I rest my chin on my knees and listen. I just listen. To the drums, to the guitars, to Conner’s voice, to Tate’s backing him up huskily. And I close my eyes. Hearing them here is different from on a stage, whether it’s a concert or not. This seems more . . . them. How they do it. Where they’re most comfortable. “Enjoy that?” Conner asks with a teasing lilt in his voice. I smile and open my eyes. “It wasn’t bad.” “You wanna hear another?” “I’d love to,” I admit, still smiling. “You’re all so different here from onstage.” “We’re sing-in-the-garage boys at heart,” Kye murmurs. “One day, we’ll find a hotel with a fuckin’ garage.” “Get on that.” Aidan nods his head toward me. “I’ll make sure to put it on my to-do list.” My smile follows my gaze to him. “Anythin’ else on that list, darlin’?” I flick my eyes to Tate. “Oh, a lot of things, but every one that includes your name also includes the word ‘behave,’ so don’t get too excited.” He smirks. “Els, I’m on the list. That’s enough.” “But so are your brothers.” “And that just got a whole lot less sexy.” “It was never meant to be sexy.” “Are we singin’ or what?” Conner interjects. “Fail to seduce her on your own time, man. My girlfriend will chew my balls off if I’m late for dinner. I promised Mila Southern fried-chicken pops at dinner if she behaved at bath time this morning, and she did, so let’s get a wriggle on.” “What are we singing?” Kye asks. “Take it old school,” Aidan butts in. “ ‘Summertime.’ ” Conner smiles and runs his hand over his guitar. “All right, bro. ‘Summertime’ it is.” Aidan counts them in, and they all kick in with the beat, perfectly in tune. I lean my head to the side as Conner begins to sing. You and me, girl, we were meant to be,

Wave surfin’, sunset kissin’, Dawn ’til dusk, dusk ’til dawn, But you were a summertime dream, Never meant to be, oh girl . . . “He wrote this for me,” Sofie whispers, sliding onto the seat next to me, Mila clasped on her lap. “Really?” She nods sadly. “It was one of the songs he wrote after I left Shelton Bay. I hate it.” I swallow and look at her. I can see she does—there’s a downcast glint in her eye. “He really loves you, huh? Even back then?” “Yeah. He does. And I do, too. I made some stupid mistakes, Ella, but I fixed them.” She smoothes Mila’s hair. “I feel guilty, even though he’s forgiven me. I hear these songs . . . and, damn. I know they gotta sing ’em, but I wish they wouldn’t.” “They sing them so well,” I whisper. “And Conner—it’s so easy to see why so many girls adore him. He means every word he sings, doesn’t he? Especially the ones he’s written.” Sofie’s lips twitch to the side. “How can you tell the difference?” I shrug a shoulder. “He sounds . . . different. Like, he smiles a little when he sings his. I didn’t notice it before, but now I’ve seen them without tuning and all that other crap they do, I can see it.” “He does.” Sofie hugs Mila tight. Mila sucks Bunna’s ear and stares at Conner. “It’s all they know. Music . . . It’s their oxygen. Lyrics are their breaths. They couldn’t live without it. Any of them. It’s been that way as long as I can remember, Ella. If it was taken from any of them . . .” She shakes her head. “Marc threatened to put Tate in rehab.” “I know. He told me.” “It isn’t happening.” She looks at me, her eyes glimmering with determination. “These boys are my family, and no one is taking that cocky banana brain away from us.” I smile. “It’s up to him to stop it. Not us.” “No. Keep their schedule so full he can’t go out and meet random chicks. Have him escorted from every concert, so even when he signs autographs, he’s guarded. I won’t have him taken away. It would kill her.” She rests her cheek on the back of Mila’s head. “She loves him.” “He loves her,” I say softly, tugging on a lock of dark unruly hair. Mila looks at me and gives me the biggest, cheesiest grin I’ve ever seen. “It’s a total contradiction to his personality.” “I know.” Sofie laughs quietly and lets Mila down when the song finishes. “He acts like a big hard man, yet a two-year-old can bring him to his knees.” “You talkin’ about Tate?” Conner calls, sitting Mila on his lap. “I wouldn’t give his ego the satisfaction.” Sofie winks. “Wind it in, sugar, or I’ll come over there and kick your butt,” Tate teases. “Tay! Be nice!” Mila demands, frowning and pouting. “Be nice, Mama!” “Yeah, Mama, be nice,” Tate nods to Sofie. “No! You be nice, Mama,” Mila repeats. “Be nice to Mama?” “Yeah!”

Sofie grins. “Yeah, Tate. Be nice.” Tate looks at her flatly. “Sofie, stop being mean to him. He doesn’t have his usual frustration outlet, and it’s us with him all day,” Aidan calls across the room. “But if you brought a Playboy with you, carry on.” “Oh, yeah. Because buying a Playboy with a two-year-old as a fifth limb doesn’t look awkward at all.” “Does that mean you got one?” Tate asks, resting his elbows on his knees. Sofie looks at him. “No.” “Fuck.” “Tay!” “Frogs, Mimi! I said frogs!” “Hmmm.” She eyes him then turns to Conner. “Dadda, chitten?” “Okay, baby. We’ll get chicken now.” He stands, lifting her, and sets her on his hip. “Anyone else coming?” I shake my head no as everyone else answers. Everyone except Tate agrees to go out for dinner. Crap it. Should have gone with it . . . “Looks like it’s just me and you, darlin’.” He half-grins across the now-empty room. “Or it’s me and me, and you and you,” I respond. “Just because we aren’t going doesn’t mean we have to dine together.” “Who said a thing about dinin’ together?” My eyes find his across the room, slowly. His look back at me with a glint, one that looks suspiciously like desire. “No one. But just in case you got ideas.” “Els, darlin’, I’ve always got ideas when you’re around.” Oh hell. “I think I’m going to call for room service. Alone.” I add as an afterthought, making it clear with a sharp gaze that “alone” really does mean “alone.” “Whatever you want.” Tate leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. “You’re not—you’re not going to fight me on that?” “Do you want me to?” “No. I’m just surprised you’re not.” I gather my purse from the floor and sling it over my arm. “What are you going to do?” He shrugs, a tantalizing smirk playing on his lips. “Tate.” “If you keep saying my name, my answer is ‘I’m goin’ to kiss you.’ ” I narrow my eyes. “I’m going to call Carlos and get him to keep an eye on you. You’re not to leave this hotel. Do you understand that, Mr. Burke?” The smirk falls from his lips. “Mr. Burke again? Really?” I whip out my cell phone, press call, and shoot him a look over my shoulder as I walk away.

Tate

That look was far too fucking attitude-filled for my liking. And that smirk on her pink lips. Damn. I leave my guitar leaning against my chair and get up, following her out the door. Having dinner alone my ass—there ain’t a chance in hell she’s gonna do that. I’m going to follow her ass through this hotel and up to her room because I want to. Besides, with the others not around, it’s the perfect chance to pull some of that past of hers out of her, to make her talk. I wanna hear her talk. You don’t run from one night of abuse. That much is painstakingly clear. “Hey, sugar,” I drawl, leaning on the receptionist’s desk. “Mr. Burke.” She glances up through her hair. “C’mon, now, I’ve told you to call me Tate . . .” My eyes flick to her badge. “Stacey.” She blushes. “How can I help you, Tate?” “I can’t seem to get hold of my assistant on the phone, and she’s sick. I know she’s in her room. I’m real worried about her. What are the chances of you givin’ me her room key so I can check on her?” “Oh—I don’t . . . I don’t think I can, sir, I’m sorry. It’s against policy.” “Aw, Stace.” I lean forward fully and her eyes flick to where my arms are straining against my T-shirt. “Her room is booked in my name. Who’s gonna know, huh? It can be our little secret.” I wink. Stacey’s eyes flick to her colleague and back to me. “I tell you what. Buy me a drink tomorrow after work and I’ll give you the key.” Aw, fucknuts. “You drive a hard bargain, sugar, but I’ll agree. It can’t be too bad takin’ a girl such as yourself for a drink.” I give her my most charming smile and hold out my hand. “Room 218.” Stacey gets up and programs a new key in less than a minute. She puts it in my hand, smiles, and lets her touch linger for a minute too long. I widen my smile and pull the key from her grip before heading to the elevator and dropping the grin. Fucking hell. Ella better appreciate the effort I’m putting in for this room-service chat. I exit the elevator and walk down the hall to her room. The key card slips into the door easily, and I knock twice, then push the door open. “Tate! What the hell!” Ella shrieks, holding a fluffy white towel firmly around her body. Her dark hair is wet and falling about her shoulders, almost black against her porcelain skin. “Well, damn.” My eyes trawl across her wet body of their own accord. From her long, curled eyelashes fluttering in shock to the droplets of water trailing down between her breasts to the way that towel barely skims the tops of her thighs. “Hello to you, too.”

“What are you doing here?” she squeaks, stepping back into her bedroom. “Couldn’t stand the thought of a beautiful girl like you eatin’ dinner alone,” I say to her half-towelcovered tits. “Me or my girls?” “All of you, darlin’. Your ass and pussy, too.” And food isn’t the only thing I’d like to eat around her . . . or off of her . . . or on her. . . . “You are so crude!” She shuts her bedroom door. The loud sound is followed by the click of a lock. “Aw, fuck. There goes plan B.” “Oh my God!” she cries through the door, banging in the room. “You’re unreal!” I grin and drop onto her sofa. Fuck me—no girl should ever be seen in a tiny white towel like that. Especially not if that girl is Ella Dawson and I’m the guy seeing her. My dick is throbbing in my pants, steadily growing harder with every passing second. So easy. It would have been so motherfucking easy to push her against a wall and rip away that pathetic excuse for a towel and show her exactly why she should be fully clothed around me at all times. Fuck—no, she shouldn’t. She should be stark fucking naked and clean-shaven around me. Making coffee, ordering pizza, watching a movie. . . . This chick should not own a single fucking item of clothing. Except panties. Panties are A-OK. I fucking love panties. I adjust my jeans over my rock-hard cock. Sweet fucking Jesus. If I’d have known she was practically naked I would have waited five minutes and saved myself the torture of seeing and not touching. But, shit, man. That was a quick-ass shower. I know for a fact Sofie takes at least fifteen minutes. Ella wasn’t even in there five. Or maybe she was—Stacey the Receptionist’s seduction attempt swallowed up several minutes of my time. “What on earth are you doing here, Tate?” I focus my attention from my boner to Ella. At least I try to. They’re pretty much fucking synonymous. “I already told you, Els. You can’t have dinner alone, so here I am, ready to wine and dine you.” She licks her lips and fails to hide her smile. “Really? You’re going to wine and dine the assistant you’ve known for nine days?” “Darlin’, I usually fuck girls without finding out their names after ten minutes in their presence.” I smirk. “You should count yourself lucky.” “Oh, I do. As lucky as the kid that didn’t win the goldfish at the country fair when all his friends did.” She gives me a pointed look over the top of the room-service menu. “So what is this? A business meeting? A casual dinner? A lame and misguided attempt at a date?” I choke on nothing at that last question. “A casual dinner. I don’t do dates, darlin’.” Ella sits next to me and throws a menu onto my lap. “One would assume you’re not leaving, so there you go.” “One would be correct,” I put on my best New York accent. Ella looks over at me, her mouth tugging into a smile, her eyes sparkling. “Really? That’s the best you have? You’re way too country to nail it.” “What?” I sit up straight. “I don’t believe you.” “You are!”

“Do a Southern accent then, Ms. You Can’t Nail It. I dare ya.” Ella rolls her eyes, sets her menu on her lap, and looks at me. “For real?” “For fuckin’ real!” “Fine!” She looks away a second then back to me. “Well bless your heart, sugar.” I blink at her. What. The. Fuck. “What the fuck was that?” “A Southern accent?” “You sound like Sofie. How the fuck?” “You seem to have forgotten I’ve spent a whole bunch of time with you all in the last nine days, mostly Sofie, and I also went to school with a few Southerners.” Ella shrugs, lifting her menu again. “Damn. You’re hot as hell, sort my legal shit, love my music, and you can pull off a Southern accent? Marry me, Els.” She throws her head back and laughs. “Tate Burke, the day you find a girl stupid enough to marry you, I’ll get your name tattooed on my butt cheek.” I grin. “Better start lookin’ then, eh?” “You better. It’s gonna take a while.” She giggles into her menu. “Okay. I know what I’m eating. What are you having?” “I’m orderin’.” “Not for me you’re not.” “I never said that. I just said I’m orderin’. It’s polite and shit.” “The add-on at the end of that sentence really rudened it up.” “Rudened? What the fuck is that?” “I made it up, all right? Lay off.” I laugh and lean over her for the phone. I dial the code for room service, stutter out my order between chuckles, and then Ella says hers into the receiver. I order one bottle of Moscato for her and a few beers for me, to be brought up immediately, on ice. “Moscato, hmm?” She looks at me questioningly. “S’all you drink, darlin’.” “I’m surprised you noticed.” “Me, too.” A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and I get up to answer it. A small cart is rolled in with our drinks, and the guy pops the cork on her wine and uncaps me a bottle of Budweiser. I thank him and take the glass and bottle. Ella takes the glass from me with a contemplative expression. I smile as her fingers brush mine and drop down unceremoniously on the couch next to her. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but she doesn’t say a word. Our eyes meet several times over the next few minutes. I’m checking to see if she’s looking at me, and I’d bet she’s doing the exact same fucking thing. It’s dumb, because I’m always looking at her. Even if she is sans makeup, with wet, unruly hair. The girl is unreal. “Would you like me to dry my hair? You’re looking at me all confused,” Ella mumbles into her glass.

“That’s because I ain’t used to bein’ attracted to natural girls. Yet I find myself incredibly fuckin’ attracted to you.” “Must be my stellar personality.” “Or them killer tits.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “God, Tate!” “Now there’s a phrase I’m used to hearin’.” “Oh my God!” “That, too.” “I’m just going to stop talking.” “No, Els. Don’t. Your voice is pretty.” She slaps my bicep with the back of her fingers. “My voice is pretty? For real, Casanova? That the best you got?” I tug on a lock of her hair. “I’m tryin’ to be nice here, which is, again, somethin’ most chicks don’t get. Give me a chance, all right?” “But if I did that, I’d be one of those dumb chicks you associate with.” “True story that, darlin’. Although I ain’t doin’ that for now. I’m being good. Except for that chick at reception.” I brush my fingers down Ella’s jaw. “I had to agree to buy her a drink before she’d give me your room card.” “Hmm,” she hums. “I wondered how you swindled that one.” “I’m a regular Romeo.” “Seems it. Are you sure this dinner isn’t getting in the way of meeting Ms. Receptionist?” “Nah, I don’t have to grace her with my awesome presence until tomorrow evening.” “What time?” “She didn’t say.” “Shame. You’re busy all evening, practicing, per your manager’s orders.” Ella smiles and sips her wine. “Part of his plan to keep you on the straight and narrow and away from kissing random girls.” “What if I kiss you? Does that count?” “As what?” “A random girl.” I set my beer on the table in front of us and scoot along toward her. Her chest heaves, and she swallows, holding her wine in front of her body. “I’m not a random girl.” “So you don’t count,” I breathe, taking her glass from her and putting it on the table. “Right?” “Um. I do count. I’m kind of random. And I’m a girl. So.” “Ella?” “What?” I press my chest against hers and curl my fingers around the back of her neck. “Shut up.” She inhales as I close the distance between our mouths. The taste of her wine is strong on her lips, and I run my tongue across her bottom lip, reveling in the silky sweetness of it. Despite her protests, she arches her body into me, wrapping her hand around the back of my neck. Sweet fuck, she’s everything that’s bad and good. She’s temptation and resistance. Shit, she’s sin. She’s dark and light, a contradiction, a mystery to unravel. She’s every fucking thing I didn’t know existed. She’s everything I never wanted to know existed.

I run my fingers through her half-damp hair to the ends, and hers go into the curls at the nape of my neck, holding me tightly to her. It’s nothing like I expect. By rights, she should push me away, too afraid to blink at me. But every sweep of her lips, every kiss, every grasp at me tells me she trusts me. It could be smart or it could be dumb. But I’ll never hurt her. Never. Fucking. Ever. Not the way she’s been hurt in the past. The thought of marring her beautifully white skin makes me fucking sick to my stomach. She’s not a goddamn punching bag—she’s a woman, formed and curved and gorgeous. More than that, Ella Dawson is the woman you respect, because she respects herself. Knock, knock. What is it with people knocking when I’m kissing her? “Food,” I whisper against her soft mouth. “Get off me,” she murmurs, but I can feel her smile against me. I groan into her, but she shoves at me, and I get up and answer the door. Another server wheels a cart into the room, this time with two plates topped with those silver dome things. She uncovers each plate, my steak and Ella’s chili nachos. I thank the girl, shove a twenty into her hand, then grab Ella’s plate. Damn, those nachos smell good. I put her plate on the coffee table in front of her. Then I grab a nacho, dip it into the chili topping, and shove it into my mouth. She gasps as I back toward the cart and get my steak. It’s decorated with fries and salad, but hell, I shoulda gone for what she did. Ella grabs a cheese-coated nacho from the side and dives it into the center of her plate. With a huge mound of ground beef on the chip, she forces it into her mouth quite spectacularly. Holy fuck, this girl can open her mouth wide. And I mean. Wi. Hi. Hiiiiiide. “See something you like?” she questions, doing it again. “Darlin’, I see a lot of things I like.” She rolls her eyes and eats another chip. “Of course you do. You’re drooling, Tate.” “Els, you’re eating them like you’ve never had them before.” She pauses, a chili-coated chip halfway to her mouth. Her eyes drop to it, and I stare at her, her silence anything but accidental. Or maybe it is—who fucking knows? “I wasn’t allowed them,” she says in a quiet voice. “Only when I got to have a slumber party with the girls, which was way too infrequent.” She swallows, setting the chip down. “It didn’t matter if we had company or not. I had to eat with cutlery, because fingers were for uncivilized people.” I can’t look away from her. Her words are no more than a whisper, but they cut right fucking through me. She couldn’t eat what she wanted? What the fuck? “Pizza?” I ask softly. “Had to be cut with a knife and fork,” she answers, trailing a nacho around in the chili. “I’m sure my friends knew something was up, because if we ever had it alone, I would eat it normally. But Matthew made sure I ate in a ‘sophisticated’ manner.” Matthew. His name leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “That was it. Perfection. Sophistication. There was no other option. If I tried something else . . .” her voice trails off, and she nibbles at the end of the chip.

“How long?” Ella’s eyes move to mine but they leave just as quickly. “How. Long?” She shakes her head. Rage swirls in my stomach, building and tightening and coiling. It spreads through me with every second of her silence, her denial, her protection of him. “How fucking long was that motherfucker putting his hands on you, Els?” “Too long,” she whispers, wiping her hands on a napkin. “How fucking long?” My voice is harsher than I want, the growl deeper. “Two years.” That rage—it explodes. It consumes me. Drowns me. How the fuck could anyone hurt her? This sweetas-fuck girl? How could anyone, for a single motherfucking second, think it’s okay to hurt her? To bruise her, to maim her, to put a blemish on her? How the fuck is that right in any place in this world? I envelope her body in my arms. Hold her—that’s what my body screams. Hold her so tightly she realizes the safety you’re offering her is stronger than the fear that’s threading through her veins. “How?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “How did you do it?” “I was afraid,” Ella whispers. Her fingers dig into my back tentatively, moving up and down, as if searching for their perfect landing spot. “I had nowhere to go, and to me, no real reason to go. I always thought he’d change. He promised it. Every time. He’d hurt me, then he’d hold me and promise he wouldn’t do it again. I believed him.” I slide my hand up her back and into her hair. “What made you go, finally?” “We were about to get married. My mom sent me a message reminding me that I was getting married in exactly four weeks, and it was scary.” She swallows. “I was getting dressed, and there was this bruise on my stomach from the day before, and I knew . . . I just knew. We’d been together for years, and if he was still hitting me weeks before our wedding, chances were, he’d be hitting me for weeks after, too. And I didn’t want to be that girl. Before him, I never feared more than spiders and rats, things that seem so trivial now. So I knew, no matter what, I was going to run. Anywhere. I applied for jobs everywhere, whenever I could get out of the house. Hell, I did my interview with Sofie over the phone at a nail salon in Brooklyn. Then you gave me this job. I took it and I ran without looking back.” Her fingers dig into my skin almost painfully, her voice a whisper. “I’m not a punching bag, Tate. I won’t be that. I’m more than that.” Her words, they shake. Her voice, it’s weak. Like she needs to convince herself of it even as she says the words. “Ella . . . Els . . . Shit.” I fold her into my body entirely, so her cheek is against my chest and her nose is against my shoulder. “You are, darlin’. You’re so much fuckin’ more than that. You’re everythin’ that isn’t that.” “But I’m scared. I say I’m not, but I am. A little.” I slide my hands to her face and look at her. Her dark hair sweeping across her forehead. Her dark eyes boring into mine, begging, pleading, sassing, confusing. And I brush my thumbs across her cheeks, right beneath her eyes, my thumbs swallowing up any type of wetness there.

“Don’t be afraid.” I cup Ella’s cheeks and bring her forehead close to mine. “As long as I’m near you, don’t be afraid, darlin’.” “It’s not your job.” Her voice is so quiet it isn’t even a whisper. “No. This kinda protection ain’t my job. It’s my will.” I touch my lips to hers. “If he ever gets past our boys, promise me you’ll call me, and you’ll keep trying until I answer and get to you.” Ella pulls her knees to her chest. “I don’t want to think of that.” “Neither do I. I don’t want to think about a situation where he can touch you.” I hold her tighter. Her breath against my skin, her fingers trailing my stomach, her eyes set on mine. “If he comes within ten feet of you, darlin’, you tell me. Els, you tell me, because I’ll snap his neck. You understand?” “I’m scared.” She’s trembling in my hold. Trembling. Quivering. Shaking. Whatever you call it. “Of him,” I whisper into her ear. “Don’t fear me, baby. I’ll never be anythin’ but gentle toward you. Fear what I’ll do to him if he tries to come near you.” She nods, her fingers grasping my shirt. “I’ll never hurt you.” Her trembling body is in my arms, pressed against me, held against me. Her hands are on me, her lips quivering, too. “I know,” she breathes. The words are so fucking quiet I barely hear. “Ever. Not the way he did. Trust me, darlin’. Believe me.” “I do.” She takes a deep breath then sits up. Her hands fall away from me and I loosen my grip on her body when she tilts her head back to look at me. “Do you have multiple personalities?” “What do you mean?” My lips quirk. “One minute you’re storming in here being all rude, then the next you’re being sexy, then you’re being sweet.” “Did you just call me sexy?” “What? No. I said ‘being sexy,’ not ‘you are sexy.’ ” “You said ‘you’re being sexy.’ ” I grin. “So you think I’m sexy?” She knocks my arms away from her and pulls her plate from the table and onto her lap. “It doesn’t matter if I think you’re sexy. You think you’re sexy.” “I am sexy. I just want to know if you agree.” “And we’re on another personality—the stubborn-toddler one.” I grab one of her nachos. “You’re naming my moods?” “You don’t have mood swings, Tate. You really do have total personality flips. It makes no sense.” “You want me to be an asshole all the time?” “I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with any version of you.” “You’re comfortable when I’m kissing you.” I wink and grab another chip. “Will you stop eating my food?” She pushes my hand away with a sharp slap to my fingers, then freezes. I stare at her. Her hand is poised in midair, her gaze focused on it like she can’t believe she just did that. I flick my fingers against hers and grab another chip. “No. They’re good.”

Slowly, she draws her eyes upward. Her dark gaze, full of uncertainty, lingers on mine for a moment. Then—hell—then she drops her hand and smiles. “Then order another plate of them.” “Pass the phone.” “I’m not your slave, I’m your assistant.” “I know.” I grin. “So you should be orderin’ them for me, darlin’.” She purses her lips and reaches behind her for the phone. Dialing the number, she pulls it to her ear and says, “Can I get another plate of chili nachos to room 218? Extra-large size?” Pause. “That’s great. Thanks.” “Extra-large size?” I question, grabbing one of hers. “Yes. All your talking is making me hungry, and since you’ve already eaten half of mine and don’t intend to stop, I thought it was wise.” “You’re a smart girl, Els.” “The fact I’m eating dinner with you puts that up for debate,” she mutters, grabbing her wineglass and pushing her plate onto my lap. “Hey, thanks.” I lean back and coat a chip in salsa. She shoots her eyes toward me over the rim of her glass, twists her lips to the side, then drinks. “Idiot.”

Ella

I grab five water bottles from the bar, charge them to the Burke account, and hop into the elevator. My arms chill quickly against the ice-cold bottles, and I’m thankful when the doors open and I can run down the hall to the gym. I bump the door open with my butt. “Water.” The guys all look up from the floor where they’re completing push-ups. “You’re a doll,” Aidan says, getting up. Tate, Kye, and Conner each grab a bottle from me and then they all drop to the mats on the floor. Tate holds the cold bottle against his forehead, while Kye rolls it back and forth across his chest, and Conner drinks it quickly. Aidan stares at them, still standing, and cuts his eyes to me. “Bunch o’ pussies.” “Fuck off,” Tate replies immediately. “You did half as many push-ups as us. Kept stoppin’ ’cause your lil baby arms couldn’t take the pressure.” “Shut it or my lil baby fist will meet your face, asshole.” I cough and smile sweetly when four pairs of eyes snap to me. “Hi, I’m still here.” “And thank you for giving us somethin’ nice to look at as we take a break,” Kye flirts. Tate punches his arm. “Stop bein’ a dick.” “And I am still here, when you’re done fighting.” I eye all of them. “Carla’s waiting for you in the Royal Room. She told me to tell you to move your lazy butts up there. Well, she used a lot more expletives.” “Has she got PMS? Because if she does, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near her,” Conner mutters. “One chick with it is more than enough.” “I’ll make a note to find Sofie tonight and hand her chocolate cake and wine,” I reassure him with a smile. “That’s why we pay you.” “Sure. That’s it.” I roll my eyes. Carla shoves the door open and puts her hands on her hips. “Are all y’all still messin’ around down here?” Her eyes land on the guys. “Upstairs. Shower. Practice. Now.” I blink harshly. Damn. Now I get why they mumble about her when she isn’t around—she doesn’t mince her words. She doesn’t sugarcoat them either. “Keep your panties on, Carla.” Tate screws the cap back on his bottle. “We just finished.”

“Yeah, no shit. Now are y’all gonna do what you’re supposed to be doing or stand around here chatting?” She looks at me. “And aren’t you supposed to be making them do it?” “I’m sorry?” My eyes widen. “I just got down here like two minutes ago myself. I literally just told them they need to get ready to practice.” “Mhmm.” She smacks her bright pink lips together. “So why are they still here? Don’t you know their schedule yet?” “Carla,” Tate growls. “I know their schedule.” I turn to face her. “It says they don’t have to be in the Royal Room to practice for another fifteen minutes. Then they’ll practice for two hours, break for lunch for one, then they’ll practice for three with a fifteen-minute break when they want it. And since there’s a table booked for dinner at a restaurant down the road at six p.m. that’s nonnegotiable, they can’t be late for anything. I write their darn schedule, so instead of coming down here and chewing their behinds out, let them do their thing.” I unscrew the top of my water bottle but pause before I take it fully off. “And making sure they’re where they need to be is my job. You’re only here to make sure Tate behaves himself and make sure everything is okay with the venue. They’ll meet you in the Royal Room in fifteen minutes, showered and ready to practice.” Carla stares at me harshly, and I get the feeling she’s used to running the show around here. Well, she can—when she’s running her job. Not when she’s running mine. I’m not a pushover anymore. Carla turns without a word and slams the door shut behind her. I stare at it for a second, then remove the cap from my water bottle. “Holy shit,” Tate says, making me turn to look at him. “I think I just came in my pants.” I lick my lips and fight my smile. “What?” “There’s nothing sexier than a woman who takes no shit,” he replies. “And when you take no shit from Carla, you’re automatically up there with Scarlett Johansson,” Aidan adds. “Awesome,” I reply. “Now get your butts upstairs and into the shower so I don’t have to cover your asses yet again. You were supposed to be practicing fifteen minutes ago.” They all laugh, which makes my smile-fight futile. I eye them all as they walk out of the gym, except Tate, who pauses in front of me. When the door shuts behind Conner, Tate sweeps an arm around my waist and pulls me into him, squashing my water bottle between us. I squeak as the cold liquid bursts up and covers my front, but he ignores me and plants a huge, hard kiss on my slightly parted lips. “Hella sexy,” he mutters, stepping back when I push at his chest. “Speak for yourself.” I look down at my shirt. “I didn’t realize there was a wet T-shirt competition today.” “There isn’t.” “Shame. You’d have won it.” He trails a fingertip down my front to the swell of my breasts, and I step back, away from his reach. “You need to get ready to practice,” I say quietly, capping my water. “Like, now.” “Els . . .”

“You want Carla to chew your ass out, then hang around, but I have stuff to do.” I dart past him and through the doors. I’m still trying to reconcile soft Tate and asshole Tate. I’m still trying to make sense of the soft guy beneath the hardened exterior—why he’s so gentle with me but so harsh to everyone else. And that soft act, I don’t want to get pulled in by it. The random kiss just then? It’s enough to make anyone believe that something tangible could be forming. Something real and longer-lasting than his usual thing. Thankfully I’m not anyone. Thankfully, I’m so wound up in their lives that I know the frequency of Tate’s sex life is about to decrease quite drastically, and I’m probably nothing more than a time-filler for him. Something for him to distract himself with while he cleans up his appearance. And . . . that isn’t okay. I won’t go from being used by one man to being used by another. I won’t fall for his gentle-protector act. Because that’s all it is . . . An act. And I know an awful lot about acts.

