“Have you had a chance to talk to him? Really talk to him? Or is that connection not there anymore?”

  “It’s there.” I shake my head as if I don’t want it to be there. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  She twists her lips in the way that has me wanting to know what she’s thinking. “Then I guess that means there hasn’t been any time for you two to talk about . . . things.”

  “Like how we left it that last time we saw each other? Me waking up and him being nowhere to be found? Me calling him over and over without a single response? Being railroaded by his manager and being put in my place so I knew I was just one in Vince’s long list of many? You mean that talk?” I snort. “I’m pretty sure we’re either both avoiding it, or it only really mattered on my end because of what resulted from it.”

  “You slept together. I’d think that would matter to both of you.”

  “Mom, he’s a rock star. I’m not naïve enough to think that he doesn’t have women lined up outside his dressing room before and after every show.”

  “And that doesn’t bug you?”

  “I’m not with him, am I? It’s his business what he does. He’s a big boy.”

  Her eyes hold mine, and her smile softens some as she sees what I’ve been trying to hide all along. Maybe even to myself.

  “You never stopped loving him, did you?” she murmurs.

  My throat burns with emotion. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Maybe I don’t have an answer to the question.”

  “And maybe you’re being evasive like you are when you know the answer but fear it’s going to upset me.” She glances back to Jagger, her eyes steadfast on him when she speaks.

  “Upset you? No. But, I mean . . . look at him and look at me.”

  “Meaning?”

  I tilt my head to the side and simply stare at her as I hold my hands out. “He’s ridiculously successful while I’m still in school and working toward getting accepted to law school and eventually passing the bar exam. He’s lusted after by millions, and this body of mine isn’t exactly in prime shape.”

  “First, yes, you’re working toward the bar. Do you know how many people would have given up their dream? You haven’t, so I don’t want to hear a word about that. And second, do you really want to get me started on how you see yourself?”

  “Noted. Never mind.” I laugh it off, but it doesn’t take away my insecurities.

  “No. Not never mind. You asked it, so I’m going to say it. What’s wrong with your body? So your curves are more pronounced than they were in high school. That’s called being normal. That’s called maturing. That’s called having a baby. That’s called being a voluptuous woman.”

  “It’s called having stretch marks.”

  “And every damn one of them gave you that beautiful boy outside so I’m not going to hear it. Besides, I never remembered Vince being a shallow man. He did love you even when you had braces. Then that permed hair phase where you looked like a poodle.” She shivers. “Oh, and even the white, sparkly eyeshadow phase. I mean—”

  “Yes. Okay. I get it.” I chuckle. “But that didn’t mean that seeing him again made me feel less than when he’s become so much more.”

  “And he made you feel this way? He said oh, wow, you have Marilyn Monroe curves and a nice ass, and I don’t like that?”

  “Seriously, Mom?”

  “Did he?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Point made.” She gives me a resolute nod and then a smug smile. “Now that we’ve debunked that myth, I’m going to say this. Vince is the only man I’ve ever seen you upset over. Twice. That says a lot, which is why I asked if you ever stopped loving him.”

  Her comment opens a door I’m afraid to step through. If I don’t give her an outright answer, then I don’t have to acknowledge it myself.

  Who am I kidding, though?

  I knew it from the moment I heard his voice that first night at the sound stage.

  “I think a part of me will always love him,” I finally admit.

  “Mmm,” she says in that way that makes me feel judged. No one ever wants to feel judged by their parents.

  “I’m older now. I’m wiser,” I say, feeling the need to justify my comment. “I could love him all I want, but that isn’t going to make him stay. And I deserve that. Someone who will stay and make a life with me. Not someone who refuses to put down roots. He can say all he wants that it’s because of his lifestyle—touring and whatever—but I know it’s because of his parents. If you don’t put your feet down, you can’t get attached, and therefore you can’t get hurt. You can’t get left behind.”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

  “It’s all I’ve been thinking about. Then and now. Besides, I’ve internally justified my decisions a lot over the years.”

  “Unnecessarily, but I understand.” She takes a sip of her water. “So what now? If that connection is there, who says he isn’t going to ask you out while he’s here?”

  “I know deep down that anything with Vince would be fleeting.” The almost kiss in the elevator fills my head. I haven’t stopped thinking about it or him, to be fair. “The problem is I’d get attached. He’ll move on to the next city, the next woman, the next whatever, and I’d be here hurting. I’ve already let the man hurt me more than enough.”

  “No one ever said love always felt good.”

  “Then why feel it at all?”

  “Because it’s not a choice. It’s just something that happens even when you don’t want it to.”

  “Why do you sound like you’re encouraging this?”

  “The only thing I’m encouraging you in is whatever decisions you make.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bristol

  “What do you mean you don’t know how the recording sessions are going? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping tabs on him? Making sure he has everything he needs? Is this job too much for you, Matthews? Do I need to put someone else on Jennings?”

