I glanced around the kitchen. “I never got over leaving Austin. I never loved London. I just… I couldn’t face you.” I inhaled, but it was choppy. “That’s on me. I was…I was so scared you’d hurt me again.”

  He raised an eyebrow in that Nash Porter way that said I was on thin ice. I laughed, charmed by his arrogance, which caused him to smile back. His white teeth flashed behind the russet-and-honey stubble, the deep dimple winking in his right cheek. His eyes sparkled like the sun through whiskey. He took my breath, then reached forward with his good hand and clasped my cold fingers.

  Warmth pulsed through our touch, reorienting my world.

  “I won’t hurt you, Ay,” he said, a vow. “Not on purpose. Never on purpose.”

  “I missed you,” I blurted, desperate to fall into his arms. “So much I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Same.”

  That comforted me because it was our pattern, but more so because of the depth of emotion in that single word.

  Fatigue blanketed me again. I needed sleep, but I also wanted him to hold me like he used to. I craved the connection, our closeness. Some return to normalcy. It had been so long.

  He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s late. Let’s get you to bed.”

  I let him lead me down the hall. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway to his room before he gently tugged me over the threshold. He moved toward his large, gleaming chest of drawers and opened one.

  I let my gaze sweep the room, landing on the snapshots on the mantel. I crossed to them. There were two of Nash and Lev, one of his family taken weeks before Lev’s death, but the rest of the photos were me. Some were from our time at Holyoke, but others were more recent. They were press shots, and they appeared to be the originals.

  “I bought them,” Nash said. “I couldn’t get close to you any other way. Not being able to talk to you? That was worse than losing Lev.”

  I pressed my hand to my heart, which seemed to flutter and tumble under my palm.

  Nash was still the same sensitive soul under the layers of cynicism and heartache. He still yearned for a connection, for love, for people to see him as more than the child of famous parents and a wealthy, spoiled celebrity.

  But it was the conch shell sitting on his nightstand, mere inches from his pillow that stopped me cold.

  “You still have it?” I whispered. I turned and wrapped my arms around him, careful of his swollen hand. Nash’s breath warmed the cool skin of my cheek. He dipped his knees, bringing himself to my eye level.

  I loved that he’d do that for me—meet me on my level. He always had, and each time he did so, I felt seen, understood, cherished.

  Yes, even when he hurt me, I’d known Nash cherished me. That was part of why coming here frightened me so. I’d spent years fighting for my independence, and I was damn well going to have it.

  He nodded. “We can’t change the past, Ay. But I’ll always be grateful it brought me you. All we can do is live—now and onward.”

  I nodded my cheek against his chest. I was exhausted. “Onward, my wayward prince,” I murmured.

  He laughed softly. “Cheeky girl.”

  “Exhausted from jet lag and emotion, you’re a lot to handle, you know?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s get you to bed, then. I can’t wait to hold you close.”

  3

  Nash

  The night proved the best and most uncomfortable of my life. I held Aya snuggled against me. Her soft breath bathing my neck and chest relaxed me fully, and I fell into a deep, dreamless abyss—until I moved my swollen and bruised hand, anyway.

  I glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was after five in the morning. I never slept so many hours in a row.

  My hand throbbed, but my body remained content, my mind charged and ready to face what lay ahead. I curled my good hand around Aya, still shocked she’d relented to sleeping with me.

  She belonged in my bed. She always had. Now I just had to ensure she stayed here, with me.

  That might prove tricky. She had a life, a career. I realized she might not be able to stay with me. I’d be a selfish ass if I asked her to uproot her life just so I could continue to record and tour.

  There must be a solution, especially considering the financial resources and influence she and I possessed. We just needed time to tease it out.

  I rolled onto my back, tugging her close as I went back over our conversation from last night.

  The continuity of my memory since I’d gone to rehab shocked me. For so long, I’d lived with a perforated snapshot of my days. Now, being able to go over each and every moment, to relish the tiny details, seemed odd. Refreshing, but unusual.