“O h my God,” Sofie mumbles so quickly the words all mesh together. “Chocolate cake!” This, she shrieks, and it bounces off the walls of the hotel restaurant. She falls into the seat next to me and dives the fork into the hot, gooey mess quicker than I can respond. She shoves a forkful of the cake into her mouth, moans, and leans back. “Chocolate fudge cake. Oh, Ella. I’m going to marry you one day.” I laugh. “Don’t marry me—marry your boyfriend. He called me after practice and told me you needed to have chocolate fudge cake, not just any old cake, because he was pretty afraid of you.” Sofie winces. “Yeah, I kinda flipped on Carla. She was bein’ a total bitch to the guys, and, well, hormones and all that jazz.” “Yeah . . . I might have put her in a bad mood.” I chew the inside of my cheek and stab my fork into my cheesecake. I explain the events in the gym and how I covered for the guys, and Carla’s non-reaction to me calling her out. “So now, I think she hates me.” Sofie giggles and sips her glass of wine. “Okay, she doesn’t hate you. She likes Tate.” “I’m sorry, what?” “She likes Tate. Like . . . likes him, likes him. But he refuses to have anythin’ to do with her ’cause she’s Marc’s assistant, and it would be real awkward after.” “Is that why she’s a raging pain in the ass? Really?” “I love your passive-aggressiveness,” Sofie laughs. “Yeah, pretty much. I think she’s kind of the same as Tate in that she’s used to getting the attention she wants.” “But why does she like him?” “Why do you?”

“I don’t, I mean, wait. What was the question?” I fill my mouth full of cheesecake and chew slowly. “Why do you like Tate?” she repeats. “Don’t think I don’t see how y’all look at each other. Is he as good a kisser as the rumors say?” “Isn’t he practically your brother?” “Yes. But I’ve heard enough rumors to want them cleared up, and you didn’t deny it.” Ah, crap. That’s what I should have said. “I haven’t kissed him.” “Nice cover up.” “I haven’t. He’s kissed me.” “Semantics.” Sofie squeals, setting her fork down. Apparently the cure for her PMS isn’t chocolate fudge cake, it’s girl talk. “Tell me.” I stare at my plate. Before I can think it over, the words tumble from my mouth like they’re falling over a cliff edge. I can’t stop them, I can’t slow them down. From our fight in the parking lot in Charleston and him having me cornered against the bus and my breakdown to me talking to him after the sex tape thing to dinner last night, I tell her everything. How he changes from rough to gentle, and how he talks softly when I clam up. How he promises me I’m safe now, and how he holds me when I’m afraid. Mostly how he holds me when I’m afraid. How he’s nothing like everyone thinks he is. How the person he is behind closed doors isn’t the guy the media and the girls in his past portray him. And how I’m confused, because not ten days ago I was running away from my abusive fiancé, and now I’m here, having kissed the worst kind of guy possible, wondering how my life has changed so much. Sofie reaches over the table and swaps our plates. “I think you need the chocolate cake more than me.” Then she refills our glasses. I stab my fork into the hot mess and scoop a big piece into my mouth. I nod. I do need it. God I love cake. “So . . . what are you going to do?” “What am I going to do? I was kind of hoping you’d have the answer,” I grumble. “I don’t get this . . . confused stuff. And I certainly don’t get kissing without being in a relationship at all.” “Ella,” she says softly. “Do you know a real relationship at all?” I pause, looking down, and swallow. No. I have no idea what one entails. My head jerks side to side roughly, and I sit back. “Real relationships aren’t cut and dry, and most of the time the people involved have no idea what’s happening. Me and Conner spent three weeks in limbo after I returned to Shelton Bay, and it wasn’t until I agreed to do the damn tour with them that we defined ourselves as back together. Now I’m not sayin’ you and Tate have any kinda relationship. I’m just sayin’ that you’re kind of alike. You have a past you’re ashamed of, and so does he. Both of you are forcin’ yourselves to move past the bullshit and onto somethin’ better.” She licks her fork clean and points it at me. “But if I see you fallin’ at his stinky feet I’ma drag you back up.” I laugh. Hell no. “No falling,” I assure her. “No falling, no tripping, no slipping. Besides, I’m afraid of what he might think I’m planning if I do that.” Sofie grins and sips her wine. “He’s not a bad guy. Not really. He just went too far at the start of the Dirty B. boom, and now he’s stuck with a stereotype I don’t think he knows how to shift.”

“So you’re saying I should just let him keep kissing me whenever he wants.” “Well, I’m not saying let him, but if you like it, then you don’t have to stop it.” I open my mouth, but close it again seconds later. Purse my lips. Lick my lips. “Well, I don’t not like it.” Sofie’s eyes flick from the cheesecake to me several times, her lips twitching. “So like it some more. And, Ella? You’ve been a lot happier the last few days. Like . . . you’ve come out of that tight little shell you had yourself wrapped in. You’re givin’ the guys as good as you get, and from what Conner said, you gave Carla a real ass-kickin’ earlier. You wouldna done that when you got here. Just . . . I dunno, doll. Let whatever happen. It won’t kill either of you, and you sure as hell deserve some fun.” I guess she’s right. I’m just not sure Tate Burke is the right kind of fun. In fact, I’m positively sure he’s the worst kind of fun. Not least because we essentially live together for the next few weeks. What if . . . what if I like the man behind the mask and, as soon as his bad behavior quarantine is over, he grabs some random chick? “Fucking shit.” Tate sits opposite me at the table. “That chick . . .” “What chick? The receptionist?” He looks at me, exhausted. “I’m so glad y’all don’t talk that much. It was like being around ten Milas, all chattin’ Frozen shit at the same time, only there was another fuckin’ fifty in the background yellin’ about Elmo and Peppa Pig.” “Ouch.” Sofie winces. “How’d you get away?” “Told her my PA needed me.” His eyes still on me, he smirks. “So need me real quick, darlin’, before she walks through here and sees I’m just chattin’. Wait . . . fuck! She’s comin’! Do somethin’!” “Never thought I’d see the day Tate Burke would run from a girl,” Sofie giggles, finishing her second glass of wine. I agree, nodding, and finish mine, too. “Come on.” I get up and grab Tate’s hand. “Let’s keep with the toddler analogy and play pretend. Sof, Marc called and Tate said bye.” I wink conspiratorially, and she grins. I pull Tate out of his seat and tug him behind me. “Els . . .” His fingers tighten around mine. “What are you doin’?” “Getting you out of the rest of your date.” I take my keys from my pocket and unlock the door to the Royal Room. “Get in.” “By seducin’ me in a dark room?” I laugh. “You wish, Casanova.” I flick the lights on and pull the door shut. “Didn’t you hear what I said to Sofie?” “That Marc called?” “Yes. He didn’t. Obviously. Sofie will tell her you had to take it and that you paid the bill, but you’re gonna be a while, so she should go.” “And what happens when we go back in there pretty soon?” “Then the call was done sooner than expected and you came for a post-call drink to talk with your assistants.” I nod and put my hands on my hips. With a pointed look, I add, “If she leaves her number, I’ll throw it in the trash.” “God, that sentence sounds sexy coming from you.”

“The post-call drink?” “No. The throwing her number in the trash.” “I fail to understand how that is even remotely sexy.” “I have three girls in my phone. My sister,” he holds up one finger, “Sofie,” another finger, “and you.” A third finger flicks up and he steps toward me. “And you talkin’ about throwin’ out a girl’s number . . .” “You are very strange.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Are you just permanently horny?” “Around you? Yes. It’s like a fuckin’ reflex.” He’s standing in front of me now, and we’re almost toe-to-toe. He towers over me by several inches, his bulky, muscled form casting a shadow over my petite, slender body. I’m tiny in comparison to him, and even his head is bent forward so he can look at me. His hands are by his sides, fingers hooked in his belt loops casually, and his shirt is rumpled where it meets his jeans. And the bulge in his jeans catches my eye. That’s a considerably sized bulge. Very considerable. I draw in a sharp breath, making my chest heave, and Tate brings his fingers to my chin. He tilts my head back so my eyes collide with his brightly burning ones. “A very strong reflex.” “Do you know anything about personal space?” Breathlessly, the words fall from my lips. “Yes,” he murmurs, stepping into me. “I know that I fuckin’ love it when you’re in mine.” “I mean other people’s.” He slides his hand from my chin to the back of my head, twining his fingers into the hair at the base of my skull, and rests his other hand on my waist. “I respect personal space,” he whispers, every breath fluttering over my lips, making them red hot. “But yours looks empty, darlin’. It needs filling.” “And you’re the perfect guy for the job, right?” His lips crushing against mine answer my question. Tate pushes us back and I gasp as my back hits the wall. I grasp his shirt as if it’ll ground me, but I’m consumed by his tongue flicking against mine. He asks no permission. He’s not gentle. He’s rough and demanding. His lips are harsh and desperate, his fingertips digging into me in a way that stings so bad it’s almost sweet, and his hard body against mine almost suffocates me, but that’s because I can feel all of him, from his tensed pecs to his hardened cock. He’s against me, fully, entirely, every dip and bump of his body evident despite the clothing between us. And as his teeth graze across my bottom lip in a tantalizingly teasing way that makes me moan quietly into his mouth, I want that clothing gone. I dip my hands beneath his shirt and trail them up his back. His grip gets tighter, his kiss gets firmer. His movements are almost possessive, but not in a bad way. They’re not selfish or careless. Every twitch of his fingers brings me pleasure. Every swipe of his tongue turns me on, too. And I am. Turned on. I am turned. The. Hell. On. My breasts are aching, my nipples pebbling, and my clit is aching in a way I thought it forgot long ago. But it hasn’t, it remembers, and my muscles remember, and my pussy is clenching, my fingers are gripping, my lips are moving. His hands are caressing, his tongue is battling, his erection is growing.

There’s us—no doubts, no what-ifs, no maybes. There’s the kiss and the need and the want. There’s the actions and the gasps and the tiny moans and the desperation. There’s Tate and Ella, the two who don’t make sense, the two who shouldn’t do this but do anyway, on both accounts. “You,” he growls into my ear. “What the fuck are you doin’ to me? All through that fuckin’ drink, you drove me crazy. I should have been thinkin’ how soon I could get her upstairs and fuck her. But, no, I was thinkin’ that she wasn’t you. That she didn’t look like you, think like you, talk like you. That she wasn’t fuckin’ Els. That I had to get back to you, to do this, to feel you, to taste you. I had to get back here to feel somethin’ fuckin’ real.” The low, husky tone of his words sends shivers ricocheting through my body. One by one, my limbs shudder as the electric current runs rampant through my veins. “What took you so long?” “Good fuckin’ question.” Tate silences me once more. His hands explore my body, and with no bruises, no pain, they can go wherever, touch wherever, feel wherever. “Ella? Tate? I tried textin’ . . . Oh, fuck me!” The door slams suddenly with Sofie’s shout. “Oops,” Tate murmurs against my mouth. “Now we’re in trouble.” “I didn’t do anything,” I protest in a whisper. “You kissed me.” “You responded,” he throws back, equally as quietly, lips curving into a cocky smirk. “I was cornered.” I tap the wall on either side of me and push off it. He grabs me into him, his hands sliding down to my ass, and presses his lips to my neck. They linger just below my ear, his breath cascading over my skin, and he whispers, “By the time we leave Georgia, you and I will know each other very, very well, darlin’.” “So confident.” “I could slide my hand inside your panties right now to prove me right, but I don’t need to, because you know I’m right,” he breathes harshly. “And feeling how wet you are, touching your undoubtedly perfect pussy, will only torture me more.” “Tate . . .” “Tell her we’re done before I shoot her,” he mutters, a slight growl infiltrating his tone. “But, Els, darlin’?” he pulls my face toward his. “We ain’t done here. We ain’t done until you’re beneath me, my cock buried deep inside you, and my name fallin’ from your lips. Got it?” “Understood,” I say in a tiny voice. I step back from him, but he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Did I . . . Did I hurt you? Just then?” I shake my head. “No.” “Good.” He pushes my bangs from my forehead and rests his palm against my cheek for a moment. He turns and opens the door to Sofie. “Sof. Hi.” “Hi indeed.” She glances around him at me. “I was just, er, comin’ to say that I got rid of Stacey, and that Conner’s holdin’ the table for us, and that y’all could come back now. But I don’t want to interrupt anythin’, so, you know. Come back when you feel ready to.” “Ohhh, we’re ready.” I run my fingers through my hair and slide past Tate. “Well, I am, and that’s good enough for me.” Tate grins, closing the door behind me. “You gonna lock it, darlin?” I throw my keys at him over my shoulder and keep walking.

Tate

I catch her keys in the palm of my hand and my grin widens. Damn—she doesn’t look like she was pinned against a wall less than five minutes ago. Clearly I’m not kissin’ her fuckin’ hard enough. I meant every damn word I said to her, though. Stacey who? Who the fuck was that chick I just wasted forty-five minutes with? She was never getting into my hotel room anyway, and that was before Ella sat across the restaurant with Sofie and consumed my every thought. Because—fuck. This girl is killing me. And not in a good way. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d be inside her by the time we leave Atlanta. I will fuck her within days. I can’t not. I already broke all the workingfor-me rules a million times by being incapable of not kissing her. So, yeah, I’m gonna fuck her. I’m gonna kiss her and worship her body, and I’m gonna fuck her until she succumbs to overwhelming pressure. I slide onto the chair next to Ella, grab her fork, and put some of her cake in my mouth. She gasps and snatches the fork back, nudging me with her elbow. “Don’t you know a thing about women?” she snaps lightly. “Never, ever, ever, ever take their cake.” I grab her wine. “Or her wine!” she almost growls, taking the glass back and drinking it. “Understand?” “I understand as clear as you do, darlin’.” I smirk and flag a waiter for a beer. “I missed somethin’,” Conner says, looking between us. Sofie rests her hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry, honey. Don’t worry.” Ella coughs and hands the empty wine bottle to the waiter who brings my beer. He nods his head, then disappears back behind the bar. “That was a very self-assured move.” She cuts her eyes to me. “Bite me.” “I’d love to.” Her eyes narrow. I laugh. Conner sits back. “I definitely missed somethin’.”

“S o. You and Ella.”

“Hi, Sofie. How are you, Sofie? How’s my Mimi?” I open my suite door, and she strolls in without a care. She dumps her purse on the chair and leans against the counter. “So,” she repeats. “You and Ella.” “Me and Ella, what?” “Don’t play dumb with me, Tate Burke. I saw y’all last night. How you were kissin’, all passionate and shit. I wish I’d have just closed the door and walked out secretly.” “Why didn’t you?” I shoot at her. “Because I didn’t expect to find the makings of a porn movie!” she exclaims. “Y’all were all over each other. And hot damn, the temperature in that room was through the damn roof!” “I don’t know, all right?” I drop onto the sofa and run my fingers through my hair. “She’s fuckin’ with me, Sof. She’s drivin’ me fucking insane. I don’t do this shit—all that kissin’ and bullshit. I fuck, plain and simple. But she makes me do . . . more.” “More . . . how?” she walks toward me slowly and sits on the chair. “I’m so damn conscious of not hurtin’ her like he did that I want to make her want me slowly. Like, I don’t wanna hurt her, Sof. Fuck.” “Physically?” “Never.” “Emotionally?” My words get caught in my throat. “Tate Burke,” Sofie quietly gasps. “Are you falling for Ella?” “I don’t fall. Falling would imply it’s an accident, and nothin’ about her is a fuckin’ accident.” “So you like her.” “You’ve met her, talked to her. She’s sweet as fuck. How can I not?” “No, dumbass.” Sofie leans forward. “I mean . . . you . . . like her.” “My dick gets hard whenever she walks in the room so, yeah, I guess.” “Dammit, Tate!” She grabs the throw pillow from behind her and throws it at my head. “She ain’t a conquest or a goddamn one-night stand. She’s your assistant. She’s lost. She’s finally finding her feet in a world that’s brand-new to her. She ain’t the chick you throw away when you’re done. She’s cute as fuck, and I swear, you fuck her around, and I’m twistin’ your balls off.” “Whoa, Sof. I never said a thing about fuckin’ her around. Didn’t you hear me? I don’t wanna hurt her. That’s why I know I should stay away, but every time she looks at me, she pulls me in. She’s irresistible.” The door opens and Mila runs in. She launches herself at me. She lands on my lap and wraps her tiny arms around my neck. “Ahh, Tay. My miss my Tay.” “I missed my Mimi. Where you been?” “Talkin’ Dadda a bunna.” She sniffs. “My want bunna.” Conner stares at me from the doorway. “Ask Santa,” I say. “He might make an exception for Mimi.” I wink at my brother. I’ll talk to Mom and get this kid a goddamn rabbit. “You tink?” “I know.” I tickle her tummy and she flops back, giggling. “Tay!” she shrieks. “Stop.”

“Okay, okay.” I flip her back up and lean back. Mila readjusts herself so she’s sitting front on, her legs on either side of my body. “Can Tay ask Mimi a question?” “My lub keshtons!” She claps her hands. “Go, go!” “All right.” I eye Sofie over Mila’s shoulders. “You think Tay should take El for dinner?” “Date?” “No, dinner.” “Same thing, Tate,” Sofie sighs. “Date!” Mila claps. “Dinner.” “Date!” she shouts. I hold my hands up. “Okay, okay!” “Tay a date!” she sings, scrambling down from my lap and running to Conner. “Dadda, Tay a date.” “I heard.” Conner looks at me over her shoulder. “You sure this is a good idea, bro? I mean, she’s kinda fragile, and you don’t really date. . . .” “It ain’t a date,” I protest. “It’s dinner.” Sofie snorts, stands, and throws her purse over her shoulder. “Call it what you wanna call it, Tate, but when you ask that girl out for dinner, it’s a date.” “Fuck off,” I growl, throwing a coaster at her. “Just book me a table somewhere, all right?” Sofie grips the door and grins. “All right, Tate. All right.” “She’s your assistant,” Conner reasons as Sofie leaves with Mila. “Tate, man, we all know about what happened to her. You think that, out of all of us, you’re the right choice?” “One, you sleep with your assistant every night. And two, you don’t know a damn thing about her, Conner. So what’s your point?” My brother stares at me. “All right, I got nothin’ on the first point,” he laughs. “But the second . . . You’re right, I guess, but, Jesus, Tate. Don’t be your usual asshole self, all right?” “Cute. My baby brother is givin’ me dating advice.” “Your baby brother is the only one in this family that’s ever had a girlfriend for longer than a cycle on a damn washing machine,” he snaps. I laugh. “He also got her knocked up, so unless you’re advising me on condoms . . .” I nod toward the door. “God, man. God, use condoms. I ain’t dealin’ with any mini-Tates like you. Thought gives me fuckin’ chills.” He shakes his head, then follows Sofie and Mila through the door. It slams behind him, and I lean forward, bury my head in my hands, and wonder what the fucking hell I just did.

Ella

“Are you insane? I can’t go for dinner with Tate!” Sofie runs her teeth over her bottom lip. “You kind of have to. The table is booked. I just kinda . . . beat him to this information.” “What!” I stare at her. What? “No. I’m not doing it. I’m not going out with him.” I walk into the small kitchen area and turn on the coffee machine. I don’t even want coffee. I just want something to distract me. Dinner with Tate Burke? Like a date dinner? Or even just dinner dinner? No. No. No. No. “Okay, in my defense, I spoke to him two hours ago and I thought he’d already asked you,” she sighs. “But, Ella, it’s just dinner. Maybe he wants to talk . . . business.” “Oh, you know that is not true!” I raise my eyebrows and point at her. “He cannot be alone with me without invading my personal space and his tongue getting all up and personal with mine!” Sofie pauses, then hides a giggle behind her hand. “In private. In public he might be a little more . . . reserved.” “Really?” I grip the side of the counter and look at her. “Tate Burke? Reserved? How do those words even fit together in a sentence?” “This is true.” She chews on her thumbnail. “Well, okay, but it’s less likely, right?” I stare at her some more. “Okay,” she finally gives in and drops onto the sofa. “So what are you goin’ to tell him?” “Wait, what?” I drop the coffee beans all over the floor. “I’m not telling him anything. Technically he didn’t ask me anything.” I sniff and bend down to gather them. She folds her arms across her chest. “What’s really the issue, Ella? I can see you holdin’ somethin’ back.” I sigh. “I just . . . I don’t want to do a date thing. I don’t want to go to dinner and have it appear to be something it isn’t.” At her raised eyebrows, another sigh escapes me. “I don’t want dinner with him, okay? He made some very . . . clear . . . promises last night, some I’m not particularly ready for, and I think avoiding him is the best way to avoid the fulfillment of those.” “Well it ain’t gonna take a genius to figure them out,” she drawls, and I blush. “But you’re his assistant. You can’t avoid him.” “I can avoid him for anything other than work.” “Really?” Sofie looks at me with utter disbelief. “Good luck with that.”

I walk into the gym, reel off the guys’ schedule, and walk back out before any of them can question me. An hour later, I take four bottles of water into the Royal Room, dump them in Carla’s lap, and leave without a word. Four hours after that, I poke my head around the door and tell them their reservation is in thirty minutes, and that they should get changed. Then I take the elevator to my room, shove a chair under the door handle, and, with my phone switched off in the other room, turn on the TV and grab my nachos. See? Avoiding him is easy.

D ay three of Operation Avoid Tate Unless Necessary is working. Juvenile, yes, but working. Getting involved with Tate Burke any more than I already have is a big fat hula-dancing no-no. It’s already gone too far. He’s already pushed too much and taken too much from me. More than I was ever willing to give. Today I can breathe a little without wondering if he’s going to come barreling around a corner to kiss me or something. Sure, he isn’t in a good mood according to Sofie’s text this morning, but he’s not bugging me, so there’s always that. I open up my laptop and fire up the Internet. I finally connected it to the hotel Wi-Fi late last night, and now I figure I should check my email. I expect it to be full of the same panicked messages my cell phone was before I threw it in the river in Charleston. I type the email server’s address and sign in. I hum quietly to SafetySuit playing on Spotify and skim through my unread messages. There’s over one hundred, and at first glance, at least half of them are the spammy marketing things companies send. There are a few scattered messages from my parents, but it’s one from a college friend that catches my eye. I open Suzie’s message. Ella, I heard the news from Matthew’s cousin at work. Please tell me you’re okay and nothing has happened to you. I’m so worried. XOXO, Suz I swallow, my fingers hovering over the mouse pad. Dammit. I never wanted to worry everyone. I just wanted to be free.

I’m okay. I hit Send and go back to my inbox. There—now she knows, which means my family will, too, and maybe they’ll stop with the apparently daily messages. I never should have checked this email. Sofie had a new one set up for me for a reason, I guess. I click through the little boxes to delete the emails, but one from Matthew stops me. There’s no subject line, which means I should delete it, because he never misses the subject line. He always, always writes one. And the date stamp is yesterday. And the time stamp is twenty hours ago. With no subject line. So why do I open the email? Twenty-four hours, Ella. That’s what you have to tell me you’re on your way back to New York and get here. I know exactly where you are, you fucking filthy slut. Shacking up with a bluecollar boy band? That’s low, even for you. Get home so we can end this nonsense and get married. And after, I’ll break your fucking legs so you can’t run from me again. If you don’t, I’ll come to you, and then it’ll be more than your legs that I break. I slam the laptop shut and shove it onto the floor. It bounces before falling flat, but my hands, they’re shaking. My heart is pounding so loudly it’s echoing in my ears, blocking out everything else, and my eyes burn. He knows where I am. He knows where I am. He knows where I am. I get up so quickly that I almost fall, but I regain my footing with the help of the arm of the sofa. I run to the door, open it, and leave it to slam behind me as I turn the corner to find the stairs. My eyes flick side to side as I fly down them, my arms wrapped around my body, swallowing back nauseating bile. He will find me. And he will hurt me. I burst through the Royal Room’s door and the guys stop playing immediately. “Where’s Ajax?” “I don’t know—Ella, what’s wrong?” Conner stands up. “Is something wrong?” I shake my head. “No. I just . . . I need to speak to him.” “Real fuckin’ convincin’,” Tate growls, standing up. “What is it?” “Is it Sofie or Mila?” Conner asks. “I said it’s fine!” I shout, retreating from the room. My shoulders hunch and I curl into myself, my back flattening against the wall. “Els,” Tate demands, grabbing my arms. I hadn’t even realized he followed me into the hall. A scream sounds, then I realize it’s me, and I’m struggling, and he’s letting me go. And then I realize it’s Tate, not Matthew. And I’m okay. I cover my mouth with my hands and look at him with wide, wet eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.” Tate’s eyes are on mine, confused, angry, conflicted. “Carla. Find Ajax now.”

“I’m not your damn slave.” “Now!” he roars, never taking his gaze away from me. “Ella. Talk to me.” I shake my head, my hands still covering my mouth, all of me trembling. Tate rubs his hands down his face, and, when they fall away, the anger is gone from his eyes. “Ella—” Kye starts from behind him. Tate holds his hand up and walks toward me slowly. “Els,” he says softly. I stand deathly still as he approaches me, and he stops right in front of me. Gently, oh so gently, he wraps his fingers around mine and pulls my hands from my mouth. My bottom lip, now free, quivers, and I swallow back a lump in my throat. “Darlin’,” he says just as softly, cupping my face, his fingers rough. “Talk to me. Please.” “He knows where I am.” The words are so quiet I’m not sure I said them. “He knows and he’s gonna hurt me, Tate.” “Ajax, now!” he yells, louder and more harshly than I’ve ever heard him speak. “Never,” he says to me, dropping his forehead against mine, never letting his eyes leave mine. “He’s never fucking touchin’ you again, Ella. You got that, darlin’? I don’t care if you have to be by my side twenty-four-motherfuckin’seven. He is not hurtin’ you!” “He will. I can’t be and he will!” “Never.” The growl in his voice is deep, rumbling, and his fingers tighten against me for a brief second. I grip the front of his shirt, and he folds me into his arms, his strong, solid body holding me centered in reality instead of fear. “I can hear your hollerin’ across the damn hotel, Tate. What’s up?” I glance at Ajax from the corner of my tear-filled eyes. “Ella.” He takes a deep breath. “Sweetheart, I hope you ain’t gonna say what I think you are.” “He found me,” I whimper. Quicker than lightning, Ajax presses something at his ear and hisses orders into it. “In there. Immediately.” He points at the Royal Room and looks right at me. I nod against Tate’s chest and let him pull me into the room. He leads me to the sofas in the far corner and sits down with me. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on me and whispers, “No fuckin’ chance,” into my ear. I don’t have the energy to fight him, to push him away. To make him leave me alone. He makes me feel safer than anyone else ever has. “Carla, Mila is nappin’. Go upstairs and watch her while Sofie comes down,” Ajax orders. “I’m not a babysitter, Ajax. I’m here to supervise.” “And this is a family matter,” he says firmly. “And when it comes down to anythin’ safety, I don’t give a shit if you’re the queen of the North fuckin’ Pole, I’m in charge. Sofie needs to be here. All the Burkes need to be here. My whole damn team needs to be here. You don’t. You can be briefed. Now get upstairs.” The room fills with large, burly men all dressed in black, with wires running from their ears to their belts. Carla opens her mouth to argue, but inevitably turns and walks upstairs. Not a good week for her. Or me, mind you.

I close my eyes briefly, and Tate presses his mouth to the top of my head. He’s shaking, too. His arms, so tight around me, are trembling against me in a feeling that is both surreal and confusing. His lips pucker and he drops a silent kiss to my hair. My fingers wind tightly into his shirt, because here I feel secure, safe, protected. Because of him. Never mind the twenty giants lining the walls wondering why Ajax just called an emergency meeting. Tate is my anchor to this world right now. “Ella. Talk.” Ajax meets my eyes. “I know it’s hard, but we can’t help you unless you do, sweetheart.” I take a deep breath. “He told me . . .” I swallow. “He said . . .” Tate traces tiny circles on my back. “He . . . God!” I push Tate away and bury my head in my hands. Screw him. Screw Matthew Hamilton so hard. And preferably with an incredibly blunt knife where the sun doesn’t shine. “He said he knows that I’m with you and I need to get back to New York to marry him so he can break my legs and if I don’t then he’ll find me and break more than my legs.” I get up and fist my hair, avoiding the angry, shocked gazes of three Burke brothers. The fourth, the eldest and the strongest, comes behind me. His front flattens against my back. His arms circle my stomach. His face buries into my neck. Sofie explodes, the doors slamming. “I’ll break his fuckin’ legs before he gets to you!” “Whoa, firecracker,” Ajax says tightly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Leg-breakin’ is my job.” “Is murder mine?” Tate whispers in my ear. My lips tug up, just barely. “That’s mine, too, Romeo,” Ajax answers. “Ella, I need this email. Carlos, I need pictures of this guy. Clear, recent, recognizable pictures. Boys, no man enters this hotel or any establishment Ella is in, without providing a clear, genuine ID. And under no circumstances is she to be left alone at any time of the day. Or night.” “Conner’s movin’ out,” Sofie says brightly. “It’ll be like an endless slumber party!” I glance at her, a smile teasing my lips despite the rolling of my stomach. “No.” Tate’s voice vibrates through me. “She stays with me.” “Tate . . .” Sofie warns. “Your intent is fuckin’ heroic, Sof, truly, but you can’t protect her the way I can.” He buries his face in the back of my hair. “None of you can,” he adds, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. I lean back into him, just a little more. “I can’t stay with you!” I protest. “That’s absurd.” “It’s settled,” Ajax interrupts my argument. “Ella stays with Tate. Every time they have to part, for whatever reason, I will shadow her. No arguments.” He looks at me on that last word. “And I need that email.” “It’s on my laptop,” I say softly. “In my room.”

