I’d wanted to dazzle Aya if I was going to see her again. I stared down at my bare feet. This outfit definitely wasn’t going to do it. I barely looked like I could dress myself.

  “Nash? I’m worried about you.”

  Right. Steve. I tried to remember what he’d said.

  “You and me both. And my guess is I’m going to need you around to keep me sober when she leaves. So, enjoy your few hours or whatever with the Sherry chick.”

  Steve muttered a curse. “There goes my only chance at sex.”

  “Well, at least you have a chance at it.”

  Steve narrowed his eyes. “I keep telling you, it’s not healthy to repress—”

  “Not interested,” I shot back.

  The monitor now showed Aya approaching the circular drive out front. “And your opinion doesn’t matter because I’m about to get my balls handed to me.”

  16

  Aya

  Nash Porter, the world’s sexiest man, as well as one of the hundred richest, opened the door to his house himself. His eyes widened, almost as if he couldn’t believe what—or rather who—he was seeing.

  His hair was longer, brushing his collar and drifting over his ears, and faintly damp from a recent shower or swim. His T-shirt clung to his chest, making it clear that he still worked out with the gusto he had back in high school.

  Always lean, he was now broader in the shoulders and thicker through the arms. His features were still classically handsome, notable in their symmetry, much as his mother’s had been, but they were both more defined and more rugged, as if he’d lived hard.

  From what I’d read, he had.

  A hint of shadow dusted his jawline, sharpening it. His lashes were long, and his eyes were still wide, the ever-present storms raging through their brown depths. I used to stare at Nash when he wasn’t looking, trying to decide if his eyes were more light brown or tawny. I’d never made a decision, but today they seemed to radiate deep emotion, which tugged at me with just as much potency as the dazzling spirals of color dancing toward his pupils.

  His jeans were soft and old, giving me a great view of his thighs. He tugged at his shirt, seeming concerned it wasn’t pulled down fully.

  I froze, my stomach hollowing out as I wondered if I’d caught him right after a tryst. My gaze darted over his shoulder, waiting for a lovely young woman to stroll out into the room. Half-naked, probably. Definitely freshly fucked.

  I slid my damp palms along my rumpled skirt as surreptitiously as possible, hoping to wipe away the shame.

  Of course Nash had a woman here. Why wouldn’t he? He was Nash Porter, most recent winner of the world’s sexiest smile.

  Yes, that was a thing. I’d stumbled across it on the Internet because I’d wanted to know what he was up to—and who he was dating. The Internet claimed he’d bedded every beautiful woman, yet none seemed to stick around for more than the one article linking them together.

  “Aya.”

  My name from his lips sent emotions cascading through me, my gaze darting back up to clash with his. Goose bumps rose over my arms in a ripple of awareness, much like I suspected I’d feel if a lightning bolt struck close by.

  He waited, no doubt for me to say hello. But I had a more burning concern. “Did I—am I interrupting something?”

  “No, and if you were, I’d get rid of whoever was here.”

  I plumbed his eyes, seeking truth in his statement. He reached forward as if to grasp my wrist, but he must have changed his mind because he let his hand fall. It hit his thigh with a soft thud, causing me to jump.

  I’d spent all of the thirteen-plus-hour plane ride, layover in Dallas, and the final leg of the journey to Austin’s much smaller airport fluctuating back and forth over what to say to him when I arrived.

  I touched the tassel of the malas. Nash’s gaze dipped to them, his expression frozen, as if he were holding himself back.

  Did he want…? He seemed to want to touch me.

  I wanted that, too. Except I didn’t. I couldn’t. Nash and I were strangers.

  Weren’t we?

  “I saw Lindsay,” I managed to choke out. I cringed. As if that information was most relevant. Well, it was part of the catalyst for my being here, so I guess it was.

  “Will you come inside?” he asked.

  I gripped my purse strap and hovered at the threshold. Finally, after an agonizing moment, I crossed into Nash’s home.

