“He made you smile.”

  My eyes rose to Jeremiah’s, but his lacked the accusation I anticipated. Instead, Jeremiah’s eyes turned soft. My heart pounded again.

  Was this my life? My child comforting me, worrying over me. Oh, no. That would never do.

  “We’re old friends. That’s all.”

  And it was—Philip and I spoke occasionally, still friendly, when I met Simon. But I hadn’t given my old love more than a second thought as I followed Simon back to Seattle and built my life there, with him.

  “Race you home!” Jeremiah called, turning to take off down the path. I breathed a sigh of relief at Jeremiah’s exuberance. My rambunctious child remained under the new maturity the past week forced upon him.

  My father wrapped his arm over my shoulder, our pace much more sedate than Jeremiah’s breakneck sprint.

  “Always did like that boy.”

  “Jeremiah? I should hope so.”

  Dad squeezed my shoulder, a comforting reminder of his presence. Peppermint and cool winter air filled my nostrils, easing the tension in my aching neck.

  “No, love. Philip. Smart young man. Good head on his shoulders. English to the bone.”

  “I’m not looking for anything, Dad.”

  “Never said a word that you were. Just commenting on the nice young man who was here to offer you his broad shoulder to rest your tired head on.”

  I stopped walking, aware that Jeremiah was waiting for us at the corner, tapping his foot and fidgeting.

  “You don’t like Simon?” I asked. Surprise built in my chest, spread outward and into my tightening neck muscles.

  “I don’t like that he’s made you sad.” Dad tapped his finger to my chin. “I don’t like the look in your eyes today. He took your fire, Ella.”

  I tipped my chin down. “I didn’t ever love Philip like I love Simon.”

  Dad sighed and a white puff of air swirled around our heads.

  “You have a great big heart and a lovely, independent spirit. Just the type of daughter I’d always wished for.” He tipped my chin up, pinching it. “Now, though, you’re hurt and scared, and it makes this father worry. You deserve every happiness, love. Every single one.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead and then ushered me toward Jeremiah. I walked back toward my folks’ cottage, lost in thought.

  4

  Simon

  I scrubbed my hands over my face, but staring at the picture of Ella snuggled in the arms of her ex-boyfriend didn’t make the image—nor my scowl—disappear. If she didn’t look so shocked in the first and despondent in the second, I’d . . . what?

  I’d sent her divorce papers. Well . . . the email came from my account. I’d ferreted that bit out when I called my lawyer earlier, not long after my call to Asher. His secretary forwarded me the original email dated two weeks prior.

  I dropped my head into my hands with a groan. What a cluster.

  If Ella was tearing up the sheets with Philip right now, it wasn’t like I could be angry at her.

  Except I was. And jealous. Soul-eating, trailer-wrecking jealous. And I sat on the wrong continent, another show tonight with four more planned over the next seven days.

  Asher had warned me not to get caught up in the churn, to manage my schedule and my time so that I didn’t end up right here, in this predicament. Alone the week before Christmas, and so goddamn lonely I couldn’t draw a full breath.

  “You need to put out a statement.” Gerard’s blunt finger tapped my laptop’s screen. Didn’t matter how many times I asked him not to touch the screen, he grimed the glass with whatever nasty lived on his fingertip. I’d wipe it again later.

  “I fired Monique, remember? You’ll have to put out a statement.”

  “I don’t understand why you did that. She’s great at this stuff.”

  I turned in my chair, forcing Gerard back two full paces, enough to give me some space. The whole breathing-down-the-back-of-my-neck thing didn’t work for me. “She called me baby.”

  “She calls all her clients baby.”

  “She kissed me in front of Ella.”

  Gerard’s eyes widened as his lips formed an O.

  “And she intimated that you wanted me to be with her. Which reminds me that you were the one who suggested, all so casually, that maybe Ella was holding me back—which Monique latched on to awful quick. You said maybe Ella was the reason I wasn’t doing more shows and festivals, making us more money.”

  “I never once suggested you divorce your wife, Simon,” Gerard said, his voice as stiff as his neck.