“Awesome. You’re goin’ there to move your stuff anyway.” He issues several orders to his team and opens the door. “Shall we?” Tate lets me go for a second before grabbing my hand. His fingers slip through mine and he tugs me behind him, dropping back a step when he realizes I’m not going to walk as fast as he is. Ajax holds the elevator doors open, and I glance around. Toward the elevator. Toward the stairwell doors. Tate all but drags me into the elevator, and when Ajax shuts the door and pushes the button for our floor, Tate cups my jaw with his finger and thumb. “Hey,” he whispers. “Don’t look around like that.” “I—I’m scared,” I whisper, staring at his knees. He forces my head back and my eyes to meet his. “I protect what’s mine, Els. And that’s you.” Silently, I inhale, staring into his eyes, his fingers warming mine. “And if you’re his,” Ajax says, his hand flattening against the side of the elevator door, “then I protect you twice as much.” I swallow, my eyes on the floor as we reach my door. “I locked my key inside,” I whisper with a gasp. “Got it.” Tate pulls the spare from his back pocket and slides it into the slot. The door clicks and opens, and Ajax walks in ahead of us, his hand behind him to stop us. He only lets us in once he’s checked every room and made sure the suite is empty. “Ella, get your things,” he says to me. “And your laptop?” “On the floor, in front of the sofa.” I wave toward it. “Password?” I laugh quietly. “I wasn’t allowed to lock the bathroom door when I peed. What makes you think I had a password on my laptop?” His jaw tightens. “Email?” “The password is ‘password,’ same as all my others.” I duck through into the bedroom and shove all my things into the suitcase. This morning my biggest concern was avoiding Tate. Now it’s avoiding my ex, and the fact I can’t avoid Tate. At all. Ever. After gathering my things from the bathroom, I wheel my case through to the main area, where both Ajax and Tate are sitting in front of my laptop. Oh no. “Done.” My voice breaks through the silence. Tate stands, his muscles tense, and only then does he look at me. Turquoise eyes, blazing, fuming, glaring. But not at me. Softness looks at me. The anger illuminates that, though, and he stalks toward me and closes his hand over mine on the suitcase handle. “Let’s go.” He snatches it and opens my door. I glance back at Ajax, and he nods, closing the computer and folding it under his arm. I follow Tate out of the room and down the hall under the security guard’s watchful eye. Tate locks the door behind us, even putting the bolt on, and wheels my case into his room. I eye the movement cautiously, because, um . . . “Don’t you have a spare bed?”

He comes back out and looks at me, his jaw ticking angrily. He moves, quickly, across the room. Grasps me into his arms. Dips his head to mine. Seals his mouth over mine. “I don’t need one,” he murmurs to my lips. “You’re stayin’ nowhere other than right the fuck next to me.” “I don’t. Um.” “No, darlin’, it ain’t a good idea, but it’s better than the fuckin’ alternative.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek, and lowers his mouth to mine. Unable to fight him, even with fear flowing through my body, I grasp his shirt lightly and lean up into him. Tate slides one of his hands to my hip and around to my butt, where it lingers, holding me gently. “Ella,” he whispers. “Don’t be afraid, darlin’. I don’t want you to think of a man’s touch and fear his. I want you to think of a man’s touch and crave mine.”

Tate

She takes a deep breath and fists my shirt tighter. “Then don’t be gentle,” she breathes. “Gentle won’t wash him away.” My fingers curl around the back of her neck. “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?” Her lips part, but she nods her head. “Replace him with you. Right now.” She has no fucking idea—I’ll replace him, all right. I’ll replace every damn inch of him in her head, and I’ll get so under her skin she’ll forget he ever put bruises there. I bring her face close to mine, my cock already throbbing, and hover my mouth above hers. “Darlin’, by the time I’m done with you, I swear to fuckin’ God there’ll be no other guy under your skin but me.” “I’m counting on it.” I crush my lips to hers. She responds in kind, letting go of my shirt to circle her hands around the back of my neck. She’s so fucking soft beneath me. Every touch of hers is like the kiss of a feather, and every single one is more fucking addictive than the last. She leans toward the sofa, but I tug her toward the bedroom. “Bed,” I murmur against her jaw, kissing a trail across her silky skin. “Peasants get quickied on the sofa. Queens get fucked on a bed.” She laughs quietly, but I silence it with my mouth, pushing her down beneath me. She falls easily, her fingers teasing my hair, her legs bending up. Ella grabs the collar of my shirt and gathers it in her fingers in a clear plea. I guide her hands to the hem and she eases it up, her hands brushing my skin beneath it as she pulls it over my head. I do the same to hers, exposing her gorgeous tits wrapped in bright pink lace. Her fingers tangle in my hair when I cup her breasts over her bra. Shit. Shit, shit, shit—they’re more fucking perfect than I imagined them. When I unclasp her bra and let them free, they’re round and perfect. I swirl my tongue down her neck and across the tops of her tits. I cup one fully and bring her nipple to my mouth. She gasps, arching her back, and I let my tongue tease the pebbled tip again and again until a small moan falls from her lips. Then I move and do the exact same thing to the other one. She tugs on my hair hard, and I smile against her skin. Her legs are parting beneath me, inviting me in. I curl my fingers around the waistband of her shorts and tug hard, taking her panties with them. Ella looks at me, her eyes wide and shining with arousal, her lips full, and her cheeks blooming with red. Everything about her screams “Fuck me.” Every. Single. Fucking. Thing. I grasp her toned thighs in my hands, part them, and kiss the inside of one. Her fingers close around mine, but I kiss up her leg. Her heavy breathing shoots right through me to my cock. Her heavy, desire-

filled breathing. No fear. Just desire. For me. I kiss a long, lazy trail up her other leg, and just before I reach her wet, swollen pussy, she whispers, “This is kind of gentle.” I respond by closing my mouth over her pussy and rubbing her clit with my tongue violently. She squeaks a “Take it back,” and pushes her hips into me. I run my tongue all over her, trailing circles around her sensitive clit, tracing long, pressured lines from her opening to the hard ball of nerves. She grabs at my hands, firmly on her thighs, at my head, buried beneath her legs, at my arms, tensed and ready to hold her hands down so I can fuck her as hard as she wants me to. “Tate,” she moans. It’s too much. I need her too badly. I yank my jeans and boxers down and reach for a condom from the nightstand. I roll it on quickly to the sound of her labored breathing and lean over her. Her fingers slide through mine and I hold her hands on either side of her head. She looks up with her dark, glossy eyes. “No gentle,” she breathes. “No gentle,” I agree, my cock at the opening to her pussy. I slide inside her easily, her tight wetness making me groan, hugging me so fucking incredibly. “Ella.” She opens her eyes. “I will fuck you so hard you won’t breathe. I will bury myself so deeply inside you you’ll feel me fuckin’ everywhere, and when you come, it’ll be so fuckin’ hard you won’t be able to make a sound.” She nods, lips parted, and I ease out of her. This time, when I enter her, it’s harsher and quicker than before. She gasps with my thrust, and her fingers dig in to my hands. “Open your legs. Wider,” I say into her mouth. She does. I thrust into her rhythmically, and she writhes beneath me, sweat slicking her skin and mine. Our breathing speeds until it tangles in the space between our mouths. Her pussy clenches around my cock tighter and tighter until I groan with the sheer pressure of her pleasure. Ella wrenches her hands from mine and grips her thighs, holding her legs open and up, and buries her face in my neck. I hold the back of her head and use my other hand to steady me. And I drive into her, faster and faster, until the noises from her mouth become words that make no sense, until her body is a tight ball of pressure beneath me, and until I’m wound so tightly from holding back that I slam into her in one final burst of desperation. The strength in her gripping my back accompanies my orgasm. Cum spurts from the end of my dick as she spasms around me. “Oh hell,” she breathes, dropping her head back onto the bed. I cover her lips with mine and stay inside her, just for a moment longer. Ella rests her head to the side and closes her eyes, then brings her hand up to cover them. I rest my forehead against hers, adrenaline and pleasure and, finally, calm flooding through my body.

I roll to the side and pull the condom off, dropping it to the floor by the side of the bed. Ella curls herself into my side and rests her cheek against my chest. My lips brush against her forehead, and I wrap one of my arms around her tiny body. “I’ve wondered since I saw them.” Her whisper breaks the silence, and she traces a hand over the tattoos on my lower stomach. “Why the angel wings?” “Ain’t it obvious, darlin’?” I smirk. “Heaven is inside my pants.” She jerks her head back and stares at me. “For real?” I grasp her jaw tenderly and gaze right back at her. “You just came so hard you couldn’t even scream. Pretty fuckin’ heavenly, if you ask me.” She smiles into my kiss. “Oh God.” “That’s it, darlin’. Say my name.” She slaps my chest and laughs. “Arrogance? That’s not a very hot name.” “Ooooh, she’s sassy.” I grin when she leans over me. “She’s sexy when she’s sassy.” Ella’s lips curve to the sides, her dark hair falling around our faces. “She’s happy when she’s sassy.” She hovers her hand above my jaw before she lowers it. The backs of her fingertips trail along the roughly stubbled curve. “She’s sassy when she’s safe,” she finishes in the tiniest whisper I’ve ever heard. “Els,” I mutter back, threading my fingers through the back of her hair and pulling her in for a long, slow kiss that leaves no doubt to her last sentence.

“P epperoni or chicken tikka?” “Nachos.” “You cannot live off nachos.” “Can too.” Ella nods, curled in a corner of the sofa. “There’s meat, carbs, vegetables, and wine totally counts as sugars.” “Darlin’, you want meat, I can give you meat.” A cushion comes flying at my face. I duck to avoid it. “Gross!” “You didn’t think it was gross when it was inside you earlier.” “It was a whole lot sexier then.” “Are you calling me sexy?” “No. Not you. Your penis.” I raise an eyebrow. “You can say dick, you know. I promise I won’t mind.” “I don’t . . . Um.” “Say it. Dick. Or cock. One of them.” She sighs impatiently. “Cock. There—are you happy?” “Almost . . .” I drop onto the sofa next to her. “Now say ‘fuck.’ ” “What?” She frowns. “I’ve never heard you say shit or fuck.”

“So what? Not everyone has to, you know?” “I know. But I just want you to say it. For shits and giggles.” “Tate.” Her lips twist to the side. “Don’t be so dumb.” “I’m not. Look. Fuck.” I say it slowly, exaggerating the movement of my lips. “You say it. It feels fuckin’ wonderful.” “Can you just order my nachos?” “Fuuuuuuck.” I lean over her. “Nachos.” “Fuuuuuuck.” Her gorgeous dark eyes narrow. “Nachos!” “Els.” “Fuck!” she snaps. “There! Fuck. Fucky fuckity fuckadoodle fuck.” “That’s a whole lotta fucks for such a little girl.” I grin. “Yeah, well now I have none left to give until I get my nachos.” “You know,” I back up, laughing, “we could meet everyone for dinner downstairs. The reservation is in five minutes.” Ella glances toward the door, then back at me. “I don’t. I mean.” “You say you’re afraid and I’m going to have to fuck you again.” I grab her hands and pull her up. “Remind me who’s under your skin?” “You,” she murmurs. “But he . . . nags at me.” “Then I’ll nag him right the fuck out.” I kiss her forehead. “Fear nothing. Isn’t that what I’ve heard you whispering to yourself a thousand times?” “You heard that?” She looks up at me, eyes wide. “I heard everything you never thought you said,” I reply, brushing her hair from her face. “And I listened to every word. So, dinner downstairs?” She studies me for a moment, her eyes narrowing with confusion. She scrutinizes every inch of my face, before she nods slowly. “Dinner downstairs.”

E lla pushes some hair from her face and sits down next to Sofie, who eyes her over the top of her wineglass. Sofie’s blue eyes flick between me and Ella, and when I raise my eyebrows, she grins. “So. You convinced her to stay with you.” “He didn’t so much convince me as force me,” Ella mutters, reaching for the glass of wine Kye pours her. “Thank you.” “So I could convince you to stay with me?” Kye winks. I stare at him stonily, and his face breaks into a grin when he meets my eyes. Bastard. “Well, Tate’s look answers that,” Aidan laughs. “So how’d he convince you to stay with him?”

Ella chokes on her wine and sets the glass down, banging her fist into her chest. I reach over and pat her back as she mumbles some unintelligible answer through her coughs. “Sorry, Ella. I didn’t get that. Did you say ‘fucked you’?” “Enough,” I snap at Aidan. “Don’t fuckin’ talk to her that way.” “That’s a yes,” Conner adds. “Conner Burke you stay the hell out of this,” Sofie warns. “Yes, ma’am.” “And you two,” she turns on Ads and Kye. “It ain’t none of your business how Tate convinced her to stay with him, and y’all should be ashamed of yourselves for embarrassin’ Ella.” “You’re right,” Ads and Kye say simultaneously. “Sorry, Ella.” She blinks. “Um. It’s okay.” She leans into me. “That’s freaky.” “Try growin’ up with it,” I mutter back. “Just don’t do a Sofie and Conner,” Aidan adds, not so helpfully. “Seriously?” Sofie and Ella say, Kye-and-Aidan style. Ella’s eyes dart to her before she continues, “Is your sex life lacking, Aidan? Because as the band’s assistant, it’s my job to make sure you all are happy. I can find you someone to fill that hole, if you’d like.” “I do the hole-fillin’, Ella.” “Then I’ll find you a hole to fill, but it ain’t gonna fill the one you’ve got. That can only be filled by a girl,” she remarks, taking hold of her wineglass and tilting it toward him a little. “Say ‘now’ and I can call before my nachos get here.” “Fuckin’ nachos,” I mutter. “Eff you, Mr. Burke,” she retorts smartly. “Well, Ads?” “Did she just say ‘eff?’ ” Kye interjects. “That’s the closest to cussin’ I’ve ever heard her say.” “She said ‘fuck’ earlier,” I interject. “Several times, and several variations.” “I bet she did,” Conner sniggers. “Shut it, Con, or the only fuck you’ll be getting is the damn word,” Sofie growls. Conner mimes zipping his lips like the pussy-whipped bitch he is. “Fuck,” Ella says sharply. “There you go. Fuck. Fancy-pants girl from Manhattan that vacays in the Hamptons can swear. Fuck, shit, ass. Are we happy now?” I groan and rest my forehead on top of her shoulder. “I think you just made me hard.” “Tate!” she squeals. “Shut up!” Sofie snorts and disguises it with her wineglass. “Seems like Tate Burke can keep promises after all.” “I thought you told me to shut up!” Conner moans. “Oh, stop it!” She swats his arm and turns to Ella, ignoring my smirking lips. “Ignore me, doll. I’m not teasin’ you, just Tate. But, well, I’m just glad the boom-boom-pow thing y’all had goin’ on finally boomboom-powed.” Ella sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and looks down at her lap. “Sofie,” Kye complains. “Why’d you upset her?” Ella’s shoulders shake. “Els? Y’all right, darlin’?” I touch her arm.

A tiny giggle falls from her lips, and she looks up, her hand covering her mouth. She focuses on Sofie, still giggling, and says, “Boom-boom-powed?” Sofie scratches her upper lip and laughs into her palm. “Well, you know. It was supposed to be an insinuation.” “Insinuated plenty,” I mumble into my beer bottle. “And correctly.” “Tate!” both girls shriek. I earn myself a slap on each thigh. At least they were courteous enough to miss the beer, the little shits. “Aaaand there we go.” Kye flags the waiter and orders another round. “The confirmation of what we all knew.” “You know, Kye, I can easily pencil in a walk over hot coals for you tomorrow.” Ella smiles sweetly. “LEGOs,” Sofie adds. “More painful. Way more painful.” “I’ll pencil in both.” Ella flutters her eyelashes, still looking at my brother. “Or do you need a nighttime snuggle buddy as well as your twin?” Fuck me. Fuck. Me. I love it when she turns on that sass. It’s the girl beneath the hardened, fear-filled exterior. It’s the girl who pulls me into another dimension and makes me smile, laugh. It’s the girl who makes me fucking dream. And I haven’t done that since the day we stepped into our first arena performance. Ella Dawson is the dream I never knew existed. “Damn.” Kye shakes his head. “You’ve spent too much time with my brother.” I wrap my arm around her waist and touch my nose to her temple. “Not nearly fuckin’ enough.” “Ooooh, nachos!” Ella sits upright, yanking her body from my grip. I cover my face with my hands. “Nachos. Fuckin’ nachos.” Ella scoops a huge pile of chili onto one slightly curled chip and offers it to me. I open my mouth, and she guides it toward me before evilly turning it and shoving it in her mouth. “Bitch.” She smiles a wide closed-mouth smile as a steak is put in front of me. “You should’ve gotten the nachos.” She shakes her head. I lean over and grab hers. “Ya think?”

Ella

He is . . . warm. He’s warm and soft and solid all at the same time. His chiseled stomach is against my back, his pecs teasing my shoulder blades, and my back is fully curled into him. Or against him, whatever it is. One of his arms is resting beneath my neck and bends so his hand is shaped around my waist. His other arm is draped over me and reaching up to where our fingers are linked. Holy crap, this is how those cheesy-ass couples wake up in romance novels. Wait—why am I awake? Beep. Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep. “Holy fucking shit,” Tate groans sleepily. Huskily. Sexily. “Concert-day alarm,” I mutter, untangling my fingers from his and reaching for my phone on the nightstand. I swipe the screen and the beeping stops, then I freeze. “Oh my God! Concert-day alarm!” I squeal, rolling over to face him. “Whaaat?” “Concert day!” I shake his shoulders until his startling bright eyes open and look up at me. “I love concert day!” Tate’s lips curl up slowly. “You’ve only experienced one, darlin’.” “I don’t care. I loved it. And another is today! Wake uuuup!” I grab his shoulders again, but he grasps my waist and flips me onto my back. I half-laugh, half-shriek as he rolls us and straddles me. “Mmm. I like this wake-up call,” he hums, lowering his face to mine. “Can I get it often?” “Depends. You gonna be bored of me tonight?” “Never.” His hot breath cascades over my lips with the force of the conviction tinting his word. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever,” he whispers. “You gonna scream my name tonight, Els?” “You gonna scream mine?” “Darlin’, I don’t scream names.” “Then, no. I’m not.” I tap his nose. “Name-screaming goes two ways, Tate.” “You should consider adoptin’ a pet name for me. It feels like you’re tellin’ me off when you call me Tate.” “I am not calling you God.” He laughs and drops his face into my neck. “Fuck it. You got me figured out, darlin’.” “Sassy woman, sassy mind.” I run my fingers through his hair and grin when he looks at me. “You need to get up.” I glance at the clock on my phone. “Damn, I need to get up.”

I shove at him to get him off me, but he simply grins above me. “Taaate,” I warn. He ignores me, instead lowering his mouth to mine. I whimper as his lips touch mine, and the soft heat makes me curve my fingers around the back of his head. His hands on my back are hot, but his kiss is hotter, his lips sweet and soft but dry, his tongue flicking against mine, begging for me to open, to give him more. I do. I fall prey to his predatory kiss, and I submit to the force of his will, allowing him to sweep his tongue through to a battle with my own. His fingertips caress my skin sweetly while his mouth attacks mine ravenously. It’s the perfect mixture of reticence and recklessness, and so very Tate, so very me, so very us, so very everything I need right now. “Still gotta go,” I murmur into his kiss. “We can be late. Right?” He mumbles the words against my jaw, and despite my back arching, I shake my head. “Your body appears to be disagreein’.” “My body needs a slap.” I tap the back of his head and wriggle so much he groans. “Dammit, Els, that shit ain’t helpin’, darlin’.” “Then get off!” I laugh, trying to ignore the clenching and the obvious wetness pooling in my panties. Because, yes, I did absolutely just rub my pussy against his hard dick. “Shit, okay. But you owe me for this boner.” I laugh loudly as Tate stands, his erection delightfully obvious in his tight boxers. My eyes linger at the bulge protruding from between his thighs, and I unwillingly lick my lips. I mean, I know that. I felt that. I touched that. Hell, I fucked that. Oh, he’s rubbing off on me if I’m saying ‘fuck’ in my mind. I like it. Feels kinda . . . badass. “Like what you see, darlin’?” I comb my eyes upward, slowly. Over the angel wings tatted just above his waistband, to the packed muscles of his stomach, to the gentle tattoos of his upper chest that curve over his shoulders and toward his full sleeves. Then to his eyes. My eyes fall on his eyes, and I’m paralyzed by the brightness and the intensity. “It’s not bad,” I manage, swallowing hard. “Not bad?” he asks, leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. Slowly. Seductively. All boner in his boxers and six pack tensed and biceps bulging. Deliberately. That’s the word. Deliberately. “Not bad,” I confirm, my eyes flicking to his lips and back up. “I mean, you know.” “Seen better?” “Shouldn’t ask your assistant that. She’s seen all your brothers shirtless.” He darts back across the room and pins my hands above my head before I do so much as protest his sharp jump onto the bed. “You’ve what?” “Seen your brothers shirtless,” I repeat, staring into those fiery eyes.

His fingers tighten on me. “Who hasn’t?” he growls, ironically softly. “But get this, darlin’. The only one of us you’ll see naked is me. The only one you’ll feel inside you is me. The only one who will make you scream, silently or otherwise, is me. You got that?” “Got it,” I hum quietly. “It’s okay. You’re sexier anyway.” “Oh, the confidence to admit I’m sexy.” “I said sexier. Don’t get cocky.” He digs his hips into mine. His cock pushes into my pussy, teasing my clit, and I clench. “Too late.” My phone beeps again, an excruciatingly painful noise. And I grab it, end it, and shove it into Tate’s face. “Up. Now. Off. Later.” “Is that a promise?” “You gonna keep it?” I ask, sitting up. “Els, I’m makin’ it. Tonight you are mine. Again.”

W e bundle into the SUVs. The whole time to the venue, Aidan eyes us suspiciously, but Tate grabs my hand and he looks away. Seconds later, I pull my hand back, because, well, we’re working. And I know it makes no sense, that I’ll have sex off duty but that on duty I won’t touch him. For me, it helps separate the two Tates I know . . . almost. The asshole and the nice guy. Helps separate the manwhore from the man who holds me tightly and won’t let me go. It helps to separate the guy I can’t trust from the one I can. I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my head as we park outside the arena. Questioning. Confused. But I ignore him and follow Aidan out of the SUV. I duck my head as the cameras flash and girls scream. It seriously perplexes me how they can stand here for hours just to see the guys. Like, they can’t wait until they get inside the arena in eight or nine hours? Ajax opens the door for me and I dart inside. Phew. Conner guides Sofie and Mila into the building, flanked by the rest of the band. Tate’s eyes are still burning into me, and I do my best to escape past him, but he grabs my hand before I can get away. I attempt to snatch my hand back, but he squeezes tighter. I tug harder and he lets go. “Working,” I whisper angrily, clasping the tablet to my chest and walking away. “It ain’t a secret, darlin’,” he calls after me. “I don’t care.” I stop and look at him, ignoring everyone’s eyes on us. “You need to get into your dressing rooms and get ready to come down here for sound check. Now,” I add, glancing over all four of them. “Damn, you’re a slave driver,” Kye tuts, grinning. “I’ll drive my boot up your behind if you don’t move it,” I threaten, spinning and walking away.

“Shit, Tate. You’ve rubbed off on her a little too much.” Aidan laughs. “I have two feet, Aidan.” I throw a glare over my shoulder and slam open the door to the backstage area. I kick it shut behind me and walk through the hall to the wings. I check to see that all their things are being readied on the stage, then jump down and take a seat in the first row. “They don’t mean you any harm,” Ajax says, taking the seat next to mine. “Mhmm,” I reply, swiping across the screen of my tablet. “Unfortunately none of them are aware of the concept of lines, therefore they cross them regularly.” “Like Tate trying to hold your hand?” Sofie asks, setting Mila on the floor and pulling her seat down. “Precisely.” “Yet last night he was stealin’ your nachos, and you woke up together this morning.” “This is work.” I sigh and put the tablet down. “We both have jobs to do. When we leave here—if he leaves with us—then he can do whatever the hell he wants to do. Right now he has to remain professional.” “If he leaves with us?” Ajax questions, leaning forward. “Ella, you do know he isn’t gonna let you out of his sight, don’t you, sweetheart?” “Yeah.” Sofie nibbles on her thumbnail. “I mean, even I’m surprised. The only thing Tate cares about as much as you is his dick.” I sigh and turn back to the tablet. “Look, I’m not expecting anything from him. I’m not expecting his super-protective-alpha-male routine to be anything other than kindness, so can we move on now?” “If you want.” Sofie leans back. “But it ain’t gonna change a thing. I know you ain’t used to tenderness, but take it, doll. He’s the hardest fucking idiot I’ve ever met in my life, but he’s also one of the sweetest. You aren’t soft with a little girl if you’re made of heartless steel.” “Mama! Bad word!” Sofie gasps. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll put a dollar in your pig when we get back, okay?” “In her pig?” She looks at me, her lips in a thin line. “Carla helpfully suggested the boys get a swear box for when Mila’s around. Mila took to the idea, and well, she’s some twenty dollars richer than she was twenty-four hours ago.” “Oh. Nice.” I tap my finger against my lips. “I don’t like Carla much.” “No one does,” Ajax laughs, standing. “We all just pretend, and y’all do it the best.” I smile at him. Other people filter into the arena, including the topic of our previous conversation. When everyone is in their proper place, the guys step onto the stage, water bottles in hand. Aidan, Kye, and Conner all check on their instruments before they start, but Tate keeps walking. He steps right off the stage and approaches me, his eyes burning brightly. He stops right in front of me and lays two fingers on the top of the tablet. Slowly, he pushes it down so it’s flat on my lap, then strokes along the side of it until he finds the power button. Then presses it. “Not today,” he says softly. My eyes narrow suspiciously, but he pulls the device from my hands and gives it to Ajax, who slots it into Sofie’s purse. I glance at the burly security guard, but all he does is lift his eyebrows in response and fold his arms across his chest. Tate’s hands curl around my armrests and he leans forward. “Today, Els, you watch for fun.”

I say nothing. Even as he walks back toward the stage and pulls himself up onto it, I stay silent. Even as he walks across the stage to his seat and sits down, resting his guitar on his knee and looking at me, I stay silent. I don’t say a word. Because this . . . isn’t meant to happen. I’m supposed to work. I’m supposed to organize their butts and keep them in line. Tate’s lips pull up at the sides, only barely, and the memory of his lips on mine floods my mind. The softness, the forceful yet oddly soft caresses, they consume me, take me over. And I sit back in my seat and hug myself. “Well, Carla, honey, aren’t you lookin’ good today?” Tate drawls, still looking at me. “Always do, Tate,” she retorts, seemingly not recognizing his eyes on me. Asshole. “You look real good today. That shirt is damn good. Oh, and I see you brought Tits with you!” Double asshole. I look toward the girl he dubs Tits and see a girl, indeed with huge breasts, and long blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a waist that I could wrap my hands around. A body clearly surgically enhanced. “Always a pleasure, Tate,” Tits croons, sitting a couple seats up from Sofie and crossing her legs. She runs her hand through her hair, and when he looks at her, my eyes narrow. Sofie reaches over, grasps my chin, and forces me to look forward. “You hurt him. He’s tryin’ to do it back because he’s a moron. Act like you don’t care and he’ll give it up.” I swallow hard. “I don’t care.” “Then tell that to my daughter. She might believe you, doll.”

