I bulldoze right past her, shoving a finger pretty close to Margot’s face.

  “You might have permission to probe into my past and ask me all sorts of ridiculously personal questions, but don’t drag my daughter into your little game. Jesus Christ, you press leeches are all the same. You get my kid alone for a second and you dig through her brain to pull out any dirty background you can get on me or our life.”

  “Dad!” Shiloh smacks her hand against the counter. “That’s not what she was doing—”

  Margot walks forward a step or two so that my pointed finger is inches from her nose.

  “You act like I’m some paparazzi scumbag violating your rights and watching in glee as you hurt yourself. I’m a professional, I’m fair, and I was simply talking to Shiloh about her college prospects in polite conversation. I’m not sure you know how to have one of those, but this is what it looks like.”

  It’s the first time she’s let any of her ire or bias when it comes to me show through, and I like that I’ve needled her. Margot’s cheeks turn pink, and she knows she lost her temper, even marginally. I’d love to see what happens when this woman lets go of the leash all the way.

  “Dad!” Shiloh interrupts our stare-off, and Margot stumbles back, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. “That’s not what she was doing at all, jeez. You’re like an uncivilized barbarian, I swear. Margot, forgive him, he doesn’t speak to people … well, ever. Dad, she was simply being nice, and it’s refreshing that someone wants to talk about me going to college.”

  I cut her a look and try to whisper out the side of my mouth like Margot can’t hear everything I’m saying. “I talk to you about college, you know I care. We’re not doing this right now.”

  Shiloh rolls her eyes and then gives me the same glare I’ve perfected at others over the years. Shit, my child is scarier than me sometimes.

  “Whatever.” I blow out a breath, then turn to Margot, who is trying not to look embarrassed.

  “Now if you’ll put some goddamn clothes on, we can get on with this fucking interview.”

  7

  MARGOT

  The last day of my extended week comes before I can even blink.

  Except the minute I open my eyes, in the hotel room that is starting to look all too familiar, I panic with the knowledge that I don’t have anything near good enough to write this article with. The information Dane has provided is so minimal it would barely fill a paragraph, much less a page. And I have to fill three.

  After he “caught” me talking to Shiloh about Bethson University in his kitchen, it was like the gates that had marginally risen were slammed down and locked tight. For four days, we’ve sat in near silence in that freaking sunroom, my frustration and anger building higher and higher.

  I haven’t exploded again … at least not yet. I was embarrassed about being in his kitchen in an oversized concert tee and not much else, but it had felt strange to tiptoe over and make myself a coffee in my day-old clothes. What would have been worse, wearing lent pajamas or venturing out in an outfit that made me feel like I was doing the walk of shame? Plus, I thought it had been early enough no one would have been up.

  And then the way I spoke to him when he accused me of using and manipulating his daughter. My cheeks flame just thinking of how unprofessional I’d been as I duck into my rental car and head over to Dane’s hideaway.

  The whole ride, I panic spiral about what I’m going to say to Petra or how I’ll get Dane to finally open up in the eleventh hour. And, well, I doubt myself. This is my first interview and article since I returned to work after the accident, and I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew. I’m usually more on the ball, more intuitive about how to get someone to open up. Convincing Petra to give me this story was probably the wrong move; Dane is as private and secretive as they come, and dealing with his mood swings on my first article back is not good for my mental health.

  But I am willing to give it one more shot. If I came up empty-handed, it might be the end of my career at Dash Mod. I’ve been ineffective and absent from my job for close to a year, so I don’t know what they might do.

  Against all hope, I steel myself with a polite smile and my notebook, acting like it’s Captain America’s shield, and walk up to Dane’s front door.

  The weather is milder today, a bearable heat with clouds glazed over the skies. In my time in Texas, I’ve learned to dress in mostly cotton and keep my hair off my neck. Dane’s property feels so secluded that there is barely any noise save for a boat down on the lake, stories below. Desert plants and canopies of green trees combine in a beautiful aesthetic while laid stone paths zigzag across the property, giving it a botanical garden feel.