  Xavier’s words run on repeat through my mind. His barked words through the telephone that I luckily answered, even though I was in the middle of a spin class.

  The one and only spin class I’ve been able to make in the last month and of course, my boss interrupts it, once again reinforcing how much of a life I don’t have. He thinks mine should be lived solely for him.

  But I asked “how high” to his proverbial command to jump. Of course, I did because I’m standing at the door to Bellinger Studios where Vince is supposedly inside. I didn’t know the answers to Xavier’s questions because I’ve been avoiding Vince.

  Not exactly an easy feat when I’m supposed to be tending to him, but a few doses of my own reality—Jagger falling off his bike and skinning his knees, a professor telling me that he expected more from me on the paper I turned in, my car acting up so much that I’m afraid of what the mechanic will say when I take it in—were all the reminder I needed. This is my life, and Vince’s is the polar opposite.

  The question is, what do I intend to do before that day happens?

  “Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself and pull open the nondescript door to the building in front of me, hoping like hell I’m in the right place.

  The walls are dark and the lighting dim, and there is no one manning the front desk. Nor does it look like anyone has manned it in some time by the large stacks of various things covering its surface.

  Fearful of calling out and messing someone’s recording session up, I stand there for a few minutes debating what to do. I could always text Vince and let him know I’m here, but then that would give him my cell phone number and I’m not certain I want him to have that yet.

  Ridiculous, I know.

  Standing in indecision, I startle at the sound of a door opening, closing, followed by footsteps down the hall.

  “Hey. Hi. Who are you here for and do they know you’re coming?”

  I flash a smile despite feeling way out of my element. “I’m Bristol Matthews with McMann Media. Here to see Vincent Jennings and no, he doesn’t know I’m coming.”

  He angles his head to the side and narrows his eyes as he studies me for a beat before breaking out in a slow crawl of a smile. “Maybe you can put that surly fucker in a good mood for once. Fuck, man. All I’ve been getting is Asshole Vince. And I can deal with Asshole Vince, but it sure would be nice to have Normal Vince back for a while.”

  “That bad, huh?” I ask.

  “Down the hall. Last door on the right.” His pat on my back and chuckle are the only answer he gives me. “Good luck. I have to pick up my daughter from school. I’ll be back.”

  “Wait, you’re leaving me alone with him?”

  His laugh is even louder as he pushes the door open and steps outside.

  Surly.

  Asshole.

  Great. At least I know what I’m walking into.

  When I open the door to the darkened room, there’s a glass window in front of me, soundboards at the bottom with all kinds of buttons and toggles lit up. I hear someone fiddling with a guitar, the same string over and over, followed by a barked out and very frustrated curse.

  And there he is.

  I involuntarily suck in a breath when I see Vince. He’s in a room—white walls lined with industry recognition—sitting on a stool. His guitar is resting across his lap, his back hunched over, and his fingers are on the frets. His eyes are closed, and some of his hair is falling over his forehead that’s scrunched in concentration.

  Sure he’s a devastating package to look at, the kind of man who makes you stop to look twice and try to figure out if he lives up to the bad-boy vibe he exudes, but when he opens his mouth to sing, he’s heart-stoppingly beautiful.

  At least he always has been to me.

  I stand there mesmerized as he works through guitar chords and mumbled lyrics. They don’t make any sense but somehow still have a rhythm to them that causes chills to chase over my skin and my body to sway back and forth.

  During my brief time in spin class, I had made the determination that I was not going to let Vincent Jennings wear me down in any way, shape, or form. No catching up over coffee. No reminiscing about how good we used to be together. No kissing just once for old times’ sake.

  Complete and utter self-preservation.

  And yet standing here, watching and listening to him, I hate the old feelings that are being stirred up like dust particles. The kind that dance in the stream of sunlight so you can see them, so you can study them, so you can wonder where they came from when you never realized they were there in the first place.

  The same dust particles you never notice when you’re in the dark because they no longer seem to matter.

  The question is, do I leave them settled in the dark or stir them around and bring them to light for a bit?

  And right now, they’re in the dark. Do I stay here and phone it in to Xavier that Vince is doing what he should be doing—working on his new album—or do I step into the light and let Vince know I’m here?

  Still undecided, I stand and watch Vince without him knowing. He’s where he belongs—in a studio with a guitar on his lap and a beat as much a part of him as the blood flowing through his veins.

  “Noah? You still there?” Vince calls out seconds after the music stops, and his hand taps over the strings to stop them.

  Keep them in the dark or bring them to light, Bristol? What will it be?

  I open the door into the studio, my mind suddenly justifying my actions by acknowledging the recording studio is dim, and therefore, I’m not exactly making a concrete decision yet.

  “Noah’s gone. Went to do the school pickup thing even though he doesn’t look much older than twenty.”

  Vince lifts his head slowly, that lopsided grin doing nothing to abate the intensity in the depths of his eyes, but it definitely brightens up the room.