E lectric. Crazy. Insane. Three words to describe the pandemonium in the arena right now. Screaming girls, laughing, singing Dirty B., amazed backstage people. Sofie and I are standing in the wings, feet away from the guys, and I’m almost certain my ears are ringing from the screams echoing from the seats. Because, holy hell, Tate was right when he said I’d only seen one show. These girls scream crazy loud. But I still get it. The excitement of the last concert. The craziness. The goddamn deafening shrieks. The everlasting adrenaline rush that fills my veins with extreme delight and insanity. It boils inside me and encompasses me until I’m buzzing, too. Until every word and every chord is vibrating across my skin and consuming me with its sheer force. Dirty B. strum their final chord and the lights dim. The arena erupts. Screams. Claps. Whistles. Yells. It’s a wonder I can tell one from the other, and the curtains closing are a welcome reprieve from the intense schedule of tonight. Water, clothing changes, water, song changes, water, damp cloths, changes . . . Tate puts his guitar down and meets my eyes in the darkness. I’m mad at him—hell, am I mad at him for his dumbass stunt earlier. I annoyed him, okay. But that doesn’t give him the right to annoy me back. It

doesn’t make it okay. I was being professional. He was being a royal dickhead. Tate walks toward me, each step powerful. I move back, but he’s quicker than me. He wraps his arms around me, leaving one hand clasping the back of my head and the other falling between my shoulder blades. He’s strong and determined, the smell of sweat and cinnamon envelops me, and I get a brief glimpse of his fiery eyes before he presses his mouth against mine. And he, God, he forces his mouth onto mine deliciously. The force of his kiss knocks me back, and I forget that we’re surrounded by people, that eyes are on us. All I think of is this mouth sweeping across mine, his lips making mine come alive in the best kind of way. All I think of is his fingers splaying across my body at various points, the tips digging in, burning me, branding me, delighting me. He pulls back and I breathe in harshly. “Fuck,” he whispers roughly, releasing me and walking past me. He doubles back almost as quickly, grabs my hand, and tugs me after him. I stumble with the force of his tug, but Ajax is hot on our heels and helps me to steady myself with a quick touch to my upper back. My heart is thumping as the doors open and we’re assaulted by bright camera flashes and a roaring scream. Tate lets me go to Ajax’s side and moves to the girls clambering over the waist-high barriers for his attention. I swallow hard, my mind flashing with memory after memory as girls wrap their arms around him and he leans in close for pictures. For too long, I watched someone who claimed to want me all to himself hit on girls. For too long, I was second best. For too long, I was worth the dog crap I stepped in in Central Park. For too long, I had fear inbred into me, burned so deeply that I’d swear it’s burned into my soul. Mentally, emotionally, or physically, it doesn’t matter. Pain is pain—some kinds are just more visible than others. And right now, Tate is hurting me. He doesn’t know it, and I shouldn’t let it hurt, but I can’t fight the sliver of pain that mixes with the heavy pounding of blood through my veins. “Take me back,” I beg Ajax, turning and taking his arm. “Please. To the hotel. Take me back.” “Ella, sweetheart . . .” “Ajax, please.” He sighs. “I can’t take you anywhere unless Tate tells me to go with you.” I take a deep breath and step away from him. My feet take me to Tate, where I grab his arm and tell him, “I’m going back. I have things to do.” He blinks at me harshly and, without looking at the fans, hands one back her pen and turns me by my shoulders. “Sorry, ladies. Gotta go.” He urges me to the SUV, and Ajax opens the door. Tate grabs me and lifts me in, and when the door slams, I turn away from him. My arms curl around my waist, my stomach twisting. The harsh pounding of my heartbeat fizzles out to a slow throb as I center myself. I’m not being beaten up or cheated on. I’m not being used and abused. Not anymore. I’m not that girl.

I. Am. Not. That. Girl. I am Ella Dawson. I fear nothing. Neither of us says a word as we travel back to the hotel. The air is tense and it makes it hard to breathe, but it’s not a fearful tension. When we arrive, I unclip my seat belt and shove the door open before anyone else is out. I put every ounce of remaining strength in my body into not sprinting into the hotel and demanding a room to myself. Tate puts a hand on my back, but I shove it off. He says nothing, but the sigh that leaves him says everything. I jab at the elevator buttons and fight the burn in my eyes. Hell no, I’m not going to cry. I swore when I drove away from Manhattan that no other man would ever get my tears. Tate unlocks the door and I shove past him and throw my purse onto the sofa. “The hell was that?” “Was what?” he asks, shutting the door behind him. “That goddamn kiss!” I point at him. “You spend the morning chatting up Carla and ‘Tits,’ ignore me all afternoon, then you walk off the stage and you kiss me! What the hell kind of bullshit game are you playing?” “Yours,” he growls, advancing toward me. “The one where we’re intimate privately but strangers publicly.” “We’re professional publicly!” “You wish!” he snaps, winding his fingers into my hair and holding me solidly against him. “You want me to forget how you taste? How you feel? How you moan into my mouth when your pussy is hugging my cock? You think I can wipe that shit from my memory, Els? ’Cause I can’t. Not for a fuckin’ second. And for some goddamn reason you’re more than every fuckin’ girl I’ve ever brought back to my room. I told you I’d get under your skin, but that was before I realized you’re so fuckin’ under my skin that nothin’, and I mean fuckin’ nothin’, is gettin’ you back out.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “How long?” I whisper. “How long do I have before a random girl comes knocking at your door?” “What?” “How long?” I push at his grip and he loosens it. “It happens, Tate. It always happens. It happened before and . . . Damn!” I take advantage of his eased hold on my arm and step back. “I saw it,” my voice is quieter. “Back there. You love it. You thrive on it. The girls. The attention. What happens when I can’t give you that anymore? What happens when they’re newer and shinier and prettier than I am? They take over. Just like before.” “Ella.” He comes to me and takes me in his arms once more. “I’m not him, darlin’. I’m not that fuckin’ asshole and I never will be. I say you’re mine, then you’re mine, and it stays that way.” “What if it doesn’t?” “Forever.” He almost growls the word, each syllable sharp and fierce. “For-fuckin’-ever. No one is comin’ here except you.” I crush my lips against his. Like a reflex, my tongue flicks against his and incites an intense fight. His grip gets tighter and my hands grasp at his shirt and our bodies slam together in a desperate collision.

Together, we maneuver our way toward the bedroom, fingers tugging at shirt hems, lips sweeping irrationally. Together, we push through his bedroom door and collapse onto the giant unmade bed. “Mine,” he whispers. “You’re mine, Els. In the most fuckin’ protective, possessive way, you belong the hell to me.” I swallow my gasp and wrap my legs around his waist. I don’t care. I don’t care if we’re being waited on downstairs or if the past is clouding things. I care about touching this man, feeling this man, becoming one with this man. Even if it’s only for minutes. I want to feel it. I need to feel it. I need his words to be proven by his actions. Tate’s hands roam over my body, beneath my shirt, pulling it over my head, to my bra, cupping my breasts. His mouth ghosts down my neck to my cleavage. He unclasps my bra, taking a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. His tongue swirls and spins around the hardened bud, and I grasp at him harder, begging for more despite the endless painful pleasure. I tuck my hands beneath his shirt and run them up his back. The material crumples and I tug his shirt over his head, desperate to feel his body against mine. I need to feel his skin pressing mine like the night needs the day and the dark needs the light. Like touch needs reciprocation, I need Tate’s unabashed physique molded against mine. My hands take on a mind of their own. They roam and explore every crevice of his back and his stomach. My fingertips dip and curve into every deep, muscled canyon of his body. In return, he swipes his hands across me, every touch igniting fireworks and explosions across my skin and in my bloodstream. His hands cup, massage, probe every part of me. His fingers tease along the waistband of my pants. My hands. They tease his hand, too. And my hands, they unbutton his jeans, undo the zipper, and tug down the cotton. I brush my fingertips along his rock-hard length and revel in the bobbing of it in my loose grip. I revel in the hardness of his cock in my hand and in the firmness of his grip on me. And Tate removes my pants and tugs my legs up. He slides inside me in one long, easy stroke. He fills me entirely and completely and quickly. I conform to his body in the only way I know how. Explicitly. Entirely. Wholly. His thrusts are fast and powerful. Each one dominates me and I give myself over to his determination. I give myself over to his powerful touch and hot breath and harsh moans as he drives into me. I give myself over to him. Pleasure floods my nerves. Heat swamps my skin. Adrenaline pounds through my veins. Every second, every touch, every sensation, I breathe it all in and I let myself go crazily. I let myself go in his arms. My name, whispered, follows his deep and drawn-out groan. I fold myself into him despite the fact that he’s still very much inside me, and he wraps his arms around me. His hold is warm and firm, and I bury myself in the certainty of his embrace. “Mine.” The word is whispered onto the top of my head. “I fuckin’ told you,” he breathes. “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine, Els.” “I think so,” I whisper back, curling myself around him, koala-style. Gripping him. Embracing him. “I know so.” Hot, gentle breaths cascade across my skin, and I move into him farther. “My Els. My darlin’.”

I hold him, the lump in my throat too much to process. How can someone want me so much? How can he want me so much that he can proclaim me his for more than just possessiveness? How can he want me in such a way that he’s willing to let me fight and resist until I’m helpless to the irresistible pull, too? How can he want me the way he does, full stop? “Why?” “What?” My fingers ghost across his chest. “Why am I yours? I don’t understand.” Tate cups the side of my head, slowly, his fingers easing across my cheek. “Because you’re you,” he whispers, his mouth but an inch from mine. “Because you’re beautiful, and you’re sweet, and you’re so fuckin’ strong I can’t stand it. After everythin’, you’re so fuckin’ solid it breaks my heart, Els. Because you’re the best damn person I’ve ever met. That’s why. That’s why you’re damn well mine.” I hold him, so tightly I can almost feel his tattoos beneath my fingers. “I’m afraid.” “Don’t be,” he murmurs.

Tate

I wish I knew what the fuck it is about her. I wish I knew for a single damn second what it is about Ella Dawson that fucks me up in the best kind of way. I wish I knew how the hell she can look into my eyes and make me different. How she makes me stronger, gentler, more understanding. I wish I knew how the fuck she can touch me with her soft hands and crack into the hard exterior my life requires. She doesn’t only crack it—she slips her painted nails between the broken edges until her fingertips are gripping them, and then she rips them apart, exposing the guy inside. Exposing the guy that’s as fuckin’ real as it comes. She exposes the protector, the lover, the dreamer. She exposes the guy hidden from all the other girls. I wish I knew how the hell she made a dream come to life when I didn’t even know it existed. How she took my notion of a dream and twisted it until I looked back and realized it was never entirely fulfilled. “Why’d you do it?” “Do what?” I glance up from the tablet and at Ella sitting cross-legged on the other sofa of the tour bus. “The sex tape? We already went over that, darlin’, I didn’t know about it.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about the sex tape, Tate. I’m talking about the . . . manwhoring.” “Did you just willingly cuss?” “ ‘Whoring’ isn’t really a cuss word,” she replies hesitantly. “If Mila ain’t allowed to say it, it’s a cuss word.” Kye drops onto the seat next to her. “And you screamed at me last night. Somethin’ about ‘fucking kisses’ and ‘bullshit games,’ ” I remind her. “Ahh, words you’ve heard often, bro.” Aidan smacks my shoulder and grabs the back of the chair when the bus turns a corner. “Which brings me back to my original question,” Ella mutters. “Why does every conversation have to go off on a tangent with you all?” “Next we’re gonna get her to y’all.” Aidan grins, looking at me and Kye. “Oh, yeah,” Kye agrees. “It’s so close I can taste it.” I groan. “No. Ella ain’t allowed to y’all. She said ‘bless your heart, sugar’ and my dick was hard for a week. I don’t think I could cope with a y’all.” Damn upper-class chick ain’t allowed to come here and talk with a sexy-ass Southern accent that only seems sexy on her.

Ella grins, her eyes shining with sass. “Poor baby. I’m sure there was someone there to soften it back up. Aaaand there we go again.” She smacks her hand to her forehead. “I give up trying to talk to you guys.” “I’m sorry, darlin’, you’re just distracting.” I nudge her foot with mine under the table. “What was it you wanted to know?” She twists her lips to the side. “I think I forgot.” “Somethin’ about manwhoring,” Kye prompts cheerily. “Oh! Of course.” She spins her water bottle between her hands. “Why are you guys such manwhores?” Aidan chokes on his soda, and I laugh. “Well, come right on out with it why don’t cha?” “I did.” She stares at me flatly. “Don’t laugh!” She throws the cap for her water at Aidan. “I’m being serious!” “We ain’t good with serious,” I remind her. “Well, little brothers? Why are you such hound-doggin’ bastards?” Ella presses her fingertips to her mouth to hide her smile. “Us?” Aidan laughs. “Says Mr. Sold a Threesome Story, Mr. Nailed Molly Peters Before She Got Famous, and Mr. Secret Sex Tape.” I hit him with a sharp gaze as Ella chews the inside of her lip. “All in the past, Ads. Way in the damn past. And two of those things weren’t even my fault.” “You sold a threesome story?” Ella asks softly. “I didn’t sell a fuckin’ thing!” I snap. “I took a couple chicks back to my room and one turned out to be a legitimate whore who got paid to fuck famous people and sell the story.” “Oh.” Her voice is small. “Well, that’s . . . unfortunate.” Unfortunate? Is she fuckin’ kidding? Oh, no, she ain’t—she’s looking at her fingers clasped around her water bottle and playing with the label because she’s just realized she’s fucked another total bastard. She knew it already. Hell, she spelled out to me all the ways I’m a royal fucking cockhead without actually calling me one. Now that she’s getting it shoved in her face, though, it’s different. Because the guy that did all that shit in the past isn’t the guy that touches her, kisses her. He ain’t the guy that fucks her soft and hard all in the same minute, and he sure ain’t the guy that wipes her tears and holds her through the night. He ain’t the guy that keeps her midnight screams to himself just so she doesn’t have another thing to fear, because God only knows she’s got enough. I give Aidan and Kye a stern look, and they get up. Aidan mouths an apology, but I don’t give a shit. They move to the back of the bus, their eyes flicking to me and away hesitantly. I scoot along the seat. “Els.” “What?” My fingers reach out and tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “Talk to me, darlin’.” “Why? I have nothing to say.” She swallows. “Then look at me.” A beat passes before she slowly turns her eyes from the label to my gaze. She doesn’t stop picking at the damn label, though, so I close my hand around hers. She takes a long, deep breath and fights to keep her eyes on me.

“Now I sure as shit don’t believe you. What’s wrong?” “Your . . . past.” She blinks and looks away. “It’s . . . different from mine. Really different. Maybe I didn’t realize it until just now.” “And it don’t matter,” I tell her quietly, running my fingers through her hair. “You wanna know why I acted that way?” “Yes. No. I guess.” My lips tug into a small smirk. “Because girls ain’t all like you, Els. The girls I took back to the hotel regularly, the ones who stood and screamed my name and made it clear I could have them with no strings attached, they’re lookin’ for a few things, and they ain’t good. Money. Hookup. Their picture in the paper. Fame. To be the one that bagged the reckless rock star.” “So why didn’t they?” “Because,” I slide my thumb across her cheek and turn her face toward me. “’Cause they didn’t know what they were askin’ for, and I wasn’t about to give ’em anythin’ but their desired hookup. If a girl’s gonna get her picture in the paper with me and my money, it’s because she wants me, not my status. Understand that?” She nods slowly. “It makes sense. I just don’t understand why you had to be so . . . wild . . . about it.” I grin crookedly. “I’m a wild kinda guy. If you’re gonna do something gently, don’t bother doin’ it all, because you ain’t doin’ it right.” Ella tilts her head to the side and her lips tease up at the edges. “That’s some life motto.” “You weren’t criticizing it last night,” I murmur so low only she can hear. She gasps, blood filling her cheeks, and I laugh, closing the distance between our mouths. With my fingers tangled in the back of her hair, I sweep my lips across hers, the sugary taste of candy lingering on the softness. “You can’t kiss me here,” she protests against me. “I’m the boss and I make the rules and I say I can kiss you wherever the fuck I like.” I grin into the kiss, and she fights it, but she can’t, because she smiles, too, and I pull her into me. She buries her face in the crook of my neck and I brush my nose against her silky hair. Mmm. Vanilla. Her fingertip trails up my inner forearm. “Why the notes?” I tilt my arm a little. “It’s the first chords I ever played on bass. I was six.” I smile at the memory of me sitting in the corner of the room on Christmas morning, everything forgotten, because I finally had my damn bass guitar. “Ahh. So they’re not all just random scribbles Mila could have done?” “Hey!” I tickle her side and she squeals. “They’re works of art.” “Yeah.” She ghosts her touch up to my bicep and under my shirt. “Eat your heart out, Vincent van Gogh.” “Now you’re gettin’ it, darlin’.” I grin and turn my arm so she can examine my tattoos. “Oh, yes. One day, when you’ve died, they’re going to preserve your body and put it on display in the Louvre, because who could resist paying to see this?” Ella teases. The laughter in her tone soon fades into a shriek when I flip her onto the sofa. I lean over her, clasping her wrists. She laughs breathlessly, her head thrown back slightly, and looks up with a wide smile. “You sassin’ me again, Els?” “I’m always sassing you, Mr. Burke.”

“That ain’t my name,” I growl, lowering my face to hers. “I’m always sassing you, Tate,” she corrects, her grin widening, her eyes sparkling a little more, her cheeks burning a little brighter. “Y’all need to get a fuckin’ room,” Aidan grumbles, pulling open the fridge. “We’ve got a fuckin’ bus,” I start. “You’re just in it,” Ella finishes, poking her tongue out at my brother. Kye whoops from the back of the bus. “Aaaand she’s back.”

I swear Sofie gave Mila a shitload of candy before she dropped her at my hotel room with a “Thanks, see you later!” and fucked off on her date with Conner. Mila runs around the sofa approximately seven times before she drops backward onto her butt. Seconds later, she gets up and spins on the spot until she falls again. The whole time she giggles, breathlessly toward the end. “Come on, Mimi, it’s bedtime.” I stand up and hold out my arms. “No no no,” Mila sings, scrambling up and running away. “Yeah yeah yeah!” I counter. In two long strides, I catch up with her and loop my hands around her tiny waist. I spin her and lift her over my shoulder smoothly, pulling even more giggles from her. “Taaaaay,” she coos from between her peals of laughter. “Noooooo bed! Noooo bed!” “Mimiiii!” I sway her side to side and sigh. “Mama will kick Uncle Tay’s butt. You got that? I promised her you’d be in bed at seven, and it’s . . .” “Almost nine,” Ella offers helpfully. I freeze and look at her. “Is it? Shit!” “Dollar!” Mila screeches. “Bad word! Dollar for pig!” Ella grins when I set Mila down and riffle in my pocket for my wallet. Shittin’ hell. I flip it open and pull out a dollar bill. Mila stares at me expectantly, her chubby hand held out in front of her. “I give you this, you go sleep, okay?” Mila narrows her dark eyes. “You bad.” “Yes. But so are you. So take this, go to sleep, and we’re even. And . . .” I bend down, lean in, and whisper, “I’ll get you a blueberry muffin for breakfast tomorrow before Mama wakes up, all right?” “Tate!” Ella scolds. “Okay,” Mila sighs dramatically. “My dollar, tankoo.” I smack the green bill into her hand then lift her. Ella throws Bunna and Dolly across the room to me. I catch them expertly with one hand, one after the other, and pass them to Mila, who snuggles into my chest with them. “Muffin promise?” I hear Mila ask sleepily. “I promise. You know I don’t break those crazy things.” “Awite,” Mila mumbles.

“Night, Mimi.” “Anight, Tay.” I kiss her forehead and back out of the room, closing the door quietly. My eyes meet amused dark brown ones and I shake my head. “Kid’s fuckin’ nuts.” Ella says something under her breath. “What was that?” “Nothing.” “What did you just say?” “I said nothing!” She laughs and holds her hands out. “Don’t start or you’ll disturb her.” “Right,” I grumble. “First night in fuckin’ New Orleans after hours on the road and I’m on goddamn babysittin’ duty.” “Oh, poor thing. Did you want to go and experience the NOLA life?” “Would you have come with me?” I glance at her over my shoulder and pick up the room phone. I reel off an order for some beer and a bottle of wine. “Given that I’m your fifth limb for the foreseeable future, I don’t understand the question.” Her words are sharp, and bitter, and if they were physical things, they’d be made of ice-cold steel. My shoulders drop a little. “Darlin’ . . .” “Don’t ‘darlin’ ’ me like that, Tate.” She sighs and looks away. “I know, I get it, it’s for my own protection, but, sheesh. I’m okay in the hotel, aren’t I? I mean, isn’t that why we sat in the parking lot for almost an hour while Ajax went into the hotel and broke more than a few privacy laws?” “Sssh, you don’t know who’s listenin’.” “Oh, yeah.” She tips her head back so she’s staring at the ceiling. “Don’t worry, God, I’ll make sure Ajax goes to confession this week so you can redeem him from his sins.” I laugh loudly and lean against the counter. “I’m sure God appreciates the effort, Els. You gonna send me, too, darlin’?” She drops her head forward and stares at me through her eyelashes. “Tate, I’m not the goddamn pope.” Another laugh leaves me at the knock on the door. I open it and collect the tray with the beer and a wineglass on it, plus the ice bucket with the wine bottle inside. “Correct. But you are a fuckin’ saint for dealin’ with my crazy-ass family.” “For dealing with you, you mean.” “Hey, I’m a fuckin’ dream. Easy as hell to live with.” Ella takes the glass I pass her with a snort. “Right. Now I suddenly am the pope. And quite possibly the queen of England.” I uncap a beer bottle and drop onto the sofa next to her, resting my arm over her shoulders. “Who wants to be the queen of England? You’re like the queen of Dirty B., and that’s the most royal anyone can get.” She rolls her dark eyes and attempts to hide her twitching lips behind her glass. Unfortunately for her, the glass is see-through. “I don’t see a crown.” “Darlin’, we’re in New Orleans. You want a crown? I’ll find you a crown.” “Condom crowns don’t count.” My mouth teases into a smirk. “Fuck. Back to my drawin’ board.” “If you can draw anything beyond a stick man and/or a penis, I’ll be very impressed.”

“Blow job kind of impressed?” “Tate.” Ella rests a hand on my thigh softly. “Can you draw anything other than a stick man or a penis?” I run my tongue over my lips slowly and deliberately and grin when her eyes flick down. “I can probably draw an all right pair of tits.” “You want a blow job, then it looks like you’ve got to get yourself art lessons.” “Fuck. Shoulda known.” I shake my head and clasp my bottle between my thighs so I can grab the remote. No sooner have I pressed the Power button than Ella’s stolen it, changed the channel to TV Land, and there’s three hours of Friends blinking at me on the guide. “Fuckin’ Friends?” “Yeah, you got a problem with that?” She looks at me challengingly. “Damn. Can you stop talkin’? Your attitude is turnin’ me on.” “You’re an idiot.” “Not helpin’.” She knocks the remote onto my thigh gently. “Tate!” “See, now I’ve got a boner and I’m thinkin’ about you under me, very fuckin’ naked, sayin’ my name that way.” “Ta—shut up!” she squeaks, dropping the control and holding one hand and her wineglass up between us. “Wait. Crap.” She puts the glass down on the table. “What are you doin’?” “You’ve got that look in your eyes,” she explains, waggling a finger in case her words weren’t clear. “It’s that one that says ‘I’m Tate fucking Burke and you’re turning me on, and I’m gonna make sure you know it and leave you a hot fucking mess in two-point-five seconds.’ ” I lean forward and lower my voice. “And don’t I follow through on that look, darlin’?” Ella swallows, her twitching hands flattening against my chest. “Um. It maybe takes five seconds sometimes, but—” I cut her off by sealing my mouth over hers. She squeaks a fruitless protest, because she grips the collar of my T-shirt and pushes against me. Winding one hand into her hair and flattening the other at her lower back, I tease her lips with my tongue. She opens her mouth and flicks hers out. Our tongues meet in something that’s half-dance, half-battle, and she hums into my mouth. “You a hot mess yet, darlin’?” “Um.” She blinks at me, her eyes glazed and her lips swollen. “You’re a fuckin’ good-lookin’ mess.” “Uh . . . Are you asking me or my vagina?” “I’m askin’ you, Els. If I wanna ask your pussy, I’ll demand an answer with my fingers.” “Mila’s in the next room.” “She’s sleepin’,” I murmur. “And if you keep it down, no one will ever know.” “You’re obsessed.” “With you? Yes. I’m so fuckin’ obsessed it’s dangerous.” Ella stops. Her eyes find mine and search them endlessly, asking questions I can’t answer in words. Hell, I just answered every fucking question her eyes are asking. “Tate,” she whispers, brushing the backs of her fingers down my cheek.

I turn my face into her touch and kiss her knuckles, closing my eyes. It’s true. This girl—I’m obsessed. Completely and utterly fucking obsessed with everything about her. Her past, her present, her future. I wanna know every goddamn thing about it all. Why she allowed that bastard to treat her that way. How she feels right now with me. What she wants in a day, a week, a month, a year. If she fucking wants me. “You never told anyone, did you?” I pin her with my gaze. “Your parents, your friends, the police. You kept it totally secret.” “You know that,” she replies in a small voice. Her gaze falls away, but I grip her chin. “Eyes on me, darlin’.” She pulls them back to me. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Ella laughs bitterly and grabs her wineglass. She finishes it in one long drink, but she doesn’t let go of the glass. She sets it in her lap and twirls the stem between her fingers and thumb. “My mom wouldn’t have believed me. All she cared about was that her imperfect baby girl was marrying the perfect man. The degree I insisted upon would become useless, because no man likes a woman who can support herself, and I’d be reduced to exactly what she is—a trophy wife, pretty on a rich man’s arm, there to charm investors and business contacts at fancy dinners and cocktail parties. As long as there were no bruises that could harm the perfect image the world would get, she wouldn’t have cared.” “Your dad?” “I’ve seen my father four times in nine months. He works constantly. So although I lived only a few blocks away with Matthew and was around every weekend, he wasn’t there. I doubt he would have cared.” “His parents?” “Think he’s a golden boy who can do no wrong.” She fiddles with the glass again, and I can see she’s fighting to keep her eyes up and on me. “Just like the rest of society. When I arrived here, I threw my phone in the river by the hotel. I had two kinds of messages from him. The voice ones were everything a girl wants to hear—declarations of love and all that bullshit. The texts, well, you can imagine from the email what they were.” My grip tightens on her. Asking her about the past is a bastard of a catch-22. I wanna know it all, every damn second, but that pathetic little boy makes me so fucking mad it scares me. I still don’t understand how he could hurt my sweet girl. “Did you love him?” “Once. Maybe.” “Do you now?” She looks at me and shakes her head. “Don’t be mad,” she whispers, sliding her hand up to her neck and touching my hand. “I don’t want you to be mad.” I take a deep breath and rest my forehead against hers. “I’m not mad, darlin’. You’re confusing that with . . .” “Annoyance? Frustration? Anger?” “Mmph.”

“I know, Tate,” she says softly. “I know because I felt it toward myself for so long. I’m mad I can’t go and tell anyone now. But I’m really mad that I can’t be free, that he still thinks I belong to him, and that he’s still coming after me like I do.” “He’s fuckin’ delusional, Els. He’s totally fuckin’ whacked. You never belonged to him. You don’t own people with fear.” “But he did.” I dip my face and brush my lips over hers. “No, darlin’. No. He doesn’t own you. I don’t even think I do. You’re mine, sure, but, Els? You own me, baby. You own every damn bit of me, so you’re mine because you decided that, and it ain’t because you fear me. Now don’t take that to mean I’d let you walk out of this room and decide you ain’t mine anymore, because that ain’t how it works, but you get me.” I pull her into me until my lips ghost her earlobe. “You’re mine and I’m yours because there’s no other fuckin’ possibility. So he can take a long walk off a short fuckin’ pier.” She drops the wineglass to the floor and wraps her arms around me tightly. I circle her waist with my arm and hold her against me. She nuzzles the crook of my neck with her nose, and I bury mine in her hair. She’s always so fucking tiny in my arms, and it just makes me want to protect her more. No. It ain’t even a want. It’s a need. I need, desire, crave, to protect her. Every second.

M y pen glides smoothly over the thick pad of paper. This ain’t my domain, this shit, but I’m gonna try it anyway. Just like Conner said to me once, if you’ve got the words inside you, somethin’ you gotta say without actually saying it, then this is how you do it. You live it, breathe it, feel it, play it, and then you sing it. You sing it to the whole goddamn world, while knowing the whole time the words you can’t really say are meant only for one person.

Ella

I know they mean well, but my God, I’d love to, you know, at least pee without being shadowed to the bathroom. Never mind the three brawny bodyguards in the next room. They should just hook me up to a mic, then they can all hear my damn business. It’s all for my own protection, but unless my ex-fiancé has turned into Spider-Man and can scale up nine floors and ninja jump his way into the room through the window, I think I’m probably safe enough. “Are you seriously standing outside the door?” “Just in case.” “Tate! I can’t pee with you listening!” “I’m not listenin’, darlin’. I’m standin’ guard.” “You know, this is getting a little silly now.” I grunt and force myself to pee. “Like, for real. And you were totally listening because you answered me!” I flush, wash my hands, and unlock the door. He towers over me by a few inches and outward by several more, but that doesn’t stop me from narrowing my eyes in a challenging move. It’s been days since I got the email, and I’ve been on total lockdown since. Matthew isn’t shy, and he isn’t patient. If he knew where I was and he was here, he’d have pounced by now. Round the clock security or not. “You know he was just trying to scare me into going back, right?” I put my hands on my hips. “Just like that chick faked your sex tape to try and blackmail money from you.” Tate runs his hands through his hair and shudders at the reminder of Marc’s call yesterday on the way to New Orleans. “I know, darlin’, but it don’t stop me worrying. And the fact that she turned out to be a whackjob doesn’t make it better. I already know for a fact the whackjob train broke down at your ex’s stop.” I look up and purse my lips so the laughter inside doesn’t escape. We are not having a banter conversation. We are having a serious conversation. “Do you need to use the bathroom again to shit out that laughter you’re keepin’ inside?” I slap his arm. This time I only freeze for a half second before Tate grins and kisses my forehead. “Gettin’ there, darlin’. Getting there.” His grin widens and he backs into the bathroom. I swing the door shut with a huff and stalk into the main room. “Ajax!” “Yes, sweetheart.” The burly guard turns to me. “He’s not here, is he?”