  Aya’s tortured expression was where I fixated. I never wanted to see that look on her face again, and I definitely didn’t want to be the reason for it. This meant honesty about everything, even the hard shit. That would be the only way to keep her around.

  I ran my fingers through her hair, enjoying the faint, familiar scent of her shampoo and the weighty softness.

  “That feels good,” she murmured. “Don’t stop.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  She climbed atop my chest, stacking her palms on my left pec and meeting my gaze. “Whatever?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Careful there, big daddy. You don’t know what I’ll ask for.”

  Warmth settled in my chest. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll give it to you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Your platinum records.”

  “Yours.”

  Both eyebrows went up. “This house? Your money? The awesome tour bus I know you must have somewhere?”

  I threaded my fingers at the nape of her neck, pinning her to me. “Yours.”

  She scoffed.

  “You don’t get it, Aya. I’ve been a zombie for years.”

  She dropped her gaze. “I stopped making friends, stopped connecting with people. They call me the Ice Queen.”

  “You’re not icy or cold, Ay. You survived. My therapist said that takes more guts than giving in or getting high. Survival is what we do until we’re ready to heal. And we only heal when we feel safe.”

  I petted her hair, loving how the warm strands wrapped around my fingers. “I’ll give you anything, everything—whatever you want. Just stay with me.” I leaned up, using my abdominal muscles to hold me as I brushed my lips over hers. It was a soft, sweet kiss. A question, a request.

  She sealed her mouth over mine with enough force to allow me to lower back to the pillow. Then she took over, her tongue sliding past my lips. Again and again, she mated her tongue to mine, stoking a fire within me. We broke apart, gasping.

  “I like kissing you,” she murmured, resting her chin on my chest.

  I ran my fingers through her hair, careful not to tug too hard. “Same.”

  “Why did you choose to move to Barton Creek?”

  “Austin’s my home, and after traveling so much for so long, I needed low-key. This place, this city—it’s real, Ay. It’s alive and fresh and smells like...like earth and trees and life.”

  She nodded, absorbed in some memory. “I missed it, too. This is where I want to be.”

  She blinked away whatever worried her, her gaze flashing to mine. Ah, no, she was trying hard not to fall back into the rabbit hole of our miscommunication and the breakdown of our relationship. I appreciated the gesture. I wasn’t as exhausted as I’d been last night, but I wasn’t ready to go another round through the emotional minefield.

  “When did you move here?” she asked.

  “I bought the place about five months ago. Bridger wanted to stay in Seattle, but thankfully, Jax hated the gray skies, too. So we decided to set up base here. We’ll still do some of our recording in Seattle, but Cam has a sweet setup near his place.”

  “I remember.”

  “Right. Never got you into that studio. Anyway, either we can travel up to Seattle to meet with Asher and finalize songs, or he can come here. And…well, I feel solid. I need the sunshine, heat.”

  “I get that. I’ve always found England depressing.”

  Silence grew between us.

  “What do you think it would have been like? If I’d stayed?” she asked.

  I sighed. “Much as I hate to say it, I would have fucked up something else, and you still would have left. I think, as bad as it was, I needed to work through my parents’ divorce, my mother…” I swallowed. Still things I needed to work through there. “And then, my grandfather. It wasn’t pretty, not any of that, and I’m not proud of how I handled it.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents, Nash,” she whispered. “And Pop Syad. I liked him, even though he was kind of tyrannical.”

  “He was an overbearing dick, and I miss him.”

  She shifted, restless, her eyes darkening. “I should have written and told you so.”

  I shook my head. “Let’s not rehash the past again. It’s over. And more importantly, I’ve been wracking my brain for how to get more time with you moving forward.”

  “Well, as I’m currently unemployed, you can have as much of my time as you’d like.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  She sighed, her gaze dropping to my chest where she swirled a pattern through the hair with her forefinger. “My father had his friend—the owner of the company I worked for—sack me.”