  “Didn’t you?”

  He drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height of five-nine. “You went to visit the lawyer all on your own.”

  I opened my mouth, only to slam it shut again. We stared at each other until Gerard brought his hand to his mouth, once against gnawing at his nails.

  “So, do you like Ella?”

  “Hell, no! She has you wrapped around her finger. You do whatever she wants you to even if it’s an off-hand text. Look at the three-week hiatus you took last year just as your career was kicking into overdrive. Took us another three months to get back that momentum. And we lost who knows how many hundreds of thousands in revenue because of that stupid decision.”

  I snorted. “Wrapped around her finger? That can’t be true since she’s in England and I’m here with a stack of legalese that claims we’re unattaching. All because of an email sent from my account—that I didn’t send.”

  Gerard lowered his hands and placed them on his hips. “I don’t like you unhappy. Bad for performances. You stunk last night, and half the crowd disbursed before you finished your set. Don’t give me shit about two performances in one day. Do you have any idea how bad that is for future sales?”

  Gerard was such an ass. I had to fix my situation with Ella before Philip Wagner shacked up with my wife. Quick. Especially now that the media was hot on Ella’s trail. She hated the cameras in her face and the constant cattiness of comments about what she wore.

  For Ella, success, in the form of us being able to pay off our house and buy her a new car—the first she’d ever owned—was fabulous but fame, recognition, they were a burden. An albatross around my neck that had yoked her in, too.

  I’d never really considered it as such before, but Ella’s point had been proven during the past twenty-four hours: this scrutiny, the baited breath with which the world seemed to be hanging on my next move, sucked. And I dragged Ella into it.

  Monique must have called all her media contacts yesterday after I fired her. She must have fed them the story of my break-up, complete with the photos of everything from Monique’s kiss to Ella’s bird salute.

  “Get me out of these next shows.” I shoved back farther, catching Gerard’s foot and causing him to yelp in pain. Better than an argument. I slammed my laptop shut.

  “I can’t . . . This is career suicide!” Gerard sputtered.

  “That’s better than losing my wife and kid.”

  “You don’t mean that. Your son will come around. You’re his famous, cool dad. All you have to do is . . . I don’t know . . . take him somewhere he wants to go. Voila! World’s best dad.”

  My brows shot up. “And Ella?”

  Gerard gnawed on his ring finger. “Well. I mean. She’s probably going to leave you anyway. Now.”

  And the weight I’d been carrying crashed against my shoulders with enough force to cause me to stagger.

  “How did I let this get so far out of hand?”

  I glanced around. I didn’t have many people on staff—I wasn’t a big name like Asher or Hayden. But I wasn’t willing to stick with people who’d lied and cheated, maybe worse, to get their claws deeper into my earnings.

  “Clive!” He was my head of—and only—security. I waited for the large ex-biker to stroll over, hands in pockets, tattoos bulging on his thick biceps. “Did you have anything to do with Monique and Gerard conniving to split me and Ella up?”

  “Your cute pixie wife?” Clive’s voice was deep, his words slow. “Nah, man. I like the little Brit.”

  I turned back to Gerard, who was nibbling at his nails faster than usual. “First off, Merry Christmas.” I pulled out an envelope I’d intended to give Gerard after the performance tomorrow. A large thank-you for building my career and helping me reach this pinnacle of success.

  He took it, his expression changing from fearful to confused.

  “You’ve helped me out these past few years, worked your tail off for me. Thanks for all that.” Gerard’s thin lips started to curve up, his eyes began to gleam. I took a deep breath and said the words, “You’re fired.”

  “What?” His squeal reminded me of the greased pigs Jeremiah and I saw at the rodeo a couple of years ago. Before all this craziness hit.

  “You just said I helped you. You can’t fire me.”

  “Already did.” I turned to Clive. “Escort him out of the trailer and off the fairgrounds, please.”

  Clive dipped his head and grasped Gerard’s upper arm. The smaller, older man continued to squawk and flail, but Clive’s grip was firm, and I didn’t doubt Gerard would be off-premises within minutes.