His eyes soften. “I promise you he ain’t.” “Right. So I can come and go as I wish inside the hotel, correct?” “Not exactly.” “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? It’s perfectly safe in here!” I cry in annoyance. Seriously. I bet even Jennifer Lawrence has less security than this. No, scratch that. I know she does. “He could come in at any time. We have reception briefed on the situation, but they haven’t studied him the way my boys have.” “So it looks like two or three of your boys can add customer service to their résumés.” “Ella,” Tate sighs. “No, don’t ‘Ella’ me. That means you’re annoyed, and you don’t get to be annoyed.” “Is it, you know, that time?” Ajax asks. “Because she’s a little . . . bitchier . . . than normal.” “Oh shit! You did not just say that!” Sofie exclaims. “Mama! Yax! Dollar!” Mila hollers from the doorway, hands already outstretched. “Immy. Immy.” I cover my face with my hands and shriek. “No, I am not on my freakin’ period. I am frustrated. Okay? I’m goddamn frustrated. I get what you all are doing, and I appreciate it, but, hell.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I feel trapped.” Tate reaches for me, and I step to the side. “All this, it makes me feel trapped, okay? Protect me, guys, please, but does it have to be so full on? For two years I was told what to wear, where to go, what to do, how to do my hair, how to eat my pizza, how many glasses of wine I could have a week, how to hide what was happening. He trapped me, and this, the reason I came, was so I could be free.” “Honey,” Sofie says softly, taking my hands and standing in front of me. “You’re not.” “I know, but can’t I at least pretend?” I implore to Ajax. “Can I go to the secure playground with Mila? Can I use the gym alone? Can I go to the bar with Sofie without being watched? Can I just . . . be?” It sounds horrible. It sounds ungrateful. It sounds so very bitchy, and I’m not trying to be. I’m trying to breathe. To be something other than oppressed entirely. I promised myself I’d be free of him. I hold on to the belief that one day I will be, because I know that day isn’t today, but that’s okay. That’s okay because I’m so safe, but hell, I’m not a high-risk prisoner. I’m twenty-two-freaking-years old, I’m sleeping with a hot-as-hell bass player, organizing lives, and making a two-year-old girl laugh. He’s not here. I’m safe. “Els, you know we can’t—” “Carlos, get the hotel manager to have a meeting with me within the hour and arrange for the rest of the hotel managers on the tour to call me at half-hour intervals after lunch,” Ajax orders, cutting Tate off. “Get the boys in the boardroom at lunchtime. Four of y’all are behind reception. Six-hour shifts. One of you at all times.” He turns to me. “We compromise. Someone stands at the end of the hall instead of outside the door. You can do all the things you asked, but someone will be within a hundred-foot radius of you at all times. You won’t know they’re there.” “Are you fuckin’ insane, Ajax?” Tate explodes. “We agreed that if I ain’t there then someone else is glued to her motherfuckin’ side until I get back. This ain’t keepin’ to that!”

I rest my hand on his back and slip my fingers beneath his shirt. He stills, taking a deep breath. He’s completely rigid, and when I touch my fingers to his front, every muscle on his stomach is tensed and formed. “Ella,” he growls. “Tate,” I whisper. His chest heaves with his heavy sigh and he drops his head. “What, darlin’?” I step behind him, my hands now clasped at his stomach, my cheek resting against his back. “That girl who sold the threesome story,” I start quietly. “She trapped you, right? She backed you into a corner you couldn’t get out of no matter how hard you fought. Every time you left the house you were assaulted with questions, right?” “It was relentless.” “Right. You dealt with that for what . . . a couple weeks?” “Yeah, Els.” “Imagine dealing with that for two years, then finally, finally finding freedom, then having it taken away from you again.” Tate sighs again, and I feel the breath leave his body. My fingers glide slowly as he turns in my arms and then envelops me in his. “Ajax,” he says in a much calmer voice, resting his chin on top of my head. “Do what she wants, but the chance of her being alone is very fuckin’ unlikely. Even more so than before. But she can pee alone now.” “So courteous,” I mumble into his chest. “Done,” Ajax responds. “Lucas, end of the hall. You follow them into the Quarter but keep your distance. Tate?” “Yeah?” “Take a fuckin’ earpiece in your pocket if we’re so far away from you.” “Got it.” “Make sure it’s fuckin’ connected, all right?” “Got it.” “And you,” Ajax says, making me turn to look at me. “It’s a good thing you’re so damn cute, because I wouldn’t take these orders from any other five-foot-nothin’ chick.” “I’m five foot five!” “Precisely,” he retorts, folding his six-foot-five frame through the door and slamming it. Silence settles through the room. “Uh-oh,” Mila gasps. “Lotta dollars.” I smile, looking down at her wide eyes and her hand covering her mouth. “Mhmm. That’s a lotta dollars, Mila.” “Naughty,” she mumbles to Bunna, toddling over to the sofa.

T

ate’s fingers are threaded through mine and his grip is tight. For all my protestations that going out in public, holding hands, and looking all too much like a couple when our current state of relationship is very undefined is a dangerous thing to do, he appears not to care. I even tried to throw the safety thing back in his face. Hello, we’re out here, where everyone can see us, photograph us, and lead my delightful ex right to me. He dutifully reminded me that my family doesn’t read tabloids, so there we go. Of course, I know Matthew knows I’m here, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he does know exactly where I am. A jolt shoots through my spine—he could be here. In New Orleans. Just . . . watching. The French Quarter is so busy we could have walked past him ten times and not known about it. There are people everywhere, talking, laughing, bustling through the streets busily. The touristy types are holding cameras to their eyes and pointing excitedly, while the people who obviously live here duck and dive around waving arms. I’ve been shoved this way and that a million times over, so Tate’s hand-holding doesn’t seem so dumb now. Especially not since I fell into a wall and scraped my elbow. “What do you wanna see?” Tate looks down at me, and I shuffle a couple inches closer to him. “All right?” “Busy,” I mutter. “Um, I don’t know. Marie Laveau’s grave? Stop in every voodoo shop we see?” “We’ve probably got time for both of those,” he laughs quietly. “Damn, I don’t know.” My stomach rumbles, and I blush. “I think you need food,” he mutters into the side of my head, still laughing. He kisses my hair and guides me over to a café. “Beignets?” “I . . . I’ve never eaten beignets?” He stops me, turns me, and stares at me. “Excuse me?” I lift one shoulder. “I’ve never eaten beignets.” “Oh shit.” He guides me to a table and sits me down, then goes to the counter. He exchanges some words and money with the guy behind it, then joins me at the table with two cups of coffee. “Wait for this,” he tells me. “Best. Thing. Ever.” “Um, okay.” My lips twitch at the enthusiasm in his voice, and I turn my head to people watch. And find Lucas. Okay. I am determined to find Lucas. It’s like my own personal challenge, despite the throngs of people that are undoubtedly hiding him. “What are you doing, darlin’?” Tate asks, stroking his thumb over the back of my hand. I crane my neck. “Trying to see if I can find Lucas.” “Why?” Sighing, I turn to him just as the plate of beignets is placed in front of us. “I’m interested to see how well you can hide a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound man of muscle outside a dainty café.” Tate nods his head toward the building opposite us. “You hide him in the bar across the street.” “Seriously? That’s where he is?” I peer through the windows, grateful that he really is out of sight but still close. “Yep. Why, you worried?”

“I already told you I’m fine. I was just curious.” I tear a piece of the pastry off and put it into my mouth. Tate raises an eyebrow, his amusement showing in the upturn of his lips. “All right, darlin’.” “Oh. My. God.” I stare at the pastry then at him. “What?” Tate’s smile grows. I hold up the sugar-coated bundle of heaven that just got placed in front of me. “These. I need all of them.” Tate tears a piece of his beignet off and pops it in his mouth. “Done.”

“C ome with me,” Sofie whispers, grabbing my hand and waving to Lucas across the bar. “Wait, what? I wanted wine!” Eight hours of stumbling around New Orleans with Tate and my feet hurt and my liver is begging for Moscato. Okay. So maybe not begging, but it’s close enough, and I don’t want to be tugged around anymore. “Soon! Come with me!” She laughs and pulls me through to the lobby. “Come onnnn, Lucas!” “Sof!” I complain, too tired to fight her tug. “Miss Sofie, what are you doin’?” “Good question,” I mutter, allowing her to drag me out of the hotel and toward the parking lot. “Miss Sofie!” Lucas snaps. “If you leave the hotel I have to notify Ajax.” “Then tell him. We’re with you, big guy. I’d like to see some pretty rich boy take your ex-RAW ass down.” “You used to be on RAW? As in WWE RAW?” Lucas just winks. “He used to be on RAW?” I ask Sofie, climbing into the backseat. “Yeah. Won’t tell us his name, though, the boring shit. And he apparently dropped off the radar long enough ago to not be recognized.” She scoffs. “Seat belt on, please, Miss Sofie. You, too, Miss Ella.” I like Southerners. They’re way politer than New Yorkers. “Thank you. Where are we going?” Sofie grins and leans forward between the seats. “To the tattoo parlor down the street.” I stop. “Wait. What?” Her grin just widens, and Lucas pulls away. Aw, hell.

I

can’t believe I did it. “I can’t believe you did it!” Sofie gasps over her wineglass. “I thought you’d tell me to fuck off and watch me do mine.” “It really hurt!” I roll my shoulder. “Ouch. Still does.” Sofie stares at her wrist where Mila’s name is covered by a dressing. “Yeah. This kinda stings, too.” “What kinda stings?” Conner asks, walking across the bar. “Oh shit!” “Didn’t you tell him?” I shriek quietly. Kind of. “Tell me what?” “Nothin’, hon. Nothin’.” Sofie shoves her wrist under the table. “Are you kidding? He’s going to find out. Man up, chicken!” I point my—much-loved—wineglass at her. “I, er, I got a tattoo.” “You did what?” Conner asks slowly, staring at her with disbelief radiating from his eyes. “I got a tattoo.” She holds her wrist up and smiles weakly. Conner rubs his hand across his forehead. “Okay. You, Sofie Callahan, who whimpers when she gets prodded by her two-year-old’s finger, got a tattoo? The same Sofie Callahan who cried for an hour when she broke her arm?” “I was nine!” she snaps indignantly. “And I fractured it in four places, no thanks to you.” “Tate pushed you out of the tree, not me.” “Tate pushed you out of a tree?” My mouth drops open. A deep chuckle sounds behind me. “Man, that was fuckin’ hilarious until her brother gave me a black eye.” “No, that’s when it got real funny,” Sofie retorts. “Can I see it?” Conner asks. “Huh?” “Your tattoo?” His tone clearly asks if she’s drunk or not. “Oh!” “You got a tattoo?” Tate laughs. “Oh shit.” Sofie narrows her eyes and pulls back the dressing to reveal the simple script spelling Mila’s name with a tiny heart below the “a.” “Cute,” Tate says. “Not for me, but cute.” Sofie pokes out her tongue and turns to Conner at the same time Tate turns to me. “Does that mean you got one, too?” “I was forced into getting one,” I correct him. He stops. “You got a tattoo?” “I’ve heard that question way too many times in the last two minutes.” I sip my wine. “Seriously? Did you?” I glance at him sideways and notice the upturn of his lips. “Yes.” “Can I see?” “I guess.” I ease the shoulder of my shirt down and hold it while he slowly peels back the dressing.

“Oh, Els,” he breathes softly. I glance at my shoulder blade, but the black letters are a blur to me. It doesn’t matter, though, because I know the words perfectly. Fear nothing. “So I can remember when I get scared,” I whisper. Tate stares at the ink for a long moment before gently covering it back up. Then he takes my shirt from my grip, eases it over my shoulder, and turns me into him. “Good thinkin’, darlin’,” he says softly, cupping the side of my face and bringing me into him. “Do you like it?” “I love it. It’s also sexy as fuck.” I look up at him through my lashes. Of course, to Tate, it is.

I rifle through my purse to make sure I have everything before I get in the car and go to the arena with the guys. Since New Orleans is a midweek concert, something they don’t do very often, every rehearsal is at the stadium instead of at the hotel. Really, they should all be at the arenas, but as they’ll tell you, they’re garage-boy dreamers at heart still. So no one argues. “Pen, paper, phone, wallet, water, gum . . .” “Shit, Ella. You got the kitchen sink in there?” Aidan peers over my shoulder. “Maybe the bathroom one,” I reply, rifling through it. “Shit. I forgot my tablet with your schedules and stuff on it. Here.” I thrust my open purse into Kye’s arms and step back. “I’m just gonna run upstairs and get it.” “Ella . . .” I stare at Ajax. “Literally two minutes, okay? It’s on the coffee table. I forgot to grab it. Straight in, straight out.” “I forgot Mila’s binky,” Sofie cuts in. “I’ll go up with her.” “Oh, yes, Ms. Tough Girl,” Aidan snorts. “Your balls, my hands, a blender,” she shoots over her shoulder, jabbing the elevator button. “All right,” Ajax sighs. “But I’m standin’ here and timing your asses, so move.” I give him a sassy salute just before the elevator doors shut. Sofie giggles and digs around in her shorts for her room key and I spin mine between my fingers. “Here. One minute.” She grins, swiping the card. “Deal.” I swipe mine and push the door open. Tucking the card into my back pocket, I walk toward the coffee table, where I can see the tablet sitting. The door swings shut.

The harsh scent of cologne wafts toward me, and the air inside me shifts from free breath to a constricted gasp. I freeze. “Ella.” No. No. No. This is impossible. “Aren’t you gonna turn around and say ‘hi, babe’? Or have you forgotten me already?” “Like I could,” I whisper, standing up straight and slowly turning. “How did you get in here?” Matthew leans against the doorframe casually, as if he hasn’t broken into Tate’s room. My room. “Tried to get into the hotel in Atlanta but they refused me instantly, and I knew your new buddy had his security all over it. So I drove here. Didn’t shave for a few days, did my hair a little different, put on some glasses, and checked in before you did. Wasn’t that hard if you’re not an idiot.” My mouth is dry, and my heart, oh god, my heart. It’s pounding frantically, threatening to spill from my chest. “Didn’t expect to find you fucking that bastard though, did I, Ella? I didn’t expect to find your fucking bag in his bedroom and your fucking toothbrush next to his by the sink.” I step back, my arms going around my waist. His jaw is tight, and the vein on the side of his neck is bulging, and oh, I know this look, and it doesn’t end well. “I didn’t expect to come here to get my motherfucking fiancée back home and find her whoring herself to some fucked-up white-trash asshole.” He advances toward me, his fists clenched at his sides, anger radiating off of him and bouncing from surface to surface until it’s suffocating me. “I didn’t think my fucking girl would stoop so low as to shack up with a lowlife piece of shit!” “I’m not yours!” I snarl, backing away from him. “Not anymore. I’m not your girl, I’m not your fiancée, and I’m sure as hell never going to be your fucking wife!” His fist flies at me faster than I can blink, and I fall into the wall. Several beats pass, and then, “You wanna fucking rephrase that, Ella?” Matthew pins me to the wall by my upper arms. “You wanna reiterate who you belong to?” My eyes travel from the door to his steely, light brown gaze. “Never in a million years.” He slams me against the wall, and I cry out at the sharp jolt of pain that radiates from my shoulders to the top of my backside. “You sure, babe? Because I don’t give a shit how many times he’s had his dick in you, you’re still fucking mine.” “I never slept with him!” “Liar!” He hits me again, and this time, I taste a drop of blood from inside my cheek. “Your fucking panties are on the floor!” “He stays on the sofa. I changed and forgot to pick them up,” I lie again, keeping my eyes on the floor. I’m trembling, everywhere, because I’m falling back, back into the past, back into fear. Back into submission and subordination, into what he wants to hear, because he scares me. He fucking terrifies me. He shoves me against the wall again, but my head slams into the hard surface, and I scream as the pain radiates across my scalp. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” He grabs my jaw and holds my face still, keeping my hands clasped in his tight grip. “Did you really fucking think you could run out on me four days before our

wedding and I’d let you go? That I’d let some fucking dickhead touch my girl? Fuck her? Make her his?” I stare at him, shaking, because my jaw is hurting so much I can’t speak. “Did you?!” he roars, sliding his hand to my neck. I shake my head the tiniest amount. “Good. Because now you’re gonna call that bitch who came upstairs with you and tell her you’re feeling sick and you’re gonna have a nap before you meet them. Then you’re gonna pack your worthless shit, and you’re gonna get your worthless slut ass the fuck downstairs and into my car so I can take you home, where you belong.” He leans in close. “The world will think that trash you shacked up with beat you and I saved the fuckin’ day, then you’re gonna marry me and we’ll live happily ever fuckin’ after, but not until you’ve got a bruise for every time you let his cock inside you.” His breath heats my cheek, and I cringe, turning away. “So tell me, how many do I owe you, babe? One? Two? Five?” “Didn’t you hear me earlier?” I whisper, ignoring the sting in my jaw and looking into his eyes defiantly. “I’m not marrying you. Ever.” He releases my hands and his fist connects with the side of my head. I wince at the searing pain running through my forehead, and before I even realize it, my hands. I lash out at him with everything I have, ignoring every ache and sting and slice of pain. Ignoring the burn spreading through my body and the tinge of blood in my mouth. I fight. I shove at his chest and scratch at his face and struggle in his hold. With everything I’ve got, I fight. “You’re mine and you are fucking marrying me, you dirty whore,” Matthew growls, his hand once again at my neck, but this time, it’s tighter. And I can’t breathe. “Not in my fuckin’ lifetime, she ain’t!” Tate bursts through the door, and in half a second, Matthew is dragged off of me. “Get your fuckin’ hands off Els, asshole!”

Tate

Red. I see red. I see motherfucking red. My fist flies into his face and the crunch of his nose is satisfying. But it ain’t enough—his jaw, arms, legs, every bit of this bastard needs fucking fracturing so he knows. “She’s fucking mine.” He launches himself at me. My response is another punch, this time to his chest, and it knocks him back. The slimy fuck looks up at me and smirks. I’m gonna wipe it right off his fuckin’ face. Three pairs of hands grab my arms and hold me back at the same time Ajax grabs the shit who just had his hands on my Els. “Get the fuck off me,” I growl, struggling against their hold on me. “Calm the fuck down!” Aidan says. “Then get him out of my sight before I fuckin’ kill him!” “Ajax,” Kye says. He nods once and drags the piece of shit out of the room. “Now,” Conner says, watching Carlos shut the door after Ajax and five of his boys. “You gonna sit the fuck down and behave or have I gotta punch you, too?” I shove my brothers off me and turn around. Ella. I need to see Ella. I need to make sure . . . Fuck! Her eye is swollen, blood is dripping from the corner of her mouth¸ and she can hardly move. Sofie is holding her up, and she’s leaning into her, but she’s looking at me. And she’s scared. Of him, yeah. But of me, too. It’s in her fucking eyes. “Els,” I whisper. “Tate,” Sofie says softly. I look at her, and she shakes her head. “Kye, help me take Ella into my room and clean her up.” “No!” The protest bursts from me. No. I fucking look after her. I protect her. I clean her up when shit gets bad, because nothing else feels right. Nothing else but a bad day ending with her in my arms makes sense to me. Nothing else but her soft voice whispering “fear nothing” to herself, thinking I don’t hear, will ever be right to me.

“Yes.” The word is barely audible, but it’s there, and it’s from Ella. “Kye, please.” “C’mere.” Kye lifts her, and she cries out in pain. I step forward, but Conner darts in front of me. “Let her go, bro,” he says quietly. “Sof’s got her.” I stare as my brother disappears through the doorway, carrying my fucking girl, my fucking broken girl. The anger boils over, and I swipe my hand at the lamp on the side table. It falls to the floor, shattering, and I slam my fist into the wall. “Fuck! How the fuck did he get in here?” I shout at the security guys. “Lucas! You’re supposed to be on her fuckin’ ass! Always! How the fuck did he get into my fuckin’ room and why was he fuckin’ alone with her?” “Sit the hell down!” Aidan grabs me and slams me onto the sofa. “Get up and I’m gonna punch you. I don’t give a shit. The only thing savin’ you right now is that you’re bleeding from four places on your goddamn face.” “How the fuck did he get in here?” “Pipe the fuck down so we can find out.” Conner sits on the coffee table in front of me. “Lucas. Talk.” “It’s on me.” Ajax walks through the door. “Girls needed to come grab somethin’. This place was meant to be safe. They shoulda been able to come up here to grab shit and get back down without any trouble.” “You’re the head of the goddam security and you let this happen?” I try to stand up, but Aidan shoves me straight back onto the sofa. Lucas hands me a shot of whiskey he hastily poured from the minibar, and I throw it to the back of my throat. The searing burn of it going down is better than the throb of my lower lip and the full-body ache from knowing that Ella is next door, hurting, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. That I didn’t do a damn thing to protect her. “My mistake. I fucked up. But like everyone else, I thought this place was safe.” “So how did he get into the hotel?” Conner beats me to it. “Because if Tate doesn’t find out soon, shit’s gonna get crazy.” “I’m bettin’ only one person knows that, and she’s next door.” Aidan pulls out his phone and taps the screen several times. He pauses for a minute, the heavy silence and distinct scent of blood lingering in the air. “Kye said he got turned away in Atlanta and came here. Checked in under a fake name and changed his appearance slightly before we even turned up.” “He’s been here the whole fuckin’ time?” He’s been in this hotel. Watching her. Watching us. Waiting for the moment he could get near her. He’s been so fuckin’ close to her, right after she said she needed space. My girl’s need for freedom trapped her worse than before. And because of him and my hot-shit temper, she fears me. I bury my face in my hands. “Fuck.” “Let’s clean you up,” Conner says, getting up. “Fuck off,” I reply. “I wanna . . . I wanna be alone.” “Tate,” Ajax says from the doorway. I look across the room into his warm eyes. “I’m sorry. Truly. I fucked up.”

“We all did,” Lucas adds. “You made the call, but I was standin’ right next to you, boss. I coulda fought you, and I didn’t.” “Where is he?” “In his car. My boys are at every entrance and exit and they’re inside and outside Sofie’s room. Will be outside here, too. He ain’t getting near her again, and if he does, I’ll break his legs my-fuckin’-self,” Ajax answers. “Good. Now get the fuck out and make sure all y’all don’t fuck shit up again.” “Noted. You want me to call the cops?” “Not my call. It’s hers. I’ll go along with whatever she decides to do.” The door shuts, and I rip my shirt off. Silence envelops me, but not in a good way. In a heavy, oppressing way. The kind of way that suffocates the shit out of you because everything is so strong you can’t breathe through it. It feels an awful lot like a broken heart and broken promises. I promised her. I promised her so many fucking times that he’d never hurt her again. I promised her she was safe with me. I promised her I’d never let him get anywhere near her. But he did. She wasn’t. I did. He had his fists in her face, maybe all over her body. He had his hand around her fucking neck and his fingers in her hair, pulling, trying to break her. Trying to shatter her into doing whatever the hell he wanted her to do. Thank fuck Sofie is smarter than she gets credit for and knew something was up. Thank fuck for that sharp-tongued, crazy-ass blonde. But I can still see her. Ella. When she looked at me. The fear. I’ve never seen anyone look so scared of anything in my life. She wasn’t just scared—she was petrified. If she wasn’t so obviously in pain I’d bet anything she was immobilized by her fear. And that . . . seeing her look at me, fearing me . . . It means I broke every single damn promise I made her. That’s the biggest punch to the motherfucking gut I’ll ever get.

“B aby,” she whispers raggedly, wiping a warm, wet cloth over my temple. “What did he do to you?” I open my eyes and stare into two very sad, very heartbroken, dark brown eyes. Through my sleepy haze, I see that one is ringed with purple. It slices through me, because she’s hurt, yet she’s here, worrying about me. “Worry about you, Els. I can take care of myself.” “Obviously not,” she replies, dipping the cloth into something then wringing it out. “You’re covered in hours-old blood, Tate.” She brings the cloth to my mouth. “This might sting.” I hiss as she tenderly wipes all the dried blood from my lips and chin. It takes a few minutes because she’s being so fucking gentle, afraid to hurt me more.

“Els . . .” She sits back on her heels and looks down. “I have a fat lip, sore shoulders, a killer headache, and what looks like the black eye to end all black eyes. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, except this time you can see some of it.” “You say that like it makes it fuckin’ okay.” “I’m hopped-up on pain meds that I’m pretty sure have to be prescribed, so you probably shouldn’t take what I just said as fact.” She shrugs and climbs onto the sofa next to me. “Hold still, will you?” I stare at her as she continues to clean my face. She’s right—her right eye is so swollen she can only open it halfway, and the purple color around it doesn’t do much to prove it’s just a knock. Her top lip is cut open a little at the side, and it’s slightly fat, but it’s not so swollen that it’ll be there in a week or so like mine feels it will. “I think you broke his nose,” she mutters hopefully. “Shoulda been his fuckin’ neck.” She holds the bloody cloth in her hands and nods. “Yes.” “Ella.” “Don’t call me Ella.” She finally brings her eyes to mine. “Everyone else can, but not you. I’m not Ella to you. I never have been. It’s always Els.” “Els,” I correct softly, a small smile at my mouth. I reach up and cup the side of her face that isn’t swollen. She turns her cheek into me and squeezes her eyes shut. She takes one long, slow, deep breath, then shudders, and a tear drips from the corner of her eye. “Oh, darlin’.” I sit up and pull her onto my lap and lean back against the sofa. She curls herself into me, gripping me tightly, and cries silently. The only evidence the tears are still flowing is the small hiccup she makes every minute or so and the shudders that rack her body in between them. “I was so scared,” she breathes, resting her non-bruised cheek against my bare chest. “I was so scared that he would go too far. When his hand was at my neck, Tate, I was . . .” She shudders again. “I was scared he would kill me.” I shake my head and hold her tightly, careful not to hurt her. “Never. He never would have, baby. I would have killed him first.” “I believe you.” “You were scared of me.” She sits up and pins me with her gaze. Her gorgeous, dark, tear-rimmed gaze. “That’s what you thought?” Horror laces her whisper. “I saw it, Els. In your eyes. You wouldn’t let me help you, darlin’. I . . .” I swallow when the words catch. “No! No no no!” She presses her unbruised cheek against mine, then pulls back, gripping my hair. “No. I was scared for you, you big dumbass. You were covered in blood, everywhere, and I didn’t know what he’d done to you. I just . . . I looked at you, and you weren’t you. You were bleeding because of me. You were bleeding for me, Tate. I was so scared for you, and . . .” She pauses. “I looked at you again, and it was wrong, and it shouldn’t have happened, but staring at you like that, willing to get hurt for me, I . . . I

have the worst timing ever, because then I realized you meant everything you’ve said, and I maybe fell a little bit in love with you.” Her final whispered words cut right through me. “Shit. Els.” I guide my fingers into the back of her hair and pull her in to me. Fuck. “Blind rage, darlin’. That’s what I felt when I saw that motherfucker near you. I didn’t go for him to get him off you. I went to kill him. For touchin’ you like that . . . Fuck no, Els. Fucking hell no. No one touches my girl like that. No one.” I ghost my lips across her bruised temple. “And, hell, darlin’, maybe I’m a little bit in love with you, too, but I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what it feels like. All I know is that I’ll kill every motherfucker who tries to hurt you, and that you really are never leavin’ my goddamn side ever again. And if that’s what you call a little bit in love, then I guess I’m a little bit in love with you.” She holds me tightly, winces, then pulls back. “Ouch.” “You okay?” “My back hurts. There goes that nice moment.” I smile and touch my lips to her forehead. “You want some painkillers?” “I don’t know what Ajax gave me earlier,” she replies. “But vodka would probably have the same effect.” She smiles weakly, but it still has her Ella-spark in it. The one that’s infectious and makes me grin like a fucking lunatic every time I see it. I’d be grinning now if . . . “Dammit, Tate. You split your lip open.” She grabs the cloth and presses it to my mouth. “Stop smiling.” “Can’t help it,” I mumble against the wet material. “Stop bein’ so fuckin’ cute.” “Stop talking.” She smiles softly and dabs at my lip. “Here. Dab with the tissue paper to dry it up.” I nod my head and do as I’m told. “You want some water?” I shake my head. “A beer?” Head shake. “Vodka?” Head shake. “What?” I stare at her. “Tate.” “You told me not to talk, darlin’.” I smirk with the good side of my mouth. “And whiskey. I need it after that.” “Whiskey for you, vodka for me,” she mutters, opening the minibar and pulling out two bottles. “You had painkillers. You ain’t havin’ vodka.” Defiantly, Ella unscrews the cap on the bottle and tips it back. “Bite me.” “I will. Just as soon as it won’t split my lip.” She laughs into her hand. “Promise?” “Yeah, darlin’. And I’m gonna keep this one.” “You better.”

Ella

I can’t move. My back is so stiff it feels like I’ve got steel rods inserted in it, and I’m pretty sure someone put an iron ball into my head in the middle of the night. “Here.” Tate sets a glass of water and a couple of pills on the nightstand. “Ow!” I stop halfway sitting up. “My shoulders are hurting.” “Come here.” He wraps his arms around me gently and eases me up. “Shhh,” he whispers, putting a pillow behind my back and leaning me against it. “All right?” “Fine,” I whisper unconvincingly. “What are these?” I take the pills and throw them into my mouth before he answers. I don’t actually care—let’s be honest. “I guess it’s too early for vodka, huh?” Tate takes the glass of water with a smile. “Yeah, darlin’, way too early. You want breakfast?” “I don’t think I can get up yet.” “Good thing I already thought ahead, huh?” He kisses me lightly then disappears. I stare at the open door until he reappears with a tray in his hands. “What’s that?” “Breakfast.” He grins, then winces. “Fuckin’ lip.” Gingerly, I lift my hand to his jaw and touch my thumb to the cut on his mouth. “Thank you.” “Welcome,” he murmurs, kissing my thumb. He snatches a piece of bacon off my plate and rams it into his mouth with a wink. “Hey!” “Mmm. Good.” He backs out of the room once more and reappears with a second tray. He sits next to me on the bed, stretches his legs out, sets the tray on his lap, and grabs the remote. I steal a piece of his bacon back and drop it onto my plate, then swipe the control and change the channel to Friends reruns. Tate groans, but he doesn’t actually say anything. Especially when I turn and give him a sweet smile. Now he laughs and shakes his head, turning his attention to his plate. “Joey doesn’t share food,” Joey says onscreen. “Tate doesn’t share food,” Tate mutters, glancing at my plate. “Then don’t steal mine,” I retort, munching on bacon. His lips twitch. We eat in silence, my attention focused on the screen, his focused on me. His eyes trace the line of my profile now and then, but he’s mainly looking at me. Just . . . looking at me. My gaze flicks to him several times, drawn there by the intensity of his. It’s irresistible, just like he is, especially when he sits up and pulls his shirt off.