  It was large—I’d known that from the sprawling facade. But I hadn’t expected it to be so...homey. His parents’ house had been a showstopper, designed to awe guests with their taste and wealth. Everything had been oversized and sleek. I’d always considered their house like a castle—until my father had moved me into his family home. Its original structure, around which the manor had been built, had been a keep. Then I’d realized how much nicer the Porters’ home was, and less drafty.

  Nash’s home seemed comfortable and lived in, with lots of hardwood and earth tones. A round, low-slung wooden coffee table sat between two couches. On it rested an empty glass and a notebook with a fountain pen atop it. A gleaming guitar leaned against the couch.

  “Were you composing music?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck, dropping his gaze. “Well, I was trying.”

  “Not a good session?”

  He shot me a look from under those thick brows. Some would claim it was a smolder, but I knew this was just Nash—always intense, driven, yet off balance by my presence, unsure what to do with me.

  That made two of us.

  “Do you really want to talk about my songwriting?”

  I shook my head. With effort, I slid my purse from my shoulder and settled it behind the nearest couch—not the one Nash clearly preferred. It wasn’t leather but a micro suede. I ran my hand over the soft, tan material.

  Nash followed, close enough that I could have touched him as he skirted around me and settled on the love seat across the coffee table. He placed his guitar back in its case.

  Space it was, then. I swallowed down the nausea and butterflies. I’d expected nerves, but this level of anxiety surprised me. Yet behind the fear of him rejecting me again, a faint hum settled. The rightness of being near Nash, of being in his space, soothed something in my chest.

  Perhaps I was finally done looking for him, as Lindsay had accused me. Or done standing on the sidelines.

  I managed to settle my butt on the edge of the sofa and folded my hands in my lap, atop my pressed-tight knees, ankles tucked to the left.

  “You look good,” I ventured. His tee showed off his strong arms and defined chest. I refocused on his hair before bringing my gaze back to his eyes.

  Nash tilted his head, much like a predator trying to get a bead on its prey when it hadn’t simply run away. “So do you. Ravishing, in fact.”

  I patted my hair even as I scoffed. “Sixteen hours of travel are never kind, Nash.”

  “Sixteen? Ah. Commercial. You are so like your mom.” He smiled.

  It was brief, but it was filled with nostalgia and humor, and it stole my breath.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “Not that I’m not glad to see you,” he rushed on. “I am.” A faint blush bloomed across his cheeks. “I couldn’t believe it when you pulled up to the gate. I thought this had to be a trick for a pap to get inside.”

  Right to the point, then. A bowling ball seemed to lodge against my windpipe. “No trick. I saw Lindsay.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “She…ah…helped me.”

  “Really?” He looked uncertain, the storms building in his eyes.

  “We hadn’t spoken since…” I huffed. “Since the night I saw you going with her up the stairs.” I forced my gaze to meet his, stay there.

  A deep furrow built between his brows. “Not in all this time? Don’t you run in the same circles?”

  “I refused to acknowledge her.”

  A smile flitted across his lips. “That’s ice cold.”

  “She didn’t deserve my friendship,” I snapped.

  He shook his head. “No, she didn’t. She was never kind to you, which was most of the reason I couldn’t stand her.”

  He took in a long, slow breath. I noted the fine blades of his cheekbones, the faint pallor under his normal skin tone. He wasn’t at death’s door, as Lindsay and even Jenna had suggested, but he’d been unwell recently.

  I opened my mouth, closed it. Time rushed past, even as it seemed to slow down. I had no idea how long we sat there. Nash’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His nostrils flared, and his face grew more menacing. He was beautiful. Not in a Michelangelo’s cold, marble David way, but as a perfect specimen of masculinity. Nash was warm. His lips were full and a little too pink, and his cheekbones, thanks to that illness, were better chiseled than David’s.

  “I needed to see you,” I finally told him.

  His breath stuttered, but he remained silent.

  I clenched my hands into fists and pressed my thighs together. Get the words out, Aya.