  “He isn’t here.”

  I turn to see Brady greet me at the door, holding it open for me to come in.

  My heart slams into my ribcage, panic seizing me. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

  “He went out last night, didn’t come home and still hasn’t. He does this sometimes, but he is allergic to cell phones and so I have no way to track him down.”

  Inside my head, my mind is racing. I have next to nothing to show for this trip; I can’t possibly write an article; I might be fired—

  “Yeah, yeah, I see your internal panic. Come in, let me get you some sweet tea. We’ll talk.”

  My legs feel heavy and numb as I follow him, with no other choice because the person I want to rage at isn’t currently available right now. Dane’s home is in its usually immaculate, comfortable state. A glass pitcher of sweating iced tea filled to the brim with lemons is sitting on the kitchen island, and I’m suddenly so thirsty I nearly can’t breathe.

  The house smells of something sweet today, like someone stuck an entire bushel of peaches in the oven and let them bake.

  “What’s that smell?” I can’t help but ask, even if my article is currently falling apart in front of my eyes.

  “I made a cobbler this morning. Stress baking is my coping mechanism.” Brady smirks at me.

  I want that cobbler but hold my tongue. “He’s nice, invites me for beverages, and bakes? Why couldn’t this article have been about you? Would have made my job ten times easier.”

  “It would have. Too bad no one cares who the fuck I am.” He chuckles as he pours me a glass and we both sit down at stools tucked into the island. “Anyway, I have a solution to your problem.”

  After gulping down tea sweeter than the lip gloss I used to shellac on in middle school, I grimace. Not at the drink but at his words. Because they imply that I have a problem in the first place, which I’ve been trying to deny for a week.

  “Would that solution be that you’ll spill all of Dane’s deep dark secrets so that I can go on my merry way and we’ll just disguise all of your stories as ones he told me himself?” The grin I wear is both sad and stupidly hopeful.

  Brady shakes his head. “No, but I admire the effort. Unfortunately, for you and me, I’m as loyal as they fucking come. And the guy would probably shoot me with one of his many guns if I did spill the tea. So, no. But I do have a plan.”

  When he pauses, I wave my hand in a circular motion, waiting on the edge of my seat to see how he can possibly save my career and life. Because the thing is, if I go home with what I have now … well, I have nothing. I can’t write the article, my magazine just spent travel expenses on me and cleared budget space for nothing. And in the eyes of my coworkers, I will have failed.

  “I think you should stay here. With us. Stay in the guesthouse for a month or even two. Though Dane might act like having you here and this article is the biggest inconvenience of his life, he won’t back out. There are many reasons why he won’t. So you’ll never have to worry about him kicking you out, even though he’ll flip. But in my opinion, this is the only way you get your story. Observation. Being so close that he can’t possibly ignore you.”

  Unexpectedly, although I guess I don’t know the proper reaction my body is supposed to have, my heart drops to my feet. Brady’s suggestion leaves me breathless and perhaps scared. This week has been eye-opening, and I’ve barely spoken to Dane. Or, well, he’s barely spoken to me. Ever since that night on the balcony, something has been sitting right there between us that neither of us will acknowledge.

  Which seems crazy in itself, since I don’t know this man at all. He’s a relative stranger. Yet I’ve never felt the way I do in his presence with anyone else on earth.

  But staying here for a month? Or two? Having to live in his orbit, watch him, and shadow him? It would be unnerving. I have no idea what would happen, and that scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

  “You can’t extend that invitation.” I shake my head, hoping Brady wizens up and realizes what a terrible idea this is.

  Except, he just keeps pushing.