My eyes are definitely drawn to him now. Hey, my body is hurting, not my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, darlin’. You’re too fragile to fuck this morning.” I laugh. “Give me half an hour. These painkillers are amazing.” “Maybe not,” he laughs. “Believe me, I’d love to, but I don’t wanna hurt you.” He tucks some of my hair behind my ear. “Hey, you know we go home this weekend, right?” “I . . .” I swallow and stare into my food. “Yeah.” “You’re comin’, too.” “I am?” “Yeah, you are. I told you last night I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight, and I fucking meant it.” “Tate Burke, you open this fuckin’ door right the hell now!” I freeze at the sound of a girl’s voice and my head snaps around to Tate. “Aw, man, she’s kiddin’ me,” he groans, getting up and walking around the bed. “Uh, who is that?” I ask quietly, pushing my tray to the side and swinging my legs around and out of bed slowly. Thankfully I put on sleep shorts and a tank top last night before bed. “My sister,” he mutters, opening the door. “Leila. What the hell are you doin’ here?” “Oh, I don’t know, Tate. Maybe because Sof called last night crying and told me my big brother looks like he’s gone ten rounds with John Cena and he probably broke some guy’s nose! What the fuck, Tate? Can’t you behave for five minutes? What did he do? Sniff around your latest one-nighter?” “Shut it, Lei,” Tate growls. “You have no fuckin’ idea what’s been happenin’, so until you do, stop runnin’ your mouth like you know it all.” “I know I’m lookin’ at you, and fuck me, Tate! That black eye is so colorful I don’t know if it’s real or if Mila attacked you with her pens! Your lip looks like it’s been injected with fifty shots of filler, and your cheek! Look at the state of your sorry ass, Tate Burke! I’ve seen you in some messes, but this takes the cake and the damn cherry!” “Leila?” Sofie shrieks. “What—how—why?” “I got a four a.m. flight. Four fucking a.m.!” she yells. “Now will someone tell me why Tate looks like a pile of shit!” “It’s my fault,” I say softly, stepping forward and breaking through the shouting. “Els, it ain’t, and you know it,” Tate argues. “He put his fucking hands on you!” “Who did?” Leila cries. “Wait, who even is she?” “She’s my girlfriend.” “She is?” Sofie and Leila say together, as I say “I am?” “Yeah, you are.” Tate’s turquoise eyes pierce mine. “You all right with that, darlin’?” “Uh. I’m sensing I don’t have much of a choice here.” “You sense right.” He smirks, then turns to his sister. “This is Ella, my girlfriend and personal assistant.” “Wow, you move fast. Now you wanna tell me why you’re beaten up?” Leila asks, putting her hands on her hips. She swishes her long, dark hair over her shoulder, and her bright eyes pin onto her brother. She’s the female double of Tate, tall but slim, her features softer than his, but she’s still scarily beautiful.

“Yeah, when she’s sittin’ down, because she’s supposed to be in bed,” Tate grumbles. Grabbing my hands, he pulls me to the sofa. “Meds have kicked in!” I protest. “Sit down, Els.” He sighs. “I’ll feel better if you do.” “Fine. But you go make me coffee.” Sofie grins and sits opposite me. “Me, too, thanks.” “Me three,” Leila adds, dropping next to Sofie. “Then you talk, Tate, because Marc already heard.” Tate pauses. “Shit.” He makes four coffees and sets them on the table between us. I glance at him as he sits next to me and curls an arm around my waist. Leaning into him, I rest my unswollen cheek against his chest and swallow. I explain everything, why I left New York, how I got to them, what I dealt with, how I lived. I tell her about the emails and the messages, and then, my throat clogs. I can’t . . . I squeeze my eyes shut, wince at the pain, and bury my face into Tate’s chest. He takes over and explains about the threats and, eventually, what happened yesterday. And I sit, listening, fighting the trembling of my hands, scrunching my eyes shut, reliving the punches and the slams and the raspy words and the insults and the constricting of my throat as he pinned me to the wall. His touch, rough and harsh, unforgiving, unrelenting. “Els.” Hands frame my face. “They’re gone.” I stare into worried turquoise eyes. “I’m okay,” I whisper. “Don’t lie to me, darlin’. Don’t react that way when I talk about him then tell me you’re okay, because you’re fuckin’ not.” “I’m okay,” I lie again, because I want to believe it. I want to believe I’m okay. I want to believe I can see the light at the end of this jacked-up, never-ending tunnel. This dark, scary, all-encompassing tunnel. It has to end sooner or later. I hope it’s sooner. “Els,” he whispers my name again. It only takes a single second, but there’s so much warmth in the tiny word that I soften. “I can feel him.” My voice is barely there, so quiet I don’t know if I said those words or if I’m imagining them. But Tate’s looking at me, so I guess I did say them. “Whenever I close my eyes, whenever I think, I can feel him, right there, in front of me, touching me, whispering into my ear.” Tate’s hands curl around my body to my lower back. Slowly, he inches his fingers lower until they’re curving around my butt, and he pulls me onto him. “We’re alone, baby. I made them leave.” The words are mumbled into my neck. He buzzes his lips upward to my ear. “Let me take him away,” he breathes, hot air cascading across my skin and eliciting goose bumps everywhere. “Let me get so far under your skin he’s never going to be an option again.” “I’m scared.” “You don’t need to be.” His fingers graze along the tops of my shoulders until they sink into my hair. “Don’t fear me, darlin’? Remember?” “Never,” I whisper. How can you fear the person you’re falling more irrevocably in love with every second that passes?

His lips touch mine tentatively. I let my fingers ease up his chest to his shoulders and his neck, then they curl around him, holding him close, letting me breathe him in. His hands cascade down my back, his fingers massaging in gentle circles as his lips do the same thing. I breathe Tate Burke in. Cocky words, overconfidence, determination. Sweetness, softness, gentleness. Every part of him seeps into me through the connection of our skin. Every part of me forms into him with each gentle sweep of his tongue against mine. He slides my shorts over my ass and encourages me to stand. My feet hit the floor and I push the shorts down my legs. I step free from the material constraints, and Tate wraps his hands around my thighs, pulling me closer until I’m straddling his bare cock. “Mine,” he breathes, his touch feather-light. “Mine, Els. You’re fuckin’ mine, and I’ll bury myself inside you until you’re fully aware of it. Darlin’, I’m gonna stay inside you until I’m the only thing you can think of.” And he does. He slips inside me, tilting his hips so he’s inside me deeply and the only sensation I’m aware of is him. His cock inside me, his hand around the back of my neck and the other at my hip. He sits still as my hips rock against him. Again. Again. Again. Again. Over and over until my fingers entwine with his messy hair and he grips my hips. Until his hips meet my gentle thrusts. Until heat swamps my body, throbbing, pulsating, beating through me. Until he groans my name into my ear and crushes our mouths together barely seconds later. Until I come so hard tears stream from my eyes. Until he presses my face into his neck. Until he whispers my name, again and again. Until he wipes every salty tear from my cheeks before he wipes them from his chest.

I smile as Tate walks off the stage to deafening applause from the crowd, grinning. He sweeps his arms around my waist, and I hug his neck. The swelling on his eye has gone down, and the makeup girls did a great job of covering the bruising that’s spread onto the side of his nose and his cheekbone. He touches his lips to my forehead and takes the water Carla offers. Since Ajax briefed her on Matthew and what happened three days ago, she’s been a little nicer to everyone, me and Tate specifically. I think she actually smiled at me this morning. Sofie bobs Mila on her knee, deep in conversation with Conner and Kye. Aidan is looking at an iPad held by the girl Tate dubbed Tits, and one of the makeup girls pushes past them and scurries to Tate. “Turn around,” she demands, pulling a compact and pad from the bag slung across her body. I get up so Tate can sit down, and the girl bends in front of him. She covers the pad in makeup and gets to work re-

covering his bruises. They’ve already been the subject of media speculation, and the fact his PA has sported similar bruising hasn’t gone unnoticed by the vultures that stalked us almost all day yesterday. All of us are trying to ignore the rumors that we did it to each other, and all of us but Tate are doing pretty good at it. No less than eight magazines and papers have been torn up, and his phone had to have an emergency replacement this morning when a link popped up on his Facebook feed. Yeah, he isn’t taking that speculation well at all. So it’s nice when he looks at me and smiles, or when he hugs me like he just did. It reminds me that he’s still Tate and I’m still Ella, and the only difference is that we’re a little more beaten up than we were four days ago . . . and our relationship is defined. It seems crazy to me to slide from an abusive relationship, one I was almost committed for life to, into a brand-new, not-abusive one just a few weeks later. But it makes sense . . . it feels right. From the tingles of attraction that spread through me the first time we met to the heated tingles he sends through me now with a single touch, it’s right. I know with certainty that I’m falling in love with Tate Burke. I can feel it building inside me. Every touch, every smile, every purr, growl, or whisper of my name pushes me closer to the edge, builds the anticipation of the fall. I fear it’ll only take one more of those things before I give myself over to the inevitability of my emotions. I am a bomb on the brink of explosion, and Tate Burke holds the detonate button. And I want him to push it. Tate grabs me and presses a kiss to my lips before he heads back out on the stage with the guys. I sit back down and take Mila so Sofie can use the bathroom. Mila snuggles into me and rubs Bunna’s ear against her cheek, and she hums along with the music. I smile and hug her, rocking side to side. She giggles quietly, then continues with her humming. Every now and then she mumbles the words to the songs with a tired lisp, and I keep rocking. “My love Dutty B.,” she whispers, yawning. “I do, too.” I smile and look at the guys onstage. Conner, his guitar hanging around his neck and resting against his stomach, has his hand wrapped tightly around the microphone as he sings into it with an exaggerated drawl. Kye, his fingers strumming against his guitar, playing each note to perfection, perched on a stool for the slow song. Aidan, sitting behind the drum kit, his eyes on the drums as his sticks move across them, beating gently, adding a soft upbeat background to the guitars. And Tate, holding his bass guitar, his focus on nothing but the strings beneath his fingers and the beat of the music around him. His biceps are tight with his hold on his guitar, and I trail my eyes up and down his arms. My gaze flicks across the designs tattooed onto his skin; the music notes, the owl that peeks down from beneath his shirt sleeve, the rose, the vines that reach out from it, the guitar. All the tiny images that are unrelated but so well-fitting. “Hey,” Sofie whispers when the song breaks. “Mila’s asleep.” I glance down. Mila’s tiny eyes are closed and she’s snuggled further into me than I remember her being. A smile curls my lips. “How can she sleep with those guys so loud?”

Sofie laughs. “When I figure it out, Ella, I’ll let you know. I’ll take her to her stroller.” “Oh, it’s okay. I can carry her out there.” I adjust her in my arms and shush her when she stirs. She falls straight back to sleep and stays that way as I stand and Sofie walks to the dressing rooms with us. Sofie bends to put the stroller in the lying-down position, and when she turns to grab Mila’s blanket, I ease the little girl out of my arms. She sniffs, hugs Bunna into her, and curls up into a ball on her side. Sofie tucks her in and kisses her forehead, then smiles at Carlos sitting in the corner. He puts his hand up in a wave, which quickly turns to a thumbs-up. “His turn for babysitting duty, huh?” I smile at Sofie. “Gotta make it fair.” She laughs, closing the door lightly. “He’ll call when she wakes up.” “And you hear your phone?” “No. I have it on vibrate in my pocket. Something which has been the butt of many jokes by the guys.” She shakes her head just as my own phone rings. “I can imagine.” I pull my phone out and look at the screen. I don’t know the number, and a frown pulls my brows together. “Hello?” “Ella? Oh, thank goodness! I was so afraid you wouldn’t be able to answer the phone!” “Mom?!” Sofie’s head snaps around to me and she grabs my arm, stopping us both in the middle of the hall. “Can you talk? Is he . . . around?” “Is who around?” “That guy . . . the one in the band. The one who beats you up.” “What?” I shriek. “Honey, you don’t have to be afraid. Matthew told us everything. He said he came to get you but you were too scared to leave, and well, given his broken nose, we can see how violent this man is.” “Wait. Matthew told you Tate beats me?” Sofie’s face contorts into something that resembles a creature from a haunted house. She is not happy. “Yes! Oh, honey. I’ve been so worried. Did he make you run away? Are you okay? Matthew said you were in awful shape when this Tate creature threw him out.” “I’m sorry. I’m stuck on the part where Matthew says Tate beats me.” “Do you need me to call the police? I can have them bring you home, Ella. Your father is ready to make the call right now.” “Tate does not beat me! He has never hit me, ever!” I yell into the phone. “Ella!” “No, Mom. Don’t Ella me. You wanna know who beats me, then you ask your precious Matthew. Yes, Tate broke his nose and threw him out of the room, but that’s because Tate walked in to find me pinned against a wall by Matthew. Something he’s been doing for the last two years, Mom.” “Is he there? Is he making you say that?” “No, he isn’t. I’m telling you the truth, Mom. I swear. That’s why I left . . . I won’t do it anymore.” “Oh, Lord. Richard, call the police!” “Don’t you dare!” I mean to shout, but it comes out as an angry snarl. “I’m safer here than I ever was in New York. I’m not coming home. You’re not calling the police. You’re going to leave me here, because I’m happy!”

“He’s there, isn’t he? Oh, honey, come home and we can rearrange the wedding. It’ll be okay.” Shit. Does no one listen to me in this goddamn family? “There is no wedding. I am not fucking marrying Matthew.” “Ella!” she gasps. “Did you just curse?” “How did you get this number?” “Your fiancé retrieved it from the tablet in the hotel room,” my father says, presumably so my mother can locate smelling salts to wake her up from the shock of her daughter saying “fucking.” “Awesome. And he isn’t my fiancé, for the hundredth time.” I meet Sofie’s eyes. “Look, Dad, I appreciate yours and mom’s concern, but I’m okay here. I’m happy here. So call off your search parties and don’t think about calling the police. I’ve not been kidnapped or something crazy. I’m staying here. I’m not marrying Matthew. End of discussion.” Sofie’s eyes widen. I end the call and stare at the phone. “Well. That was stressful,” Sofie breathes. “Uh-huh.” I’ve never spoken to my parents like that. Ever. Ever. I’ve always been polite and courteous. And I’ve sure as hell never told them what to do or what not to do. I’ve always done what I’m told. The phone rings again. Sofie snatches it and drops it on the floor. Then she slams her foot into the screen. Now my eyes widen. “What the . . . ?” Tate rounds the corner with Conner. I lick my lips and drag my eyes from the phone to him. “I’m gonna need a new phone.”

Tate

Mom’s eyes rove over Ella. From the top of her head, across her beautiful face, down her pretty dress, to her pale pink toenails. She studies her, and Ella fidgets under the scrutiny. “Mom.” “I’m just tryin’ to figure out if I’m dreamin’, son,” Mom replies, looking at me. “You brought a girl home?” “Who did what?” Dad asks, walking into the kitchen. He stops. “Tate? You brought a girl home?” “Well, she’s a girl, and she’s with me at home, so it looks that way, old man.” “Cocky little idiot,” Dad laughs. “Well, move over, Diane. Let me look at her.” “She’s not an art exhibition, guys.” “She’s real pretty, huh?” Mom says to Dad. “Sure is. What are you doin’ with my son, girl?” Dad roars at his own joke. Ella smiles. “I was coerced into it.” “Hey!” She directs her smile to me. “I kinda was.” “You don’t take his shit, do you?” Dad asks her. “He’s got a lot of shit to give.” “No, sir, I don’t, and if he tries, I give it back.” “Ahh, the family interrogation,” Sofie laughs, sitting at the table. “Are you squirmin’ yet, Tate?” “Fuck off,” I mutter. “Dollar!” Mila screams, tugging at my pants. “Dollar pig!” I stare at the ceiling and dig a dollar out of my wallet. “Here, Mimi.” “Tankoo.” She crumples it into her fist and walks away. Mom looks at me with raised eyebrows, and I sigh. “Sofie will explain later. Can we get this fun meeting over with yet?” “We could, if you’d introduce us properly,” Mom replies, turning to pour water into Dad’s mug. “I tried, but y’all decided you’d stare at her instead.” “Well, we’re shocked, hon.” “Tate Burke doesn’t bring girls home. Not even to sleep with,” Sofie inputs helpfully. “Yeah, thanks, Sof,” I grumble. “Mom, Dad, this is Ella Dawson. Ella, this is Mom and Dad.” “Diane and Phil,” Mom corrects. “But you can call us Mom and Dad. Everyone else does.” She shoots a fond look at Sofie, then folds Ella into a warm hug.

Mom kisses the top of Ella’s head, then Dad embraces her tightly. My lips twitch at seeing her so warmly welcomed. God knows my girl needs it—she needs all the love that can be thrown at her. I’m still buzzing with anger from the conversation she had with her parents. Not because they’d assumed I’d hurt her, but because they’re so blinded by that motherfucker that they don’t believe her. Ella glances at me across the old farmhouse-style kitchen, her eyes flicking over the rustic cupboards and large range cooker, and smiles shyly. The curve of my lips matches hers and I hold my arm out to her. She slots against my side perfectly, and I curl my hand around her hip. I kiss the side of her jaw, breathing in her soft scent, and glance at my parents. “We’re goin’ out.” Sofie grins from the table. “Dinner is at six,” Mom informs me. “I’ll set an extra place at the table.” Her wink is overexaggerated, directed at both of us, and I exhale heavily before sweeping Ella past my family and out the front door. I guide her to my truck and unlock it. “This is yours?” I look back at her. “Yeah, we don’t all use yellow cabs to get around at home, darlin’.” “Actually, I used a car service.” Ella clicks her tongue and pokes my arm. “How do I get into it?” I laugh and open the door. She eyes me and the truck speculatively, so I grasp her waist and lift her. She squeals, grabs my shoulders, and lets me guide her onto the seat. “Like that,” I murmur, brushing my lips across hers. “Smartass,” she replies, just as quiet, and swings her legs around. “You ever lived anywhere other than New York? Or Harvard?” She stares at me flatly as I get into the truck. “I’m takin’ that as a no,” I reply. “All right.” I start the truck and pull out of the driveway. “We’re goin’ to the store. And, er, an old . . . fling . . . works there. So you can stay in the truck if you want.” “Why would I?” Ella turns to face me and hugs her knee to her chest. “You told everyone I’m your girlfriend. Don’t I have to kick ex-fling ass?” I glance at her and laugh. Shit. She’s fucking adorable. “Sure you do, darlin’, but she’s a bitch of an exfling.” I explain the story about Nina spilling the beans to the media when Sofie came back this past summer. How her ten seconds of fame made everything ten times harder. “Damn,” Ella whispers. “And she hasn’t exactly left me alone since then. Seems to think that I’ve forgiven her since I’m back home.” “That’s cute. I wondered why your phone was buzzing every ten seconds.” “Askin’ me when I’m comin’ over. You’d think after ten ignored messages she’d get it.” “That it isn’t happening? Yeah.” I pull up in the parking lot and look over at her. “Are you gettin’ sassy, Els?” She cuts her eyes to me and pushes open the door. She stares at the drop for a second before she swings her legs around and jumps out with an “Oof!” I laugh and lock the truck behind me. Ella slides her hand into mine, our fingers entwining. I glance down at them and smirk smugly. Apparently I’m not the only one who gets a little protective.

I grab a cart and shove her in front of me so I can push it. She glares over her shoulder, but the smile curving her lips defies her annoyed stare. I chuckle and give the cart a push into the store. “Wait! I can’t walk with you behind me!” Ella squeals, tripping as the cart catches the back of her feet. “All right!” My chuckle becomes a full laugh and I step to the side, hooking my fingers around the side. “Come on.” “What are we doing?” “Romantic-type shit,” I reply, tugging her down the candy aisle. I throw a large bag of marshmallows into the cart, then spin it around to where the chips are. Ella squeaks, and I love it. It means I’ve surprised her. I’m quickly learning that she has a sound for everything . . . Disgust. Surprise. Happiness. Amusement. Sadness. Anger. Pleasure . . . “Cheesy ones,” she demands. “What?” “Cheesy Doritos,” she explains. “I like the cheesy ones.” I smirk and grab a bag of them as well as the original ones. “What Els wants, Els gets.” “Does that count for orgasms?” I stop and stare at her. “Did you just say that out loud?” She pushes the cart forward, making my hand fall away from the side, and she stops right next to me. She cranes her neck back to look at me, and grinning, she says, “You’re rubbing off on me, Tate Burke.” “Orgasms? Rubbing? In two sentences?” I clasp the back of her neck and bring her toward me. “Grab some Red Bull. I’m keepin’ you up late.” She laughs through our kiss and skips off down the aisle. She throws a smile over her shoulder and turns the corner. I shake my head and jog after her. When I catch up with her and wrap my arms around her waist from behind, she screams, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “Tate!” I laugh and kiss the side of her neck. “Keep walkin’, darlin’. The wine is the last aisle.” I push her forward and only let her go to put a bottle of her favorite Moscato in the cart. She purses her lips, but again, she smiles, ruining the stern effect she’s so obviously going for. Shit, she’s too fucking cute to be stern. Ain’t nobody gonna take her serious when she tries that shit. I put some Budweiser into the cart next to her wine and swing it around to the checkouts. Deliberately, I direct us to Nina’s register, and it takes everything I have not to grin my way through this. “Tate,” she acknowledges, her eyes focused on Ella. “Nina.” I drop the marshmallows on the belt and hug Ella again. Nina’s eyebrows meet her hairline. She widens her eyeliner-rimmed eyes and parts her bright pink lips. “Oh, cute. Wine, chips, and marshmallows. You’re treating her to your late-night beach fuck.” “Except I’ll wake up with him tomorrow morning.” Ella smiles sweetly and covers my hands with hers. Nina stares at her. “Sure you will, doll, until next week.” Ella’s smile widens. “Are you going to scan those chips, or are you going to crinkle them? Because if you’re picking the latter, I’d prefer a new bag.” I bite the inside of my lip to stop my laughter exploding out of me.

Nina scans the chips and dumps them at the end. Ella scoots us forward and puts them and the marshmallows in a bag. “Really, Tate, you could get original with your dates.” “I took her for dinner already. I’m no fuckin’ Romeo,” I retort. “Pretty good Casanova, though,” Ella admits. “At least when you stop talking.” “Hey!” I tickle her sides and she giggles, slapping at my hands. “Lay off,” she manages through her laughter. “Can you pay yet? I’m led to believe I’ll get sex on the beach, dear boyfriend, and I don’t want to be disappointed.” “Boyfriend?” Nina sputters, looking between us. I swipe my card and grin. “Apparently class comes into play.” Ella shrugs, grabs the grocery bags, and puts them in the cart. “It was nice meeting you . . .” She looks pointedly at Nina’s name tag. “Nina.” “Pleasure,” she snarls back. I bury my face in Ella’s hair, fighting my laughter. Shit. She’s got an attitude worse than I thought. Fuck. This chick can shoot any bitch down without even thinking about it. She shrugs me off her, grabs the bags, then looks at the back gate expectantly. I unlock it and lower it, and she deposits the bags in it. I look at her as I relock the back gate, and she tucks her dark hair behind her ear and gazes up at me with those gorgeous dark brown eyes I adore. “What?” she asks softly, her hand lingering at her collarbone, her fingers still twined in her hair. I step toward her and bury my fingers in the other side of her hair. “Fuck, Els. I never thought it would be so hot when a girl got protective over me.” “You think that was protective? Oh, that’s adorable.” She kisses my cheek and escapes my loose hold. “What do you mean?” I trap her against the side of the truck and grab the handle without pulling it. Ella’s lips pull up to one side. “When she said that thing about the wine, chips, and marshmallows on the beach, I wanted to jump over the counter and tear her extensions out,” she admits quietly. “I felt worthless for a split second, until I realized she’s the girl you were talking about. I still felt a little shitty, but I’m right, aren’t I?” “That you’ll be the girl waking up next to me tomorrow?” I say, stepping toward her. “Fuckin’ right, darlin’. Every day from now on. Just you.” She cups my cheek and leans up to kiss me. “You got more-expensive wine for me, though, am I right?” I cover her hand with mine and grin against her mouth. “You got it, baby.”

O pen-mouthed, I stare at Ella as she discards her fourth marshmallow. “I can’t dooooo it!” she whines, throwing the toasting stick on the blanket. “Hang on.” I scoot over until I’m behind her and rest my legs on either side of her body. “Get a marshmallow.” “Can’t I stick to chips and wine?” “No.”

She huffs, but pulls a marshmallow from the bag and puts it on the prongs. I curl my fingers around hers and lean forward, making sure the fluffy candy is right over the fire. “Turn it slowly,” I instruct. “Like this.” I spin the stick so slowly I can barely see it moving. “See?” “Oh!” Ella tilts her head to the side. “We don’t have bonfires in New York. At least, my family doesn’t.” I pull the toasted marshmallow from the fire and put it to her mouth. She takes a bite from the hot, gooey mess, and I say, “Then get used to Southern life, darlin’. We love ’em.” Ella smiles, mouth full of marshmallow. She tilts the stick toward my mouth, and I close my lips around it, pulling the last of the gooeyness onto my tongue. Her smile widens, then she leans forward and seals her mouth over mine. My fingers creep up her arm to the back of her head, entwine in her hair, pull her closer, down on top of me to the sand. She obviously drops the stick, because she frames my face with her hands. She whimpers slightly when the sore part of her lip brushes my lips, but she tilts her head so the connection is avoided. I curve an arm around her back. Holding her body flush against mine. Feeling and enjoying every curve of her body. Committing every inch of her to memory. Like I could fucking forget. Like she’s fucking forgettable. She isn’t. Not for a goddamn second. If something should rip her away from me right now, I know for a fucking fact I’d never forget the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her kiss, or the cascading warmth of her breath against me. I know for a fucking fact I’d never, ever forget Ella Dawson. I also know there isn’t a single fucking person in this world who could ever compare to her. Not for me. No one will ever laugh the way she does. No smile will ever be as bright as hers. No touch will ever ignite my skin in a way that comes close to hers. No one, ever, will put as much light in my days as this girl does. “Hey,” she moans against me. “What’s with all the kissing? Wasn’t sex mentioned earlier?” I flip her over on the blanket. She grips my hips with her legs, her fingers diving into my hair, her body pushing even harder into me. “Sex was mentioned. Not by me,” I say into her neck. “But I’m happy to oblige.” “And if someone sees . . .” “We own this beach and everyone is on orders to fuck off.” I smile against her collarbone. “So this promise I can keep.” She tightens her grip on my shoulders. “Thank God.”

“T ate?” “Uhh?” I rub my eyes from the dim light coming through my bedroom door and lean up on my elbow. “Huh?”

“Tate,” Dad says firmly. “You gotta get up, son.” “What time is it?” I ask groggily, quiet enough that I don’t wake Ella. Dad’s lips thin, and I see his fingers tighten on the door. “You gotta come downstairs. Now.” “All right. Shhh.” I gently move Ella’s arm and get up and shove yesterday’s pants on. Dad tosses me a shirt and I throw it over my head. “What’s goin’ on?” “Come downstairs,” he repeats. I rub my fingers through my hair and glance back at Ella before shutting my bedroom door. “Dad?” “Shit. Son.” He pauses halfway down but gives me nothing. “Dad! What the fuck is goin’ on?” “Tate?” Sheriff Alan Hooper appears at the bottom of the stairs. I look between him and Dad. “Sheriff? What are you doin’ here?” He removes his hat and runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Tate, son. I ain’t gonna arrest you, because you’re my best friend’s son, but I gotta take you in for questionin’.” “What the fuck for?” “New Orleans PD had a report filed against you. Passed to us when they realized you were home. Grievous bodily harm. You resist and I gotta arrest you, son. Come with me and it’s easy.” Every muscle in my body tenses. “Who reported it?” The sheriff shakes his head. “Alan,” Dad slaps his shoulder. “Tell him and he’ll cooperate, ain’t that right, son?” “Sure, Dad.” I look from my old man to another. “Sheriff? Who was it?” Sheriff Hooper looks me in the eye. “Matthew Hamilton.”