  “I…I was offered an engagement.”

  His gaze shuttered, his face leeching of that animation I’d been admiring as well as all color. “I see.”

  “I declined because…” I squeezed my legs even tighter and straightened my spine. “Dammit, Nash. All it took was Jenna Grace bringing you up, and I couldn’t let this...thing between us fester any longer. It’s been years. I’ve been angry, hurt, humiliated. I need to hear what you have to say so I can let it go. Let us go.”

  “Is that what you want?” His voice was raspy. The muscles in his face shifted, turned hard. “If so, there’s really nothing to say.”

  I slammed my teeth together so quickly I winced. “I think there is,” I managed. “You never told me why.”

  He rose in one smooth motion, a caged tiger on the prowl. “You disappeared before I could.”

  I scoffed. “Like I was going to stick around for you to fuck Lindsay mere hours after you’d left my bed.”

  He flinched so hard he stumbled. He rested his hands on the back of the nearest sofa, his fingers gripping to the point his nailbeds turned white.

  “For the record, I never touched her—not on purpose, anyway. She drugged me. I was trying to get away.” His eyes sought mine, storms raging. “I wouldn’t have done that to you, not even high on meth and LSD.”

  “I thought… The other students were already deriding me. My mum had just died—”

  He pressed his fingertips to his eyes. “Shit, Aya, that was a bad night. Don’t you think I go over it in my head? Wish I’d never gone to Hugh’s party? Never gone home to see why Brad was texting me? If I’d stayed at your place, you would have curled up next to me, tucked in close. We could have cried together, been in shock together.”

  “But we didn’t. You hurt me,” I said. My jaw quivered. “No, you publicly humiliated me right at the time I needed you most…” I shook my head and rose on unsteady legs. This wasn’t how I’d wanted this to go, but I couldn’t help myself. The sleepless nights and jet lag seemed to catch up with me in a rush, and I swayed. “I guess that’s that. History aired.”

  I forced myself to turn my back and round the sofa, keeping my dignity intact. The next move was Nash’s. I collected my bag and headed toward the door.

  Nash stepped in front of me. His palms slid around my shoulders, bringing my body closer to his. I wanted to lean into him, to rest my head on his shoulder to have him hold me as he used to. To hold me like I needed him to.

  That’s why I’d come here. I might’ve professed that I wanted to clear the air for my return to Austin, but really, I needed him, the only person in my life I’d relied on besides my mother. I needed Nash to offer me the comfort he hadn’t that night.

  I tipped my head back, lips parted to ask him what the hell he was doing.

  His eyes were filled with remorse. “I’m so sorry about your mom, Ay. I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

  He held me loosely, giving me the chance to break away. The silence stretched, spiraled. I waited.

  “I know how the video looked. And I’m utterly sorry I hurt you—especially then, when you needed me.”

  My breath caught, and tears built in my eyes. “I…” I whispered. “I gave in to my fears. That’s why I didn’t give you a chance to explain. I was sure you wanted Lindsay because all the boys did.” I dropped my head. “I was wrong—for believing you wanted her, but more for not having faith in you.”

  Nash studied me a moment. “I just got out of rehab,” he said.

  I supposed he thought he was admitting some great sin. Or some great secret.

  “I expect you and the rest of the world know that,” he continued before I could respond. “One of the things I did at that place, something new, was therapy. I spent hours in it—first to figure out what’s wrong with me and then to work on how to fix it.”

  I frowned, unsure what this had to do with me.

  “When Lev died, my parents basically abandoned me, Aya. Until you showed up—at first just in emails and texts—I had no one. I never felt safe. Then, I wrapped myself so tightly around you that I didn’t let you breathe. I didn’t let you be whoever you needed, wanted to be. And I didn’t know what to do when you pulled away. After I saw you with that first boyfriend, everything turned hopeless. Touring was exactly what everyone had told me it would be—a grind. I drank too much. Then I picked up pills—all the things I’d watched Mom do to ease her pain.”