  “Oh, wait!” I called. Gerard turned back, a look of triumph on his face, but it quickly turned to defeat when I pulled off his lanyard that held his credentials to get in the back-stage area. “Please make sure security knows he’s off all my lists. Monique, too. I don’t want to see that woman either.”

  “Will do,” Clive rumbled.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I opened my laptop and dug through the emails until I found the one to Jon Singer, the record label exec who’d signed me a year and a half ago. After explaining my wife was pregnant and ill—the last bit patently false, but I didn’t have scruples left at this point—I signed off my email and started looking at flights to London.

  I slammed my head forward on my desk. My email pinged and I grabbed my phone, heart fluttering with the hope it was Ella. But no . . . this was from Jon, telling me to take care of my family. That if I needed any support, my contact was Angelica Gatlin.

  I called the number he gave.

  “Angelica.” Her voice was sunny, bright, but the words clipped.

  “This is Simon Dorsey.”

  “Yes. Seems you have a PR issue, Mr. Dorsey.”

  I considered it more of a life one. “I fired Monique. I need a new publicist. And to get out of my upcoming schedule. And to find out who hacked my email and sent a message to my lawyer. And . . .”

  “We have emails from you, responding to all our questions over the past few months. I’ll forward them to you. Based on your original note, it seems you aren’t aware of the number of correspondences.”

  ‘I’m not.”

  “The emails are on their way. Do you need me to help you make any travel plans? I’m assuming, based on the email from Jon, you’re going to see your wife in England.”

  “Yeah.” I blew out a breath. “I’ll make those. Just . . . can you help with the media?”

  “Jon wants me on this crisis until it’s completed. I’ll fly out to England as soon as I work through the immediate issues.”

  “Er, well, thanks, Ms. Gatlin.”

  “Call me Angelica. And for the record, I’m not a fan of Monique.”

  A few more emails popped into my inbox. I squinted at the tiny headers. All about my contract and touring.

  I opened them, my stomach aching more with each message.

  I’d given Gerard access to my email—seemed smart at the time so that he could respond to important messages more quickly than I’d have been able to.

  I created a new password for my email, then for all my social media accounts, and even my phone. Paranoid? Maybe. But I wasn’t taking any chances. Not after yesterday’s debacle.

  I’d read the rest of the messages later—on the plane.

  I rubbed the palms of my hands over my gritty eyes. I picked up my phone and dialed Ella’s phone number. Straight to voice mail. Of course. No way I’d get in touch with her unless I stood in the same room with her.

  “Ella,” I started. I blew out a breath. “We need to talk. I don’t know what happened. Please call me.”

  She wouldn’t. Ella was stubborn—and right now, hurt. She probably deleted any and all messages I sent.

  With a few clicks on the website, I booked a flight. The only way to work this out—work this through—was in person. As quickly as possible.

  My plane left in three hours.

  I jumped from my chair and pulled out my suitcase.

  5

  Ella

  Philip arrived next morning around 10:00 a.m., his bespoke suit covered in a dark charcoal cashmere coat that enhanced his eyes and pointed to his wealth and status—in that typical understated British way I missed. The United States was many things, but understated was not top of list. Philip handed me a posy of pink and purple sweet peas that I lifted to my nose, inhaling their fragrance with a small hum of pleasure.

  “Thank you.” I raised my tired, gritty eyes to his. “I adore sweet peas.”

  “I remember.” He removed his coat and settled it onto the sofa next to him. I’d taken the overstuffed club chair—a mistake with my growing belly, but also strategic. I didn’t want Jeremiah to see me cozying up next to another man. Not after Simon’s kiss with Monique yesterday. Keeping Jeremiah front in my mind wasn’t difficult. Like me, his world, his safety, was smashed to bits this week.

  Speaking of, my son barreled into the room, brows pulled low to glower at Philip.

  “You were with my mom yesterday.”

  Philip stood and offered his hand. “I was.”