Ella

The bed is cold when I roll over. And empty. So empty, so cold. My hand pats the mattress for a ridiculous amount of time looking for Tate. It takes a minute, but I finally wake up enough to realize he just isn’t in bed with me. I sit up and rub my eyes. Yawning, I roll out of bed, grab my bag, and remove every inch of yesterday’s makeup from my face. I snag some underwear, denim shorts, and a tank top from my bag, too, and get dressed. The house seems quiet until I open the bedroom door. A low murmur of voices travels up the stairs, and I peek into Conner’s open door to see if Sofie is inside. When I see she isn’t, I make my way down the curving stairs slowly. “I can’t fuckin’ believe it,” Aidan growls. “Dollar!” Mila shouts. “Mila, why don’t you go play in the playhouse, baby?” Sofie asks. “Ask Pops for a cookie.” “Pops! Cookie!” “Cookies and house? Okay, Mila,” Diane says. “Pops is still out. Nana give you cookies.” A few moments of silence pass, and I pause on the stairs. “Fuck!” Conner shouts, and something slams loudly. “I’m so fuckin’ mad!” “Honey,” Sofie says quieter. “No!” Conner’s voice is just as loud. “He’s down there with only Dad. Why the fuck weren’t we woken up?” “We’re in this shit together,” Kye growls. “All fuckin’ four of us. Six of us. What the fuck ever. All of us. To-fuckin’-gether. We should all be there with him!” “Shhh! You’re gonna wake Ella.” “I’m already up.” I round the corner and cast my gaze over all of them. “What are you talking about? Where’s Tate?” All four of them take a deep breath at the same time. “Tell me!” My eyes flick desperately across them. Where? Where is he? “Doll,” Sofie breathes. “I don’t . . . Shit.” Kye walks to me and hugs me, but I shove him off. He isn’t Tate. “Where is Tate?” All of them look at me. Just look at me. Sympathy. Pity. Everything I never want to see when someone looks at me. I don’t want that shit, I want the damn truth. “Where is he?” I shout. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it. My chest is tight, and my stomach is coiled with worry.

Conner moves and Sofie puts a hand on his arm. Seeing him still, Kye stands. His hands grip the edge of the large farmhouse-style table, but his light blue eyes pin themselves to mine. “He’s at the police station.” “Wh-what?” I breathe, stepping back. My arms curl around my front, like my own hold is as comforting as Tate’s is. “The sheriff stopped by early this morning and took him in to question him,” Kye explains. “Your ex went to the police in NOLA and told them Tate attacked him. And you.” I cover my mouth. “No,” I whisper. “Never. He never would.” I’m shaking. But this time it’s from a fear of a different kind. The fear that the next time I see Tate, I might not be able to touch him, or kiss him, or feel him. That fear floods my veins, warming each one. Determination does, too. A determination like nothing I’ve ever felt. Something that trembles as it sweeps through my bloodstream. It’s a determination that enlightens me, invigorates me. “Take me,” I demand, staring at him. “Take me now.” “Ella . . .” Aidan interrupts, moving to stand. “Kye, take me there, now, please.” A long moment passes with his eyes on mine before he finally pushes away. “All right. But only ’cause you look like you’re ten seconds from fuckin’ cryin’ at me, and I’m shit with tears.” “Thank you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I can change this.” “Ella.” Sofie stands up. “You go and I go, too.” I shake my head. “I’m okay. I have to do this.” “And I have to hold your hand.” With her hands on his shoulders, she kisses Conner. “You got Mila, okay?” Conner’s eyes flick between us. “Okay, princess, I got it.” Sofie clasps my hand and pulls me after Kye. He opens the front door and clicks a button on his key fob. Lights flash on a truck that looks like Tate’s but is black, and he pulls the back door open. Sofie gives my back a shove and I climb in before her. “You don’t have to do this,” I tell her quietly. She squeezes my fingers. “Sure I do, Ella.” I bite the inside of my cheek and stare out the window as Kye pulls away from the house. So many things are swirling inside me right now. Fear, apprehension, paranoia . . . And I’m still scared. I’m more than scared. The thought that I’m about to come clean to someone in authority . . . It petrifies me. But I’ll do it. However long I have to sit there, I’ll do it. For Tate. For me. For us. The building is there. Suddenly. Quickly. Shockingly. Like . . . right there. My goodness, this town is small.

I breathe in sharply, and Sofie’s hand tightens around mine. “Ella . . .” “I have to,” I whisper, fear lacing my words and my breaths and my pulse. “With you every step of the way,” Sofie whispers back, squeezing my fingers. I unbuckle my seat belt and drop from the truck. Kye meets me there, and Sofie, too, as she slides out and takes my hand. She slips her fingers through mine, and Kye’s hand on my shoulders guides me toward the door. It’s almost as if they both know I’m scared. That I need them. I wish Tate were here to hold me. To make it better. To ease the pain. “Hello, miss. Can I help you?” I squeeze Sofie’s hand. Hard. “Ella,” Kye says softly. “Yes, sir,” I say quietly, forcing my eyes to his. “Can you tell me if the sheriff is available?” “He’s busy right now, ma’am. Can someone else help you?” “No. It must be the sheriff.” “Let me see if he can talk to you.” I let go of Sofie’s hand. “No, sir, you don’t understand.” I take a deep breath. “I must talk to the sheriff immediately. It’s imperative that I do.” The officer looks at me for a long minute. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.” I relax when he disappears. Kye slides his hand into mine. “Ella. Are you sure—” “Positive,” I whisper. “I won’t let him hurt Tate like this.” Sofie wraps her arms around my shoulders. I hold her waist. “I love him, Sof,” I breathe. “I can’t let him do this. I have to protect him, even if it hurts. You understand that, don’t you?” She smiles sadly and breathes heavily into my hair. “Yeah, doll, I understand. You get my boy out of here, okay?” “I promise.” I squeeze her. “Miss?” I turn and look at a guy with salt-and-pepper hair. “Yes, sir?” “I’m Sheriff Hooper. Hear you got somethin’ pretty important to say.” “Do you have an interview room ready?” “Peters,” he orders, nodding to the guy behind reception. A second later he says, “In thirty seconds there will be.” “Great. I’d like to report several cases of domestic abuse.”

S haking. That’s what I’m doing now. Shaking. Trembling. Quivering. No other words for it. I’ve just relived the last two years of my life in

excruciating detail. I burn from each word I just spoke. Hell, every part of me is aching, even the parts that are hopeful. I’m just hoping that a few hours of an interview and an hour of scanning pictures of previous injuries from my online drive is enough. Thank God I kept them all. I sit on the steps in front of the station and stare at the open driveway. Hopefully Sofie got my text and knows to pick me up. When it was obvious the interview was going to last longer than two hours, I told her to go home with Kye and tell everyone what was happening. Besides, she has a little girl who picks up on things she can’t understand, and Mila needs her mama more than I do. A silver Ford pulls into the lot and parks. I watch as a dark-haired girl with legs up to her armpits climbs out and heads toward me. Leila. “Shit,” she says simply. “Is it me or is your ex a serious fuckin’ asswipe?” “It isn’t you.” “Thank fuck.” Leila sits next to me. “Tate’s never been arrested before.” “I finally gave him a first.” “Whoa.” Leila leans back. “Finally? He called me two hours ago flippin’ his fuckin’ head because what the hell was his girl doin’ in the station?” She raises her eyebrows. “So before he gets out and busts my ass, how about you get in my car? I love him, but he’s scary as fuck when he’s angry.” “True story,” I admit, although he isn’t ever scary to me. Tate’s about as scary as a butterfly. “Get in.” Leila orders, pulling the passenger door open before her side. I slide into the plush leather seat, but my eyes are still on the door. “He’ll be there for a while,” Leila explains, pulling the car back. “Sheriff Hooper won’t charge him unless he’s one-hundred-percent sure, and I’m guessin’ you were there for a reason. Reason bein’ he can’t charge him.” I pull some fluff off my shorts. “I was there to bring him home.” “Good,” she replies. “He sure as fuck needs someone like you.” “You barely know me.” “I know how you look at him. That’s enough.” I swallow and look down. I know how I look at him, too. I look at him like he’s the north to my south, the east to my west. I look at him like he’s the song to my silence. I look at him like he’s the constellation to my night sky. He is. He’s all those things and more. I hug myself as Leila parks in front of the house. Getting out, I breathe deeply to regulate my pulse. The memories flooding my veins right now are scary. They’re scarier than I remember them being, but they’d be okay if only I had Tate here with me to cope. When we reach the Burke household, I follow Leila in, my arms still around my waist. She guides me to the sofa and pushes me down next to Sofie. “Sit,” Leila orders.

“Did you see Dad?” Aidan asks, looking up from the laptop on his thighs. Leila shakes her head. “Nope.” I hug myself tighter. Crap. Even as Mila clambers onto me and hugs me tightly with her tiny arms around me. “Where Tay?” she whispers into my ear. “He’s being important,” I tell her, quietly, and wrap my arms around her. “Oh.” She tilts her head. “Cussels, El?” “Cussels?” “She wants you to build sandcastles,” Sofie explains with a smile. “That’s usually Tate’s job.” “Oh. Sure.” I stand up, lifting Mila onto my hip. “You got a bucket?” “Uh-huh! Kicken!” She points toward the kitchen and where a bright pink bucket and spade are on the counter. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“O neeeee,” Mila coos. “Peez.” “One more,” Aidan sighs, grabbing the spade. Apparently toddlers can build sandcastles for three hours straight, and when forced to stop for menial tasks such as a diaper change or dinner, scream so hard it’s better for everyone’s sanity to leave her be. Who knew? “Last one, though,” Ads warns her. “You got it?” “Mhmm,” Mila responds with a smile that says she gets it but she doesn’t care. “Mila,” Sofie says with a threat in her voice. “It’s getting dark. One more castle, then we’re going home to bed.” “Mama,” Mila whines. Her bottom lip wobbles, but Sofie puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “No, baby. Mama isn’t giving in. One castle, then home, then bed.” She turns, then pauses. “And Ads? That doesn’t mean you sneak her two.” “Believe me, Sof, I’ve made enough castles to last me ten lifetimes. And that’s just in the last hour.” I smile and watch as he fills the bucket with sand. Mila takes the spade and whacks the top of it down, then throws it to the side and points at the bucket. Aidan grabs it, tips it, and places it upside down. Mila gets the spade again, bangs it against the top of the bucket, and points again. Aidan dutifully lifts the bucket to reveal a near-perfect castle. “Not bad, but it ain’t mine.” I snap my head around. Tate. He’s standing a few feet from me, looking like he just got out of bed, although it’s been at least ten hours since I did. Here he is, messy hair, scruffy jaw, fitted shirt, muscled biceps, toned body. I scramble up from the sand and run at him. He opens his arms, and I jump into them. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. His hand cups my ass and the other slides around my back

to my waist, holding me flush to him. “Baby,” I whisper into his neck. “Darlin’,” he whispers back, gripping me tightly. “Tay!” Mila screams. He puts me down and crouches, ready to absorb the force of her crashing into him as she runs across the sand. He wraps his arms around the tiny girl. “Tay! Where you?” “I been busy, Mimi. You miss me?” “Cussels!” “Uncle Ads is crap, huh?” “Uh-huh,” Mila agrees, nodding. “Tay cussels.” “One,” Tate agrees. “Mama gave me permission.” “Oooookay.” Mila grabs his finger and pulls him to her bucket. “Uncle Ads is escapin’,” Aidan mutters, getting up. I hover back and watch them go through the routine I’ve seen hundreds of times today. Except Tate’s smile is a little wider and brighter than his brothers’ were. He’s way more into it, and seeing the gleaming grin on Mila’s face warms my heart. “Mila! We gotta go!” Conner calls from the back door. Mila pouts, but Tate scoops her up and plants a huge kiss on her cheek. “Go on, Mimi. I’ll come get you tomorrow, and we’ll stay on the beach all day, okay?” “Oh! Okay. Anight, Tay. Anight, El!” She grins and runs across the yard. I smile after her. Feeling Tate’s eyes on me, I tilt my face toward him. “Hey.” His lips twitch. Several heartbeats pound in my chest, then his hands are framing my face and his mouth is pressed against mine. I crinkle his shirt in my fingers at his sides and lean into him. “You got me out of there,” he murmurs into my hair. “I did,” I whisper, burying my face in his chest. He wraps his arms around my shoulders. “Shit, Els. You didn’t have to go down there and do that. You really tell ’em everythin’?” “Everything,” I confirm with a shake in my voice. I circle his waist with my arms and tilt my head back to look at him. “He messed with me for so long. He’s not doing it to you.” Tate kisses the tip of my nose. “You don’t have to protect me, darlin’.” “I do if I can.” He presses his face into my neck and squeezes me tightly. “You’ve gotta go back, don’t you?” “I don’t have to.” I swallow. “But I should. For a bit.” “When?” “I don’t know. Tomorrow maybe.” “Stay this weekend,” he asks quietly. He brushes his fingers through my hair. “Please.” “It’ll make it harder,” I whisper, feeling a sting at the back of my eyes. “I don’t know when I can come back or where you guys will be.”

“We’re in New York in two weeks. If you ain’t back with us by then I’m draggin’ your fuckin’ ass with us.” I laugh, but I half-choke on it. “I’m counting on it, Tate.” I slide my hand up his chest and cup his cheek. “I have to sort this out. It’s in the NYPD’s hands now. It’s easier if I’m there.” “I know.” He looks at me with a sadness I’ve never seen in his eyes before. “I know.”

Tate

I wish she’d let me go with her. She shouldn’t be going back to New York alone, especially not when I know that motherfucker is there. She shouldn’t be fucking leaving me here while she goes to deal with this shit herself. That ain’t how it works. It was painfully damn obvious when her mom called that she doesn’t give a shit about Ella—she’s too caught up in believing that Matthew is some perfect husband-to-be when in reality he ain’t worth the bird shit on the roof of my dad’s car. And now my girl’s gotta go up there, listen to that crap, and try to walk away without being hit once again. Letting her do it alone is going against every goddamn instinct I possess. She should be here with me, safe, or I should be there with her, making sure she’s safe. But, damn. The fact she’s making me let her go is amazing and shows me who Ella Dawson really is. Once upon a time, she could barely say boo to a goose without barricading herself into a barbed-wire cage for fear of being hurt. Now, though, she’s determined to do this, and she’s determined to do it alone. And I don’t even have the words for how much I respect her strength. Then, when she gets it, her once upon a time will be done, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to give my sweet girl her happily ever after. I stare at her from beneath the covers as she runs a brush through her long, dark hair. She sweeps the wet locks to the side, exposing her neck, and I climb out of bed quietly. My hands clasp her tiny waist perfectly, and I lower my mouth to her neck. She pauses at the touch, then she drops the brush and turns her face into me. “I thought you were asleep,” she says softly. “You were out of bed. Of course I’m awake.” I trail my lips down to her shoulder. “You tryna get away without me knowin’?” She looks up and meets my eyes in the mirror. Her light is dulled by the sadness I see there. “Els.” I turn her in my arms and clasp my hands at her lower back. She rests her hands on my chest and flexes her fingers. “Don’t run from me, darlin’. I don’t want you to go, but I won’t make you stay if this is what you gotta do.” “Really?” “Don’t you know a thing about me?” “I thought I did, but you keep surprising me.” She smiles. I return the gesture. “Sure you don’t want me to come?”

“Tate . . .” she sighs. “You have stuff to do with the band. Practices, concerts . . . Plus now you have to deal with the media, since they found out you were taken in for questioning yesterday.” I grunt. Fucking nosy pricks. “I don’t care, darlin’. I’ll come with you if you want me to. We can reschedule a show.” “You aren’t rescheduling because of me.” She looks horrified. “No. No, I’m okay. Really.” “I don’t believe you.” “I never said you had to. Just . . . pretend.” “I’m shit at pretendin’,” I mutter, lowering my face to hers. Her lips part, her breath tickling my mouth, and I spin her around and push her backward. We fall onto my bed and I silence her shocked squeak with a kiss. I kiss her long and hard, until her body relaxes and she winds her fingers into my hair. Until my dick is throbbing and hard, desperate for her. “Tate,” she says breathlessly. My lips trail along her jaw and down her neck. I pepper kisses along her collarbone and down her chest to where her towel is tied between her tits. “Tate,” she repeats. “What are you doing?” I free the towel and push it to the sides. I cup her breasts and take one of her nipples in my mouth, lavishing attention onto it with my tongue. She gasps and arches her back, her grip on my hair tightening. I turn my attention to the other, giving her other nipple the same treatment, and then kiss my way down her stomach. “Tate . . .” This time she gasps it, bending her leg up. “You gotta go, then you gotta go.” I kiss from hip to hip and flick my tongue across her skin. “But I’m gonna give my girl a proper fuckin’ good-bye.” I hook her legs over my shoulders, lower my mouth, and set right to it.

S he passes her purse through security and walks through the body scanner. She pauses on the other side and waves to me, sadness glaring from her chocolate-brown eyes. I lift my hand in good-bye and watch until she disappears into the terminal completely. My hand, still raised, drops to the top of my head, and my fingers rake through my hair. Fuck me. Every part of this feels so fucking wrong, but there’s nothing I can do. She’s gotta do this. I know that. I pull out my phone and bring up the last text from her. I hit reply. Come back to me. I stare at the screen until the box pops up with her response. You’re under my skin, Mr. Burke. Only you. XO My lips form a pained smile and I nod slowly, pocketing my phone. Fuck.

I’m totally in love with that girl.

“I can’t believe you wrote a song.” Conner stares at the lyrics again, then back up at me. “And it ain’t half bad, man.” “Really? Feels like a bunch of shit to me.” “Tate wrote a song?” Ads snatches the sheet of paper and reads it. Kye looks over his shoulder and skirts his eyes across the lines. “Fuck me,” they say. Conner takes the page back. “I’m guessin’ it doesn’t have music.” “Nothin’. Just . . . that.” “Wait here.” He gets up and goes back into the house, still holding the sheet of paper. I frown after him, but I shake my head and turn back to the twins. “Quiet without her,” Kye states. Fucking obviously. “No shit.” I rest my elbows on my knees and lean forward. “Look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Ads says, unhelpfully. “Fuck you.” “I miss her,” Kye continues. “She’s like a little ray of fuckin’ sunshine despite all the shit, ain’t she? Now it’s dull as hell.” “Right,” Aidan agrees. “It’s like when Sofie went away all over again, except it’s more shockin’ because the mopey bastard is Tate. Tate.” “Wanna keep chattin’ or are y’all done yet? Because funnily enough, I know all this crap,” I snap. “One day, some chick is gonna come along and grab y’all by the balls with a vice-like grip and I’m gonna laugh my fuckin’ ass off.” Aidan sniggers. “No chance.” “It happened to me. Gonna happen to you.” “Shit, can’t a guy make three photocopies of a single page without a bitchfest startin’?” Conner teases, handing me the original sheet of lyrics, then Kye and Aidan one each before sitting with a fourth sheet. Aidan looks down. “What music you thinkin’?” “More country than rock,” I answer. “Not necessarily a pop tune, but not a ballad either.” “Right. Classic Tate song.” He gets up and moves to the drum kit. Setting the sheet on his knees, he grabs his drumsticks and drums a slow, steady beat. We sit in silence as his lips move. “Kye. Guitar.” Kye grabs his guitar without a word and swings a stool over to the drum kit. He puts his lyrics on the floor in front of him and looks at Aidan. Kye’s head bobs a few times, then his fingers move, and he hums the tips over the tight strings. A few more notes and Aidan beats the drums a little harder. Me and Conner sit back and watch them. The magic they create from fucking nothing is scary as shit. It’s always been that way. Conner writes, they create, I go along with. But this time, it’s my damn words they’re bringing to life.

Kye and Aidan sync in a terrifying way, but when it creates music like this, it’s more amazing than terrifying. Scratch that, it’s both. Terrifyingly fucking amazing. “Like that?” Aidan asks, resting his sticks down. “Exactly like that,” I confirm. “Fuck yeah!” Conner inputs, grabbing a guitar. “Let’s do this.” I grab my bass guitar and pull up a stool. Conner falls into the melody seamlessly, and I close my eyes, humming the words to the beat, my lips forming a smile as it fits perfectly. Sure, there’re probably some notes out of place here and there, and some chord changes are needed, but the beat, the pace . . . it’s fucking perfect. It’s Ella. All over. You’re not broken, baby, you ain’t shattered, Maybe a little cracked, but darlin’, I can fix you if you let me. Let me soothe the sting, let me kiss your scars, Let me wipe your tears and dry your cheeks, I’ll hold you tight and love you deep. As soon as we finish the song, we launch back into it, both me and Conner singing. We stop whenever something needs changing or tweaking. Over and over, we sing, play, adjust, redo. We switch a few odd words out in the lyrics so it fits better musically, but the feel stays the same. Over and over. We don’t leave the garage for six hours.

Ella

I stare at my childhood home like it’s a foreign country. I have no idea what I’m going to find behind the front door. I have no idea if I’ll be welcome or not. Matthew has always been a hero in my parents’ eyes. Hell, it was bad enough when they called and refused to believe anything I said. Now I know it’s because Matthew went to them before the police. He could speak to them, charm them, and convince them that his words were the undisputable truth. He would have played up the poorme card, just like he used to whenever he made an excuse up for hitting me. “But, babe, I’ve had a stressful day and I was expecting dinner when I walked in . . . You’re a woman. You should be able to boil potatoes right. It makes me angry when you make careless mistakes, you know that . . . You know we have company tonight. If you’d just cleaned the house, then I wouldn’t have gotten so mad . . .” I can’t even begin to imagine what he said to my parents. I swallow hard, still staring at the door, and turn back to the cab that just drove me here. I open the door and give him the address of my mostly unused apartment. I’m not quite ready for this. I close my eyes as he makes the drive through New York City. The glaring of angry drivers and loud, beeping horns break through my attempt at finding serenity. It’s a wasted attempt, though, since I know that as long as I’m in the city, I won’t find serenity or peace. I left that when I left the Burke family. I left laughter and happiness and playfulness. I left everything I’ve wanted for years to come back to the place I’ve been dying to leave. Driving away from here was the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done. I hope that I’ll be able to get on a plane in a few days and feel the same feeling. If I’m lucky. I throw the driver enough to cover his fare and a tip, then grab my purse and get out. The sidewalks are busier than I’m used to, especially after spending two days in a sleepy seaside town and a couple weeks before that on a damn live-in bus. “Miss Dawson,” the doorman, Ian, says with surprise. “You’re back.” “Yes, I am.” I walk past him and toward the elevator. “Miss,” he interrupts me and stands in front of me. “Are you aware your tenancy ends tomorrow?” “I’m sorry?” I blink at him. “It doesn’t.”

“It does. Your parents informed us a few days ago that if you failed to return by the end of the week that we were to clean out your apartment and have your belongings shipped to them.” What the fuck? “Well, thank you for informing me of what they couldn’t,” I say with an edge to my voice. “I’ll make sure to collect any items I’d like to keep and get out of your way. I’d appreciate if you could call for a car service to collect me in approximately thirty minutes.” “For your parents’ address, ma’am?” “A hotel downtown. A reservation would also be appreciated.” “Ah, your father requested you be directed to their residence were you to arrive here.” “But until tomorrow morning, I’m still a tenant, so my father can take his instructions and insert them into his behind with as much vigor as he’d like.” I sweep past him and jab at the elevator button. I step into it and press the button for my floor. Anger swirls in me as I travel up and dig for my key. I shove it into the slot and slam the door behind me. The apartment is blessedly silent. I wouldn’t put it past Matthew to be here waiting for me to return . . . or just in case I did. He had to know I would. I stop in the middle of the living room and look around. To think I only lived here for a few months before Matthew insisted I stay at his house with him every night. To think my home was never really my home. It was my escape from his violence, sure, but never really a home. I don’t even feel particularly upset that it’s not mine anymore. Just plain old rage at my parents and their actions. I already know my visit to them tomorrow will be pointless. They’ll only confirm with words what their actions have already told me. But I’m still going, because I’m a glutton for punishment. If I weren’t, I’d still be in Shelton Bay with Tate. I hold my purse to my stomach and close my eyes. Tate. My cocky, lovable pain in the ass. My protector. My surprise, because he really is someone other than I expected him to be. The guy who took blows to keep me safe. The guy who almost got arrested for his part in it. His text before I boarded the plane flashes into my mind. Come back to me. Like there was ever any other option. Like I could stay away from him. Like I could live without his smirk, or the sexy glint in his eyes, or the sizzling, seductive way he trails his hands across my body. He promised me he’d get so under my skin I’d forget Matthew’s touch. He has. In a crazy way, I can remember the punches, the slaps, the beatings, but I can’t remember how they feel. Every time I try to, my skin tingles with the memory of Tate instead. It’s almost as if my brain has kicked into a new coping mechanism to protect me, and Tate is it. I’ll take it. All day, every day, I will take it. I walk through into my bedroom and look around. I can’t see a single thing I want to take with me. Not the comforter, not the picture on the nightstand, and I sure as hell don’t want the hideous lamp my mother made me buy when I moved in. And in the bathroom—I don’t want the perfume on the windowsill, nor do I want the mirror on the wall. The phone rings, and I pick it up. “Hello?” “Miss Dawson? Your car is waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Ian.” I put the phone down, ignore the blinking icon for the messages, and leave the apartment key on the table by the door. I glance around, leaving the place exactly as it was when I walked in. Then I walk into the elevator, travel downstairs, get my reservation details from Ian, and get into the waiting Mercedes. And I drive away from yet another piece of my past.

N ew York is freaking cold. Yes, eighty degrees at noon isn’t cold by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve been spoiled by the nudging-one-hundred-degrees Southern temperatures for the last several weeks. I pull a light sweater on over my tank top and slip my purse over my shoulder before getting into the elevator. The concierge smiles and tips his cap to me when I step from it into the lobby moments later, and I shoot him a polite smile. The doorman opens the door for me with a “ma’am,” and another opens the door of the waiting cab. I get in, holding a deep breath in until it burns my lungs. Exhaling slowly, I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. For the second time since I arrived in New York not even twenty-four hours ago, I’m en route to my parents’ house. This time, though, I have to go inside. And I’m terrified. The ink etched into my skin reminds me to fear nothing, but if only the ink went deeper. If tattoos went soul-deep, some of us would be a lot more scarred, but others would be a lot stronger. I would be a lot stronger, for sure. The cab stops, and I hand the driver the fare. “Thank you.” I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car. The driver smiles at me, but the daunting view of my parents’ house eclipses it, and I can barely raise a twitch of my lips in response. I walk up the long pathway to the front door. My hand hovers over the bell, and with another deep breath, I press it. The door opens slowly, and Cathy, the maid, stares at me. “Miss Ella!” “Hi, Cathy.” I offer her a weak smile. “Are my parents at home?” “They are. They’re in the sitting room. I’ll take you there.” She waves me in and shuts the door behind me. She adjusts the neckline of her dress and takes me through to the back of the house. I swallow when she knocks lightly twice. “Excuse me, sir?” “What is it, Cathy?” My father’s voice asks sharply. I step around her and push the door open wide. “Hey, Dad.” “Ella.” Mom stands slowly, and she takes her sweet-ass time turning around. When she does, she pins me with eyes as dark as mine, but hers are bitter and angry. “You decided to come in today.” Of course. She doesn’t miss a thing. Except the truth.

“Yeah, yesterday I clearly decided I wasn’t equipped to deal with your skewed vision of my ex-fiancé. I’m not particularly ready today, but given I no longer have anywhere to live in New York, I figured I should probably suck it up.” “Ella Dawson, you do not speak to your mother with that tone.” My father steps forward and wraps an arm around Mom’s shoulders. “Last time we spoke, neither of you were particularly respectful of me, so I assumed that was the tone of the conversation.” “Clearly living with trash for so long has injured your manners.” “Or it’s opened my eyes,” I reply, putting my purse on the table. “And, hey, if something has to be injured, I’d rather it be my manners than my body.” Mom jolts. “Ella.” “Oh, was that rude?” I tilt my head to the side. “Sorry, Mom, but so is kicking me out of my apartment and leaving the doorman to give me notice.” “We decided it was for the best.” “Sure you did. Like it’s painfully clear you’ll believe anything Matthew says over what your own daughter says.” “You haven’t told us anything.” She clasps her hands in front of her and steps forward, away from my dad’s hold. “No, I have, Mom. I told you on the phone when I was in New Orleans. Tate didn’t hurt me. This black eye you can still see through my makeup? It wasn’t Tate Burke. Neither was this mark here on my lip.” I tap my bottom lip. “Ella, you should consider what you’re saying very carefully,” Dad says, stepping up. “If the Hamiltons get word of this, things could become incredibly difficult.” I stare at him. His graying hair, the lines around his eyes, his aging yet still intimidating figure, and my jaw drops. “Are you serious, Dad? Are you honestly telling me I should not be honest about the shit I suffered just to make sure I don’t upset the Hamiltons?” “Ella!” Mom gasps. “Oh, I said ‘shit.’ So what?” “That’s it,” Dad says, stepping toward the telephone. “Being around these . . . Dirty B. . . . boys is doing nothing for you.” Or it’s doing everything for me. “What are you doing?” “I’m calling the police, and this time you’re going to tell them the truth.” “I already did!” The words explode from me, and I run to where Dad is standing and snatch the phone. I slam it on the holder. “Mom, you remember your anniversary party six months ago when I was limping and I told you I slipped after mopping the kitchen floor and sprained my toe on the dining table?” She nods. “No. Matthew pushed me. And the time I sprained my wrist while falling on a run? He shoved me into the wall, and my wrist bent the wrong way when I tried to steady myself. That time I had a migraine and couldn’t do family dinner on Easter? He beat me so badly I could barely walk.” “Ella, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Mom argues, her face white. “Did you tell the police this fairy story?”