  “Think about it, this is all in. This is the exclusive you’re looking for. Shadowing Dane for however long it takes to get enough for your article? Immersing yourself in his world, in his everyday actions and thoughts? That’s better than any hours-long interview. He doesn’t want to spell it out for you, he’s never been that kind of guy. So you observe him. Narrative journalism, isn’t that what they call it? That famous piece on Frank Sinatra, isn’t that what the writer did?”

  How Brady Lochan knows about that piece of journalistic history is beyond me. “Well, yes, but …”

  “You need to get his story for your magazine. He can’t pull out of this but refuses to sit down with you. So compromise. Stay here for as long as it takes. Shadow him, I bet your boss would fucking love that idea. What journalist is ever given all access to a celebrity for an extended period, much less that celebrity being Dane? This is a once in a lifetime chance. ‘My Months with the Superstar.’ That has a ring to it, you have to admit. Your magazine would go gaga for it. We both know that.”

  Brady’s eyebrow raise is devilish, and I know he’s up to more than he’s letting on, but he isn’t wrong.

  I weigh it all in my head, my mind racing as I go down every avenue and excuse. But what Brady is suggesting, well, it’s the perfect plan. Aside from convincing Petra—which, when he puts it like that, won’t take much—and the logistics of moving myself here for a few months, there isn’t that much standing in the way. Yes, the article will get pushed to the next issue, but it still upholds the contract, and it means we’ll get the freaking story.

  So why do I feel like I might throw up right now? That goddamn Texas heat.

  “You get that I hate this, right? And that I hate you suggesting it?” It feels like a breach of journalistic boundaries to be this frank with Dane’s right-hand man, but if I’m going to stay here, I won’t just be the reporter next door.

  I’m going to immerse myself in their lives. I have to befriend them. The experience will be confusing and, as Brady said, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity. And this is Dane we’re talking about, a person I’ve been itching to know more about since I first bought his album behind my parents’ backs.

  “Yeah. But you also kind of love it or you wouldn’t have that scheming look on your face,” he points out, sipping his iced tea like he’s the perfect angel.

  Sighing, because he’s right, I excuse myself and go out to sit in my rental car. Thoughts zoom around my head, and I have to focus on each section, debate it, and give the pros and cons. My heart is racing, everything in my body telling me this will end badly. But the professional side of me won’t give this up, and I know the decision I’ll ultimately make—the one I would have made from the start.

  Five hours and a checked-out hotel room later, I have Petra’s approval, the magazine’s extended budget, and a call in to the relocation company Dash Mod uses, who will be shipping some of my things to Austin.

  Just like that, I’m moving in with Dane and company.

  8

  DANE

  “You what?”

  My hands ball into fists as Brady dribbles the basketball casually, like he didn’t just tell me he fucking ruined my life.

  “I invited Margot to live here for the foreseeable future until she can get her story. You clearly weren’t giving her anything to work with, and since we both know you have to do this article, I improvised.”

  “I could fucking kill you,” I growl, going in like a viper and stealing the ball from his hands.

  We were playing a leisurely game of one-on-one, as we tend to do most afternoons, but suddenly it’s become do-or-die. Well, at least on my side of the ball.

  Brady shrugs as I whip around him and dunk so harshly that the hoop’s rim reverberates against the backboard. Blood pulses in my ears, making a whooshing sound that almost has me nauseous.

  She’s going to live here, right under my nose, until I fucking talk to her. Until I spill all the darkest parts of myself. Talk about my own worst nightmare.

  “Eh, you’ve threatened that a lot. Even punched me a few times. I figured it was worth the risk.” My best friend is unrepentant as he swipes the ball away and dribbles it under his legs.

  I try to track his motions, but I’m too fucking angry, and he goes up for a jump shot that makes it in.

  The sun is too bright for my mood, the heat too stifling. Even with the palm trees I had planted all around the fenced-in court, there isn’t enough shade.

  “Brady, this is my fucking house. My life! You know better than to invite someone in without my permission.” As if I haven’t strived my entire career to keep this exact thing from happening.