  Jeremiah scowled, but his innate good manners overcame his frustration and he shook Philip’s hand.

  “What do you want with my mom?” Jeremiah asked, pulling himself up so he met Philip’s eyes directly.

  Philip’s lips quirked up in a hint of a smile as he took stock of my son.

  “Jeremiah,” I said on a sigh.

  “Don’t worry El-Bel.” My cheeks reddened at the endearment, one I hadn’t heard since Philip went off to uni and I stayed home to finish Year Twelve. “He’s just looking out for you.” He settled himself back on the stiff sofa cushion and patted the seat beside him. “I’m your mum’s friend, first and foremost.” He raised his eyebrow, waiting for me to deny the connection we used to share.

  Jeremiah refused the offer of a seat and instead crossed his arms over his chest. “But you like her. Gramps said you to use to go out.”

  “I dated Philip about twenty years ago, darling.” No reason to beat around the bush.

  “Your mother was my first love.” Philip’s smile turned sad. “My only love outside my work, really.”

  “Philip, I don’t—”

  “But, you see, she’s smart, your mother. And she knew, even at seventeen, I wasn’t ever going to be the man she needed.”

  Oh. My heart ached at his words. For a year and a half, Philip was my everything.

  “You, like, want to get with her now or something?”

  Jeremiah’s hands fisted, and Philip, acting the fool, patted his balled-up hands. “Not at all.”

  I jerked, surprised but the surety in Philip’s voice.

  “Your mother’s coming out of a relationship with your father. One, I daresay, took her by surprise and hurt her.”

  Jeremiah nodded, his eyes losing some of the shuttered defensiveness I hated. “Then what do you want?”

  Always curious. But now, suspicious, too. I closed my eyes, too weary of the constant ache in my heart to correct Jeremiah’s manners.

  “What I want isn’t the question. Your mother needs people who care for her. I’m one of those people, same as you.”

  Philip’s words should have filled me with pleasure, but they didn’t. Dread ate at the edges of my mind, overwhelming me. Simon filed for divorce. We’d had no separation. He just . . . left me because I no longer fit his life.

  I wasn’t ready for this. Any of it.

  I bowed my head, once again refusing to let the tears build or fall.

  Jeremiah sucked in a big breath that caused a slight whistle when it passed his teeth. “Well, that’s okay, I guess. If you just want to be friends. Mom could use one of those while we’re here. But don’t go hurting her feelings or anything. She’s pregnant and needs to chill out.”

  I stifled a laugh as I raised my head. “Let me guess—Briar?”

  “Yeah, Aunt Briar said babies take up lots more space in your head and heart than in your body.”

  “Smart lady, your aunt,” Philip said with a smile in his voice.

  “Yeah, she’s okay,” Jeremiah said with a shrug. “You sure you don’t want to date my mom? Or kiss her?” Jeremiah practically growled those last words.

  Philip leaned in closer, his eyes twinkling. “Well, who wouldn’t want to kiss her? She’s very pretty. But I won’t.” Philip raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of supplication. “Kinsmen’s promise.”

  “What’s that?” Jeremiah asked, back to being suspicious.

  “I promise on my father’s grave I shan’t kiss you mother or do anything else you could construe as romantic or inappropriate.”

  Jeremiah studied Philip for a long moment. “All right. See that you don’t.” He turned to me, his expression filled with concern, looking so much like his father; I couldn’t stop the lump forming in my throat. Why did I keep having this reaction? No one died. My son glowed with health and energy, my baby lay safe in my womb. Jeremiah wrapped his arm around my shoulder in a gentle gesture, completely at odds with his typical exuberance, and kissed my cheek.

  “Gramps, Gran, and I are going to go get the tree.”

  “Oh! I’ll go, too.”

  Jeremiah’s face morphed into the same stern lines Simon’s did when he was displeased with me. “You will not. Gran wants you to stay here and rest.” When I opened my mouth to argue, he said, “Please, Mom.”

  I snapped my jaw shut and smiled, cupping his cheek. “I like the fluffy ones.”