I step back, staring between my parents. “Wow. You really don’t believe me. You’d rather stay friends with his family than believe your own daughter.” “This Tate character has some kind of hold on you, honey, and it has to stop,” Dad implores, his hands out in front of him. “We can help you. You’re here now.” I flatten my hands against the sides of my head and shake it. “The only hold Tate Burke has on me is my heart. For the first time in two years, my life is my own, Dad. My mind is. I can wear what I want and do what I want and say what I want. If you can’t step back and believe me, then I’m done.” “Done?” Mom shrills. “Richard, what does she mean? Ella, what do you mean? Done? What is done? Richard!” She fans herself and steps back. Oh, Queen of Drama, here we go. “I mean I’m leaving, Mom,” I explain with a sigh. “Leaving New York. Going back to be with the Burkes.” “Ella!” she cries, stepping forward. “You can’t! Richard, stop her—” “Do you believe me?” I ask, staring at her, her features so similar to mine. “That Matthew hit you?” Dad clarifies. “Yes. For two years. Hit, pushed, shoved, bruised, insulted, belittled, isolated, and manipulated. Take your pick.” Mom inhales sharply. Dad steps to her side and curls an arm around her waist. I’ve seen this so many times before. It’s the thing they used to do when they were telling me what was best for me. Like going on a date with Matthew. Becoming exclusive with Matthew. Accepting Matthew’s proposal—which I knew about before he asked, because he asked Dad’s permission, and Dad wanted to ensure I would accept. Basically, it’s the thing they do when they’re telling me what they think is best for me, but it’s actually the worst. So I know exactly what Dad’s going to say before he says it. “I believe Tate Burke has brainwashed you, Ella.” I breathe in slowly and close my eyes. I will not lose my temper. I will not give Matthew the satisfaction of finding out over dinner tonight that I flipped. I will not give my parents what they will see as confirmation of their beliefs. I will take my purse from the coffee table, put it over my shoulder, and leave quietly. “Now let’s sit down and discuss this like adults.” I shake my head. “Ella, if you leave now and pursue this,” my father warns, “you’re on your own.” I meet his eyes. “Kindly inform Matthew he’ll likely be questioned by the NYPD in the next forty-eight hours.” Or I’ll throw that parting shot and disappear. That’s good, too.

A

lone in my hotel room, I pour some more wine into my glass and stare at the TV. At least I’m watching Friends and not some mind-numbing reality crap. But I’m lonely. Really, really lonely. I wish more than anything that someone was sitting next to me. That that someone was Sofie. That we were laughing at Joey, drinking wine, eating nachos. Instead I’m doing all these things. But I’m alone. And it sucks. Big time. I’m in a hotel in the middle of the city I called home for twenty-two years, and I have no one here. By now, it will be common knowledge within my parents’ circle that I’m fighting Matthew on this abuse thing. That I’m going against him. Yet my so-called friends haven’t once tried to contact me. I changed my number, sure, but my Facebook didn’t change, neither did my Twitter, and neither did my email. I haven’t had a single message, which further proves to me that the people I’ve spent the last few years with are 100 percent superficial. I put a chili-and-guacamole-loaded nacho into my mouth and grab my phone from the nightstand. Where are you? I text Sofie. On the road to Philadelphia. How are you? Desperate to know when you’ll get there so I can get on a plane as soon as I’ve spoken to the police. Crap. Went that well, huh? Like a bull in a china shop. Damn. You talked to Tate today? No. I pour another glass of wine. I don’t want to. I miss him enough without talking to him. According to Kye and Ads he’s like a flea on caffeine. And a teenage girl with PMS. Basically a living nightmare. I chew the inside of my cheek. Should I call him? Um, yes. I stare at her reply and shove a nacho in my mouth. I think I’ve put on, like, five pounds in the last few weeks from my addiction to these things, despite my running, and I don’t even care. But eating nachos makes me think about Tate. Hell, I even want him to be here, stealing my damn chips. I want him to eat so many that I have to order a second plate because there isn’t enough left. I want him to eat all the guacamole so I’m mad and have to ask for an extra portion when I call room service and ask for the second plate. I want him to scoop up all the sour cream and put it on “my” side of the plate then force-feed me the sour cream–covered chip. I want him. Just him. I never knew what it is to miss someone until this second. I never had any idea what it’s like to feel like a part of you was missing, lost in the abyss of reality. I never knew what it is to wish you were anywhere other than the place you are right this second.

Sure. Every time Matthew hit me I wished I was elsewhere, but it was always a random thought. I could have wished for London, Sydney, Tokyo, and none of them would have been half as strong as the way I feel right now, for a specific place, for a specific person. For the tour bus. For Tate. For my guys. For my guy. My thumb hovers over his number for a second before it drops to the screen and presses the green call button. I lift the phone to my ear, and I hold my breath for every ring. “Els,” he answers. “Darlin’.” “Hey,” I breathe in reply. “How you doing, Mr. Burke?” “Fuck off,” he responds, laughing. “How are you doin’?” “Ten times better than I was five seconds ago.” “Shit, Els. I miss you so fuckin’ much.” “I miss you,” I reply softly. “How long ’til you’re in Philly?” “A day, maybe. Shit. I don’t know, darlin’. Wish I did.” He sighs through the phone. “How’d it go with your parents?” I tell him everything, from my conversation with Ian to me arriving in the hotel room yesterday. I keep most of the feelings inside, though, because that’s what I’m used to, but I tell him everything but that. He’s happy with it, but I’m not. I’m aching. Bleeding, almost. Bleeding with want and desire and desperation. Tate, Kye, Aidan, Conner, Sofie, Mila, Ajax, Carlos, Lucas . . . that’s where my home is. Right now, I’m a million miles away. I may as well be on some faraway star in the galaxy, thousands of light years away. “El! My wan’ El!” I smile. “Hey, Mila.” “You back! Now! My wan’ you!” My smile widens. “Soon, okay? I promise I’ll be back soon.” “No. Now. My wan’ El.” “I miss you, crazy kid, okay?” I say warmly. “When I see you, I owe you a cookie and a milk shake, yeah?” “Cookie and shake? Yeah, El!” “It’s a date, all right? Can I talk to Uncle Tay?” “Spose,” she sighs, and I smile. “Tay? El you.” I giggle into my hand when Tate comes back on the line. “No shit, she just manhandled me for the fuckin’ phone and screamed about her El.” “Damn, I miss her. I miss all of you,” I finish sadly. “I’m not joking. As soon as you get to Philly, you tell me, okay?” “Okay, baby, I got it. I promise.” His voice is rough into the phone. “What are you doin’? You got a lawyer?” “No. Not yet. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to get one either.” “Don’t worry, okay?” Tate rasps. “I’ll fix it.” “Okay.” I frown.

“I gotta go, darlin’. My service ain’t great. I’ll text you, all right?” “All right.” I stare at the TV blankly. “You better.” “Promise,” he replies quietly. “What hotel are you in?” I tell him the name. “It’s on my card as of five minutes in the future.” “No!” “Yes!” he growls, but he’s laughing. “Get Moscato and nachos and think of me, Els.” I look at the plate on my lap and the bottle on the nightstand. “Already way ahead of you, Tate.” “Good. Sleep tight, darlin’. Tomorrow, all right?” “Tomorrow,” I whisper. “Tate . . .” Silence lingers as I trail off. Not on the phone. I can’t say it now. “I know, darlin’. I know. You, too. Night.”

Tate

Hearing her voice is like a big-ass kick to the gut. Hearing her broken, hurting voice is a big-ass kick to the balls and the gut. I wish she wasn’t hurting. I wish I wasn’t so damn far from her. I wish it wasn’t several hours on a bus then a plane ride until I could be beside her. I wish I wasn’t so damn willing to fuck the show in Philly to get her. To feel her. To touch her. Truth is, I’d give fucking anything for her. I berated Conner so much for how he treated Sof when she came back. I laughed at him and I abused him, but it was easy because I didn’t get it. I won’t pretend I love Ella the way he loves Sof, because we have different stories, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret how I acted. Right now, if I had to, I’d give up everything for her. The lights, the charts, the fame. . . . Every single fucking second would become irrelevant if that’s what she needed. Because sometimes you meet the dream you never even dreamed of, and it’s more important than the one you’ve wished for. Ella Dawson came at me with the force of a tsunami. She didn’t ease up for a second. She battered me, hour after hour. Ella Dawson barreled into me and fucked me six ways ’til Sunday, and, shit, probably several ways we ain’t even learned of yet. Ella Dawson smacked into me and contorted and twisted and morphed my perception of life in the most petrifying way. Ella Dawson slipped her way into my world and slowly became the thing I didn’t know I needed. And now . . . Now I sit on a tour bus, a bottle of fucking Budweiser clasped in my hand, missing her. Regretting that she went alone. Hating that she’s dealing with shit alone. I sit on a tour bus, ignoring my brothers and my niece and stare at the wall. I sit on a tour bus, feeling lonelier than I ever thought possible. I sit on a tour bus, beer in hand, eyes on wall, missing my girl like I’d miss the other half of my soul.

“F uck!” Sof yells, slamming her hands on the edge of the stage. “That’s it! Get the fuck out of here!” she shouts, pointing at me. “You. Now. New

York. Get the fuck away from me before I put you on a goddamn plane myself.” “We have a concert,” I reply, staring into her blue eyes. “Kiss my ass!” she shrieks. “Get a cold, Tate. Get a fuckin’ sickness bug. Get a goddamn motherfuckin’ virus that stops you from performin’, but get your ass on a shittin’ plane and to her hotel before I kill you with my plastic spoon.” She waves the bright white spoon in the air in front of her, and I sigh. The sigh is like a gateway for my brothers. One by one, they turn on me. No. They turn on me all at the same time. Their words mingle together. Their orders mesh. Their concerns meld. And I nod. Hopelessly, I nod. “All right.” Sofie stands and pulls her phone from her pocket. She storms out of the room, the door slamming behind her, and I sigh. “Fuck me,” Kye says. “You on your period, bro? You’re like a fuckin’ female with your bitchy ass mood swings.” Conner rubs his face. “Lay off him, man.” I look at him, my youngest brother, and the second his eyes meet mine, I know he feels me. “The fuck do I do?” I whisper. “Bro,” Conner replies just as quietly. “You miss her, you follow her. You love her, you go the fuck after her no matter what it takes. You love her, man, you follow her until your feet fuckin’ burn against the ground, because that’s love. I’d follow Sofie to the center of the Earth if I had to. You love Ella, I see it, and you gotta do whatever the hell it takes to get her back in your arms.” My nostrils flare, and my eyes sting, because, shit. I do. Fuck. I do, and I will follow her until the soles of my feet are fucking bleeding, until I’ve worn down all my skin and broken through my veins and all I have left is my bones. “There’s a car outside.” Sofie walks back in, tucking her phone into her pocket. She meets my eyes. “If you’ve got half a brain inside that purdy head of yours, you’ll get your ass into it in five minutes.” “Sof . . .” She shoves a sheet of paper in my face. “Your boarding pass from Philly to JFK. If you don’t wanna miss it, you’ll get the fuck out of here now.” “She told me not to leave a concert.” Sofie grabs my chin. “You leave now, you’ll be back in time for it.” I stare at the boarding pass. Two hours and I could be in New York. Thirty minutes later I could be in a car ready to see my girl. An hour after that, I could be on a plane, bringing her back. I stare at Sofie. Step forward. Snatch the pass. And turn for the door.

L awyers, man. Who the fuck needs them? Oh yeah—me and Ella.

Apparently my time line was ambitious as fuck, because Marc has me in a lawyer’s office within seconds of leaving the airport. “So, Tate,” Mr. Lee says. “You want me to represent your girlfriend.” “Mr. Lee,” I say, leaning forward. “With all due respect, I do whatever the fuck my manager tells me to do to make my life easier, you get me?” He nods, and I continue. “But right now, my girlfriend and I are— scratch that—could be in some serious shit, and I need the best lawyer money can buy me. Are you it?” “You bet, son.” “Great.” I know Marc wouldn’t have sent me to anyone other than the best. I explain to him Ella’s past and the incident in New Orleans, how it’s in the hands of the NYPD, how she’s alone, how my family is all she’s got. How he can make it better. He listens and he nods. He talks, and I nod. We shake hands, conversation over, and leave his office. I get in the waiting car with our new lawyer and stare out of the windshield as the driver pulls into the crazy traffic. New York doesn’t hold the charm that it did the last time I was here. There’s no excitement or delight. No anticipation. Just determination. Just anger, knowing I’m mere miles from that motherfucker. Fucking miles. Somehow, I swallow the anger, and I make the ride to Ella’s hotel calmly. Well, if you count seeing her again as calm, ’cause I ain’t. Two days and I’m batshit fuckin’ crazy without her. I ram my fist against her door two, three, four, five, six times. There’s a light tap at the other side of the door, then a pause, then the lock clicks, and the door opens. “Tate,” she gasps. My lips curve to the side, and I meet her gaze. Her eyes are wide and shocked, her lips parted, her body entirely frozen. “All right, darlin’?” I ask, leaning against the side of the doorframe. “Miss me?” She covers her mouth with her hands, laughs. “Fuck yeah.” Her easy use of the word “fuck” spreads through me, and my chuckle eclipses hers. “Missed you, too,” I laugh, clasping her in my arms. “Shit!” she whispers, clinging to me. “You’re supposed to be in Philly.” “No, Els.” I tilt her head back. “I’m supposed to be with my girl, however the fuck I do it. And you’re my girl. You’re my forever, darlin’.” Ella presses her mouth to mine firmly, gripping me, tasting me. “And there’s someone here that can prove it,” I whisper. “What?” she asks. I release her and open her hotel room door. “Ella, meet Mr. Dylan Lee, the lawyer that’s gonna win your case against that motherfucker you call an ex.” Ella brings her hand to her mouth again. “Are you for real?” she whispers, gasping, inhaling intensely. “You got me a freakin’ lawyer?” “Mr. Lee, why don’t you head down to the café and get yourself a coffee? I need a minute with my girlfriend.” My suggestion comes out as more of an order, but my lawyer nods and disappears. Ella gapes at me and sighs. “Tate, I can’t,” she argues quietly. “I can’t take your lawyer.” “He ain’t my lawyer,” I correct her. “He’s yours, darlin’. He’s gonna fight your case. He thinks Matthew should eat shit, and so do I. Baby, he’s gonna send that motherfucker down for what he did to

you.” Ella grips my polo shirt. “I can’t afford him. My parents . . . I kind of walked out on them, and they kind of disowned me.” I sink my fingers further into her hair. “You ain’t payin’ for him, darlin’. I am. I’ll pay until that bastard is on his knees in court begging for your forgiveness.” “Hell.” Ella holds me tightly. “He won’t get it.” “Damn fuckin’ right he ain’t.” I kiss her temple. “So be a good little Dirty B. Diva and tell Mr. Lee everythin’ you didn’t tell the cops. He’s got it all except that.” I cup her face with my hands and take a deep breath. “Can you do that, baby? Can you breathe free for me, darlin’?” Ella reaches up so her fingers slip through mine, even though I’m holding her hands. “Will you be there?” “You need me to be?” “No. But I want you to be.” “I’ll be whatever the fuck you want, Els. Now and always.”

S he’s in Philly. With me. With my brothers. With Sofie and Mila. She’s fucking with me, and she doesn’t give a flying fucking monkey. “Kye?” Ella demands, banging on his bedroom door. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the gym?” Kye holds his arms up, stumbling out of the room, “You’re confused, sugar. I should be in bed.” “Mhmm,” Ella hums. “My schedule says different. Your ass, the gym, thirty seconds.” She points to the elevator. My brother shrugs and adjusts his shirt when he walks past her. “Shit, she’s a fuckin’ slave driver. Who thought to bring her back?” “All of you!” Ella yells down the hall. I circle her in my arms. “I like you being back.” “I will kick your ass, Tate Burke.” Her voice trails off when I kiss down her neck and pull her back into our hotel room. “I’ve got another workout that will benefit us both,” I mutter into her collarbone. “Your pussy, my cock, baby.” “Stop,” she breathes. “Don’t you know I’m in hiding?” My phone rings, and I groan, releasing her. Pulling it from my pocket, I see the lawyer’s name on the screen and bring it to my ear. “Tate Burke.” “Dylan Lee,” he says. “Mr. Burke, I’d like to meet with you in Philadelphia tomorrow. I’ve received some important information from Mr. Hamilton’s lawyer suggesting that his client would like to settle out of court.” Ella nibbles her bottom lip and nods once. “We can see you at three p.m.,” I offer. “Does that work?” “Yes, sir,” he replies and reels off the Philadelphia address. “See you then.”

I hang up and look at the girl across the bed from me. “Sounds like a jacked-up plea bargain to me, darlin’.” “As long as he leaves me and you alone, I don’t care,” she whispers. “I’ve got you, okay?” “Okay? More than okay.” I cover her body with mine. “Els . . . darlin’ . . . baby . . . Every part of me you hold in the palm of your hands. Every single fuckin’ bit is yours. Squeeze me and twist me, I’m yours, darlin.’ ” The truth of my words floods through me, and she wraps her arms around me. “I know.” She kisses my jaw. “But . . . Tate . . . I want to know I’m yours. All of me. Every bit.” I inhale slowly because I know what she’s askin’, but if I can’t give her that, then I’m a fucking pussy. If I can’t tell her what she wants to hear and what I know to be true, then I need a motherfucking slap upside the head. “Allow me to oblige you, darlin’,” I murmur to her jaw. My lips travel from her chin to her lips and cover her sweet mouth. Toothpaste and orange juice linger on her lips, and she wraps her arms around me tightly, accepting my kiss without batting an eyelid. She curls herself around me as I drop her onto the bed. Her arms, her legs, they grip me, circle me, pull me into her. My cock pushes against her core, too many fuckin’ layers between us, too many shirts and pants and shit. I murmur this against her neck and she laughs, but seconds later, her hands are snaking beneath my shirt and up my stomach. Ella hums low, her fingers grasping the hem of my shirt as I encourage her to guide it up and over my head. Easy, slow, breathless, it happens, and my girl slides her hands up my back. Her fingers ghost up my spine as if she revels in the dip of my spine. I breathe in every sweep of her fingers. My dick hardens. Wanting more. Craving more. Desiring more. Every single fuckin’ bit of me needs Ella Dawson. “Tate.” My name is a whisper against my shoulder as I flip her over to her side and hook two fingers inside the waistband of her pants. She tilts her hips so I can tug her tiny shorts down, and I clasp the back of her neck as if it’ll distract her. It does me. The indescribable feeling of her lips, her mouth, her tongue, against mine—it’s too much. I lean into her, my hand curving over her bare ass, because fuck, she’s got an ass and a half. Ella grasps my hair and pushes herself into me. I grasp her ass, and my fingers sneak round to tease her pussy. She’s wet, and so fuckin’ responsive, and I groan into a kiss on her neck. She thrusts her hips into me and fuck, fuck, fuck. I roll Ella onto her back, whispering in her ear. I want her. I need her. I crave her. No words I could ever say out loud could come close to the way I feel for this girl right now. Nothin’ could compare to the tightness of her pussy as I ease inside her. Nothing could compare to the irresistible way she hugs me when I bury myself so deep inside her there’s nothing but me. Nothing could compare to what Ella Dawson feels like beneath me and around me. “Tate,” Ella whispers, legs around my waist, arms around my neck, trembling, pulsing, desiring. “Yes.”

I thrust into her in one last hard thrust and she cries out. She screams, tilting her head back, gripping me, shaking, clenching. I cup Ella’s ass and bring her pussy tight against my dick so there isn’t an inch of space between us. Ella sighs. Gasps. Breathes out slowly. Ella holds on to me, still. Fuck the grasp of concerts past. Fuck the desperation of weeks past. Fuck everything that wasn’t Ella Dawson and her magnetic pull. Fuck everything that wasn’t her. Fuck everything that wasn’t her belief and her pull and her desire. Fuck everything that wasn’t always more than forever. Fuck everything that could never look beyond the dirtiness of my past. Fuck everything that depended on that shit. Fuck everything, every-fuckin’-thing that never saw Ella Dawson waitin’ at the other end. With my dick buried deep inside her, Ella Dawson consumes me until my last breath. She takes every fucking ounce of me, forcing me to hold her, breathe her in. “Els,” I whisper into her ear, nipping her neck. “Give me you, darlin’. All of you.” She does. She moans my name into my mouth and grasps my hair. Her grip on me tightens, and the speed of my thrusts increase. I need to feel her. Her pussy around my cock. Her breath around mine. She’s Ella fucking Dawson but she belongs to Tate fucking Burke, and she’s gonna know it. “Tate,” she whispers into my neck. My arms circle her tightly. Oh so fucking tightly. So. Fucking. Tightly. “Ella, darlin’.” Her fingertips, her breaths, they’re scarily intense. “Ella,” I whisper into her ear. “Darlin’. I love you. So much. So goddamn fuckin’ much.” She squeezes me. Tighter than I ever thought she could. “I love you, Tate. I love you.”

Ella

“Milaaaa,” I sing. “What did Mama say about Doc?” Mila stares at the TV, still blaring out Doc McStuffins, the tiny two-year-old’s latest obsession. “Ah, one show afore nap?” “One show, that’s right,” I say. “But . . .” I swoop her into my arms and drop back onto my bed, to her insane giggles. “Shhh. We can watch another Doc.” Mila claps her hand over her mouth, and I slide up the bed to the head of it. “Nachos,” Tate mutters. “You’re early,” I retort. “We’ve got a date with Stuffy and Doc, right, Mi?” “Yeah, El!” Mila turns to look at Tate. “My lub El. My lub Stuffy and Doc. And Elmo. And Peppa.” I smile at Tate over the top of Mila’s head. “I think Stuffy and Doc and Elmo and Peppa love naptime,” I say, getting up to fill her milk sippy cup. When it’s full, I screw the lid on and climb back onto the bed. I dutifully lie through twenty minutes of mind-numbing Doc McStuffins. “Now,” I whisper, lying Mila down in her crib. “You be a good girl for Uncle Kye, okay? Dadda will come get you this afternoon. And, if you be good, I’ll bring you back a cupcake.” Mila covers her mouth with her hands. “Got it, Mi?” “Got it, El,” Mila agrees. I reach into her crib and press the button to start her lullaby. “See you later, baby girl?” “Anight, El.” “Later,” I whisper, stepping out of the room. I smile at the closed door and fall almost instantly into the main room. “Never havin’ kids,” Tate mutters, his hand over his eyes. “Exhaustin’ little shits.” I laugh and curl into him. “I hear you.” “I mean it, Els, never.” His teasing tone isn’t lost on me. “You ever think about them . . . before?” “Well, yeah. Stopped it pretty quick, though.” I chew the inside of my lip. “What about now?” “As long as they’re Ellas and not Tates.” He laughs into my hair. “I’m not sure you get a choice there, darlin’.” “Shit,” I mutter. “But, uh, I appreciate the forward planning, but can we not talk about kids? That’s kinda serious stuff, and we already have to meet the lawyer in twenty minutes. And I already have four guys to look after.”

“Hey!” Tate squeezes me, laughing.

H is fingers tighten around mine. “So, to cut a long story short.” Mr. Lee leans forward on his desk and removes his glasses. “His lawyer isn’t as good as I am, and he’s afraid to stand in court because he’ll lose.” “Take him anyway,” Tate growls. I rest my hand on his chest and look at Mr. Lee. “Can you draw up some kind of agreement similar to a restraining order that we can settle without going to court?” “I don’t see why not.” “Els.” Tate’s voice vibrates through me. “I’ll drop the charges if he agrees to never contact either of us,” I say quickly before Tate can continue. “Els!” he snaps. “Are you serious?” I meet his eyes. “I have four fully grown men to run around after and organize. I don’t have the time or inclination to drag my ex’s ass through the judicial system.” “The decision is yours, Miss Dawson,” Mr. Lee adds. “Do it,” I demand. “It’s enough for me.”

“S houlda pressed charges,” Tate grumbles. “Oh, stop it.” I knock our clasped hands into his side. “It’s my choice, okay? And my choice is to never see him again.” Tate grunts. “S’pose.” “Oh, you big baby.” I pat his cheek and walk into the cupcake store. I buy a box, making sure one is pink with a butterfly topper for Mila. He grunts again when we exit the store. “Should be in fuckin’ prison.” “Shut up!” I bat his chest. “You can tuck your Fred Flintstone away now, Mr. Caveman. I made the choice, so suck it up or complain inside your head.” I duck into the waiting car, and he slides in next to me. He stays quiet the whole drive back to the hotel, despite me flicking my eyes to him several times. When we arrive, he gets out, still silent, and takes the cupcakes from me. He opens the box and grabs one in the middle of the lobby, then sinks his teeth into it. Some frosting sticks to his nose, and I giggle. “What are you doing?” “Complainin’ in my head and soothing my annoyance with cupcakes. Ain’t that what you chicks do?” “Is it working?”

“Mmph.” He shrugs. “Not really. Damn good cupcake, though.” I laugh and curve my hand around his bicep. I rest my head against his arm. “Don’t be dumb,” I say through my giggles. “It’s for the best this way. I don’t have to think about him, ever.” “Ever?” “Ever.” “Well, it’s suddenly lookin’ a lot fuckin’ better than it was five minutes ago.” He shoves the cupcake at me and covers my nose and mouth in frosting as we enter the restaurant. “Tate!” He laughs and moves away from me quickly. “I cannot believe you just did that!” Wide-eyed, he grins. “Asshole!” “Dollar!” Mila yells. “Ooooooh cupcake!” She ignores me and my bad word and runs to Tate, yelling about a cupcake. I grab a napkin from the holder in the restaurant and wipe the yellow stickiness from my face as he hands her a cupcake. She sits on a chair and gets sucked in, and when Sofie walks up, Tate gets a slap on the arm, despite it being my promise. I grin when he comes to me and traps me against the bar. “You have some . . .” I circle my finger at his face. “Some what?” I lean up on my tiptoes and kiss the tip of his nose. “Never mind.”

Tate

Two weeks and it’s perfect. Two weeks of secret practices, sneaking around, and tensions running high, but it’s perfect. “Just sit down.” I laugh, kissing Ella’s forehead and pushing her onto a chair. “But why?” “Can’t you just do it?” “No!” She pouts. “You all have that look. Like something is going on.” Sofie grins. “Sof! What’s going on?” Sofie giggles and sits next to her. “Just . . . yeah.” “I don’t like this,” Ella mutters. “Give it a minute,” Sofie replies. We let her in on the secret after she heard us playing it. Or rather she forced her damn way in to the secret. “Ready?” Aidan says, sitting at the drums. “Ready,” Kye nods. “Ready,” Conner states. “Ready.” I smirk at Ella. She narrows her eyes as we hit the first notes of the song. She stares at me. I look back at her, smiling knowingly. Mila swings her legs on the chair next to my girl, her little head bobbing along to the beat. The lyrics fall from my lips, and my gaze stays pinned on hers. Her eyes widen and fill, and she lifts her hand to her mouth. You’re not broken, baby, you ain’t shattered, Maybe a little cracked, but darlin’, I can fix you if you let me. Let me soothe the sting, let me kiss your scars, Let me wipe your tears and dry your cheeks, I’ll hold you tight and love you deep. I smile as I sing, strumming on the guitar. You’re not broken, baby, just a little bent,

Come in to me tonight, Breathe me in, give me you, Let me soothe the sting, let me kiss your scars, Darlin’, let me kiss your scars, Let me hold you tight and kiss your scars. I strum the last note and my lips twitch to the side. “What do you think?” I ask Ella. “It’s yours.” Her eyes flick between all four of us, filling with tears. “You wrote me a song?” “Wrote it, played it, sang it.” I shrug a shoulder. “Not bad, right?” She laughs and runs at me. I put my guitar to the side and catch her on my lap. She hugs me tightly, her face pressed into my neck. Her lips brush where my pulse is throbbing, and I smile, breathing in deeply. “I love it,” she whispers with a sniff. “I love you.” “I love you, too, darlin’.” I kiss her temple. She laughs and sits up, wiping at her eyes. “Thank you.” “I’d say ‘anytime,’ but it’s a lot of fuckin’ effort. Especially when you gotta keep it secret from your assistant.” I grin. “You did a great job.” She giggles. “I had no idea.” “I know.” “Hey, Con, why don’t you write me songs anymore?” Sofie demands. “Give me a pen, princess, and I’ll get right to it,” he answers immediately. “Anyone got any paper? I’m losin’ my best-boyfriend title to this asshole.” Aidan snorts. “Y’all can keep it. I ain’t writin’ songs for a girl.” Ella smiles widely, and pulls her eyes from me to him. “You say that now, Ads.” “I’m sayin’ it for a long damn time,” he argues. “Yeah, you never know,” Sof agrees. “This love thing is kind of crazy.” “Ain’t happenin’,” Ads protests. Ella’s smile just widens, and she tilts her head to one side. “You’re next, Ads.” He stares at her stonily. “Fuck off.” A smirk tugs at my lips. “Bro, it happened to me.” I catch Ella’s eye, and she smiles softly, the smile I love that lights up her eyes. “It’s gonna happen to you, and Ads? When it happens, man, it happens.” Ads looks at Ella. “What did you do with my brother?” She laughs and threads her fingers through my hair. “I didn’t do a thing. He grew from a silly little boy”—I tickle her side—“into a man.” She kisses my cheek. “My man.”

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 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

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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 © 2015 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 May 2015 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 ISBN 978-1-5011-0477-0

Contents

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 Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Epilogue About the Author