  “Hey, you already invited her, my friend. I just furthered along the interview you agreed to.”

  “By inviting her to stay in the guesthouse for two months!” I have no idea if that’s the actual amount of time, but that’s what Brady said.

  I disappeared the night before our last interview and haven’t spoken to Margot since that day. Going out, getting absolutely hammered, and sleeping it off in the apartment I own downtown was probably one of the more fucking stupid ideas I’ve had in the last five years. But I couldn’t stand to be alone with my thoughts.

  Not only is Margot herself something my mind can’t wrap around, but the ideas and memories she evokes makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I haven’t even spoken much about those things, yet the thought of her grilling me on that last day sent me running. I knew she’d be desperate, that she’d bring out the big gun rumors for me to answer to, and I balked. I spent the night on Rainey Street with my hat pulled low, inhaling tequila shots and tumblers of whiskey. It was by the grace of God that I hadn’t been recognized.

  But now I have to face reality, all thanks to Brady, because my worst fear is about to move onto my property.

  “If you won’t talk to her, she has to get the article somehow. So I sold her on an observation piece. Sure, you’ll still have to sit down with her to discuss the major life events, but all that small talk bullshit you hate will be left for her to narrate herself in the piece. She can shadow you, sit in on studio sessions, and watch you with Shiloh. Honestly, buddy, I’m trying to do you a favor here.”

  Still doesn’t feel like it at all, and his smile confirms that, but I can’t deny that he had a better idea than the initial one.

  “If this ends badly, I’ll kick you the fuck out.” I dribble, contemplating it all as we grapple back and forth for the ball.

  “My house is in my name.” He rolls his eyes, knowing I’d never do that.

  I hate that the people who really know me know that on the inside, I have a heart two sizes too big. A fact I’ll have to keep locked up tight where Margot is concerned.

  As if conjured by my ire, I watch as Margot walks across my grounds just above the slope that leads down to the basketball court. She hasn’t spotted us yet, and her head is in her phone as she wheels a singular suitcase along the bumpy gravel behind her.

  Her hips and ass sway as she walks, one of those ridiculous pleated skirts flirting at mid-thigh. It pisses me off that I want to drool like a dog.

  This arrangement is going to end terribly. I feel it in the air. And yet, as she makes her way toward the pool and the guesthouse, I don’t call out to stop her.

  I’ll let her invade my life, all the while knowing I’ll destroy hers if she gets too close.

  “On your second album, there is a song detailing how it felt to live alone at such a young age. You’ve never spoken on that publicly, and I’m wondering if you want to address it now?”

  This woman has invaded my life, and it’s my own damn fault.

  If I had just given Margot Hallow what she wanted on that first day, I would not be slowly tortured with her presence every single day. My business manager and best friend would not have invited her to stay on my property.

  Now here we are, two days after she took over my guesthouse. The moving company showed up with her U-Haul and dumped half a dozen boxes on the front steps of said house.

  At first, I’d refused to even acknowledge her. She had made herself scarce, and part of me thinks she isn’t quite comfortable with this idea either. Fucking Brady. I know he’s up to something, but I won’t give him the pleasure of inquiring like a nosy asshole, if only because I know he wants that.

  “No.” If she wanted to know specifics, she could listen to the damn song.

  It’s why I’d written it, hell, it’s why I’d written all of my songs. It was why and how I was able to teach myself to play guitar on a rusty old thing I bought at a pawn shop when I was thirteen. Cashed the three measly paychecks that showed up at our family home after my mom split town and used them to buy an instrument that needed major tuning and half it’s strings replaced.

  But I did it. I worked my way from nothing. I learned how to compose bridges and rhyme lyrics. How to infuse soul and hurt and tragedy into melodies so that I could tell the world my pain without ever speaking a word of it. I found music as a teenager, at a time when I could have disappeared and no one in the world would have given a lick. From the time I strung together three decent sounding chords, music had invaded my blood and finally given me something worth living for.