  “Forty, but yeah, you’d never know,” he says as he sets his guitar down, folds his arms, and leans back in his chair. He studies me in that disarming way he has. The way he did when I met him during my freshman year that feels like his gaze is scraping over every single inch of you. It makes you stand a little taller and hope he likes what he sees. “This is a nice surprise. I thought you were ignoring me at all costs.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You forget, I know you.”

  “You knew me. Past tense.”

  I have just enough time to catch his nod before I turn to take in the room. His chuckle follows me as I do. It’s a gentle rumble that I swear I can feel in my chest even though that should be impossible.

  “You can say it all you want, Shug, but that doesn’t mean either of us is going to believe it.”

  I tickle my fingers over the keys of the piano then move to the drum set on the far side of the room and tap my fingernail against it.

  Vince has moved from his seat because I can feel him behind me—watching, following, waiting.

  “I’ve been summoned to provide an update on what you’ve been doing and how the songwriting is going. McMann needs to be kept in the know.”

  When Vince doesn’t respond, I turn to find him a few feet from me, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders resting against the wall at his back.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You don’t have to lie to get in here. It’s okay to admit that you miss the shit out of me and needed to see me again.” There’s that grin as his eyes draw down the length of me again.

  “Yes, that’s exactly it,” I say wryly.

  “Well, let’s see. You could have picked up the phone and called or texted to get your answer, but you didn’t. You came here instead.” He shrugs. “That indicates a whole hell of a lot to me.”

  “Yes, because the last thing I wanted to do today when I finally had a few moments to myself was leave my spin class twenty minutes in and run over here to babysit you.”

  “We’ll get back to that in a second.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, already irritated by his nonchalance.

  “You could have told good ol’ McMann if he wanted to see how I was doing, he could have come here himself.”

  “Then there would be no need for me and my job, so not the best advice.”

  We stand a few feet apart and simply stare at each other, almost as if we’re preparing ourselves for a war that is coming but that we’re unaware of.

  “True,” he finally says. “But I have better things to talk about than Xavier McMann. Like that spin class of yours.”

  “What about it?” It’s my turn to laugh now.

  He pushes himself off the wall in his signature unhurried way. “That’s a good look on you.”

  “What is?”

  “The leggings. The tight top.” He emits a feral groan deep in his throat that erases every ounce of my self-consciousness. “Jesus, are you trying to kill me?”

  “Whatever,” I say with a wave of a hand and a blush of my cheeks, more than thankful that today of all days, I decided to wear my super support leggings that hold everything where it should be.

  But that doesn’t make me feel any less self-conscious with his eyes assessing my every inch and what I feel are flaws.

  “Not whatever,” he murmurs. “You always could knock a man to his knees. Good to see some things haven’t changed even though you keep saying they have.”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

  He chuckles again. “That remains to be seen.”

  I have a dozen quips on the tip of my tongue, and yet they all seem to have died just like the dust particles left smothered in the darkness.

  The silence settles. Electricity snaps between us like it’s a live wire. If I can feel it, then I sure as hell know Vince can. The look on his face—the muscle in his jaw ticking, eyes narrowed, lids heavy—tells me as much. Nerves dance with the goosebumps that seem ever present when he’s near.

  How silly was I to think the dim light would allow me to stay in limbo over what to do when it came to him?

  I clear my throat. “Look, I’ve been thinking a lot about this.”

  “About what?”

  “About how we can work together despite our history.”

  “I didn’t know our history was a problem.”

  “It’s not. It is.” I hang my head and draw in a deep breath before meeting his eyes and holding my hands up. “I call a truce.”

  “A truce?” His eyebrows lift. “I wasn’t aware that we were fighting.”

  “We’re not . . . it’s just . . .”

  “It’s just that you still want me, and this is your way to justify why you’re angry at yourself for depriving yourself of me.”

  “It’s not always about you,” I bark, frustrated before I regroup. “We have a habit of falling right back into what we were—”

  “Just the once.”

  “It’s the only other time we’ve seen each other since high school,” I say. Just the once. “This has to remain professional. I have a job to do.”

  He nods with humor alight in his eyes that only serves to frustrate me more. “So there will be no wearing you down? No pressing you against the wall and kissing you breathless? No seeing if you still like being kissed on that spot on the inside of your thigh? No getting to know the current Bristol Matthews? No nothing?” he asks while I shift my feet. “Just a simple truce.”

  “Yes. A working relationship where we mutually benefit each other.”

  He snickers.

  “Professionally,” I warn despite my mind flashing back to that night we were together. “I need to give my boss an update.” He just continues to stare and smirk as if he knows where my thoughts are, so I turn and study the gold records lining the walls because they’re easier to look at than him. “How the writing is going? If you’re having any trouble or have any requests for Will and Jasmine? If you’ve seen the rough cuts of the Heart of Mine video and have any feedback?”