  He shook his head. “Eventually I didn’t remember days of my life, and that scared me. So I had to take a long look at my choices, what I’d done to myself. I’ve had to sit down with all the important people in my life and tell them how much they mean to me and how sorry I am for my choices and the pain they caused them.”

  He tugged me a little closer, his face shining with earnestness. “I’ve done a lot of that, but it’s always been you I needed to apologize to the most. Because I loved you, Aya—even way back then. Even before I could figure out how to say it.”

  My eyes widened. Noting my reaction, he smiled, but it was tremulous—so un-Nash-like. Nash was bold, confident. This man seemed unsure, but filled with fortitude.

  “I’m sorriest that I never told you that.” He swallowed. “It’s what sowed the doubt between us. I understand now how much you needed reassurance. But all I could see was how supposed love had caused my parents to destroy each other. And they dragged me down into their cesspit with them.”

  I hadn’t much considered how his parents’ messed-up marriage had impacted his ideas about love—that wasn’t at all like what we’d shared. We’d been laughter and purity even when the world attempted to intrude. But his parents had circled each other, making sure they were photographed with a person the other hated, going to great lengths to goad and hurt the other through the media, who printed each scrap for fans to lap up. Because I hadn’t realized that’s what Nash thought of as love, I’d been hurt when he wouldn’t tell me he loved me.

  Yes, I’d been wrong, too. So very wrong.

  No one, me included, had considered how those words, those images impacted Nash. I swallowed, realizing the disservice we’d all done to the young man searching for his way, longing for acceptance and connection.

  He slid his palms across my shoulders and up the sides of my neck. He cupped my cheeks, his thumbs against my temples. “I couldn’t articulate it back then because the only word I knew represented what had happened to my parents. I was too afraid of what that could mean for us. But I understand now that you’ve always been my person, my love, my home.”

  17

  Nash

  Relief rushed through me. It felt so good to finally say that. My fingers eased off Aya’s cheeks, and I smoothed my palms up and down the soft skin of her arms, worried I’d left bruises when I’d grabbed her. Caring for another—or myself—wasn’t something I’d focused on in recent years. But inherently, I wanted Aya to be safe. Safe and happy. Preferably near me. Scratch that. With me, on me.

  The opening refrain from Coldplay’s “The Scientist” drifted through my head, the soft piano building to Chris Martin’s melancholy lyrics. Beautiful as that song was, it was soon overwhelmed by Lewis Capaldi’s “Before You Go.” It still seemed to fit Aya’s understanding of me then. I wasn’t sure how to fix that. I rarely cared what people thought of me. I didn’t need to. But Aya’s opinion mattered.

  I cleared my throat. These fucking emotions, the songs battering my brain, wreaked havoc with my ability to communicate, but I persevered. I had to. So much needed to be conveyed before she tried to bolt again.

  Which I understood. Fuck, I understood Aya’s need to hide away better than anyone. She had slid into numbness just as surely as I had downed liquor and pills to get to the same place.

  “I’ve needed to say that to you for years,” I told her. “I should have said this long before, too. I love you, Aya Jane Aldringham. I didn’t say it before because of my fear of messing us up. Turns out that destroyed us, and I can’t let it sit between us any longer. I can’t, pretty girl.”

  She stared up at me, her eyes wide, guileless, burning into my deepest, darkest secrets. They were all about her, so really, she had every right to them.

  She inhaled hard through her nose. “You’re right. It was fear.” She clasped my wrists, her fingers cool, her grip strong.

  “I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone since Lev, and I only said it to him when he was in a fucking coffin.” I paused, considering my relationship with words. I wove stories with them, evoked emotion in others. Yet in my own case, three words had destroyed my world.

  Her face softened, and her lips parted. “Oh.” The sound escaped as if she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  I brushed my knuckles over her cheek, trying to ignore the flurry of nerves blooming in my belly. “I wasn’t ready for you. Not if I wasn’t willing to admit my feelings for you. I see that now.”