  Everything in me stilled.

  “He said he’d get me back my job if I promised to marry Alistair.”

  I tightened my hold on her waist with my good hand.

  “Do you want it back? We can fight—”

  “No.” She sighed. “It’s not worth the emotion.” She bit her lip. “I’m not committed to electric vehicles.” She shook her head. “I love building things, but the work at these places—none of it excited me. I just…I don’t know.” She flopped on her back and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Most people would want to get back what was taken from them.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not that I’m without ambition.” She sighed. “I need to feel connected to something.”

  “I can understand that. I needed music more after you…” The unspoken words pulsed between us. “We’ll have to figure out what you’re passionate about. I’ll make it my quest,” I said, filling the silence before it turned heavy with pain and recrimination.

  Her smile lit up the room and filled the hollow place in my chest. “Maybe we could start that quest with some breakfast?”

  I smirked. Aya remained an early riser who preferred a large meal soon after waking. Good to know some things hadn’t changed. Just as I’m sure she remembered I was more than willing to forego any large meal and graze on snacks.

  “What’s your pleasure?” I asked.

  She bit her lip, her eyes darkening as she took in my bare chest. Her heated look caused my breathing to shallow.

  “How about huevos rancheros con chorizo? I haven’t had that in years.” She made a humming noise in the back of her throat, eyes alight.

  “I’m sure Steve can whip that up.”

  She frowned. “Steve’s here?”

  “He is.” I cleared my throat. “He’s my biological father.” I shrugged, though a bubble seemed lodged behind my ribs, not growing, not moving…just stuck. My relationship with Steve was one of the details in my life I needed to fix.

  She reared back, eyes wide. “Steve? And your mom?” She opened her mouth, shut it. Then shook her head. “Didn’t see that coming.”

  “I had this weird feeling after he learned about the music. You know, the songs in my head. He kept asking me questions about that.”

  A wrinkle tugged at her brows. “He did, didn’t he?”

  “But it was Brad who told me Steve had an affair with my mom.”

  Aya pursed her lips. “Let me guess: that night.” She tilted her head to the side. “A lot happened to us in twenty-four hours.”

  “Yeah, it did.”

  She shook her head. “Tell me about Steve.”

  “We had a falling out around the time I went into rehab. Well, that was the second falling out. We’ve been talking since he came to visit me during my last week there, and he stays in the guesthouse out back. He’s taken on chef duties—”

  “Because you still can’t boil water?” Aya asked with a giggle.

  “I can make you a cup of tea.”

  “Fair point. But who is he to you?”

  “He’s Steve. I know he’s my dad, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten.”

  Aya rose up over me and dropped a soft kiss to my lips. The added benefit was her pelvis now aligned with mine. I wanted to grip her hips and grind my engorged, aching dick against her softness, but I wasn’t sure exactly where we stood. And I definitely didn’t want to mess up this fragile second chance with a quick screw—no matter how good it would feel. And it would feel amazing.

  I groaned, my fingers tightening on her hips, pressing into the taut muscle of her ass.

  “As nice as sex would be, I’m not sure I’m ready…” Her eyes were wide, filled with both trepidation and desire. The concern overpowered the lust.

  “You don’t have to apologize…”

  “I’m really hungry,” she said after a moment. “Like languishing. I didn’t eat yesterday because I was nervous.” She rolled off me and darted toward the bathroom.

  I stacked my good arm behind my head, pillowing my head against my elbow. “Just so you know, I’m going to fantasize about washing your delectable body,” I called.

  She stuck her head out, the toothbrush I’d given her last night in her mouth and white foam blossoming across her lips. “After I eat, we’ll talk about you doing that sometime,” she managed to get out around the toothbrush.

  I chuckled. Already I felt more energized and happier than I could remember—even if sexually frustrated. I shifted my hips, seeking a release that wouldn’t come, not without Aya’s warm heat surrounding me. But I was content to sit with it for now.

  4

  Aya

  Steve stood in the kitchen wearing an apron and a frown, halfway between mother hen and drill sergeant. I tugged at the bottom of the T-shirt Nash had given me to wear. I’d put my bra back on, but hadn’t been able to handle the days-old panties. I tugged at the drawstring on the sweatpants, ensuring they remained cinched at my waist. Nash caught me and smirked.

  “I made coffee,” Steve said, his gaze whisking over us. His frown deepened as he noted Nash’s bruised and swollen hand. “And I’ll get you a bandage for the hand.”

  “Thank you,” Nash said.

  The two of them skirted around each other—polite, but evidently unsure how to bridge the huge chasm between them.

  I watched it unfold as Nash explained what I wanted for breakfast.

  Steve nodded. “Good choice. That’s the kind of meal that’ll stick to your ribs.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I pushed my way between them since neither seemed able to find the words they wanted. “And maybe I could make a spot of tea?”

  Steve turned toward me. “Yeah. We have tea. Basically, an entire tea shop. Let me put on the kettle.”

  With Steve bustling around the high-end stove, Nash relaxed. A little while later, Steve set the food in front of us on heavy, bone china plates with a turquoise swirl pattern. I touched one. They reminded me of my mother’s. I bit my lip as emotion rippled through me. I missed my mother so much. She and Nash had been close, and I knew he must miss her, too. These plates felt like an homage to her—a way to keep part of our shared past in his life.

  Steve turned back to the sink now filled with suds and pans. I wanted to ask if he’d join us, but Nash looked too calm for me to ruin the moment.

  Halfway through the meal, our old friend Hugh showed up, harried and disheveled.

  I squealed when I saw him, diving into his open arms.

  He held me, rocking back and forth. “Good to see you, girlie.”

  “You, too.” I blinked back tears as I beamed up at him.

  He frowned and shifted his weight from one wingtip to the other. Yes, Hugh wore wingtips and pleated-front slacks, along with a sleek tie and a smooth Brooks Brothers pinstripe dress shirt starched to perfection. His dark eyes were still as serious as I remembered, and his crazy, curly hair had been cut and combed into submission.

  “I’ve felt really bad that Lindsay did that to you. I mean, I was dating her…”

  “Lindsay’s behavior wasn’t your fault, Hugh,” I said, my tone gentle. I pulled away from him and returned to my seat, aware of Nash’s intense gaze. “And I didn’t bother to bring my phone with me. My father gave me a model that worked in the UK and Europe after…” I bit my lip. I hadn’t admitted my meltdown to Nash, and I wasn’t ready to discuss that now, not with all the tension in the large, bright kitchen.

  “You look like a fifty-year-old hedge-fund owner,” I said instead.

  Hugh grinned. “Good. That’s how I counteract Nash’s bad boy, I-don’t-give-a-shit vibe.”

  “The counterpoint?” Clearly I’d missed something.

  Hugh settled at the table after he snagged a big mug of coffee and a piece of chorizo from Steve.

  “I’m his manager,” he said, his chest puffing with pride.

  “Congratulations.” I looked between them. “I think.”

  “Hey! I’m not that bad,” Nash said.

  “Never said anything of the sort, Superstar.”

  Steve chuckled, and Nash cracked a smile, but his eyes remained wary, fixed on my face. He knew I’d sidestepped something just now, and he didn’t like it.

  “I refused to take the gig until Nash cleaned up his act,” Hugh said. “Even though I’d spent years of my life prepping for it.”

  “You didn’t seem interested before,” Nash said.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to survive before,” Hugh shot back.

  Nerves fluttered through my belly as the two of them locked gazes. Finally, much to my surprise, Nash conceded with a nod.

  Hugh returned his attention to me. “You caused quite the stir leaving England when and how you did, Aya.”