Sophie

IT’S FAIRLY STUNNING how quickly and effectively finding out you’re wrapped around a man who works with your potential boss will kill the mood. Not that I’d expected anything from the stuffy but oh-so-hot Gabriel Scott. I was under no illusions that we wouldn’t part ways as soon as the plane landed.

And, really, that would be for the best. I have sworn off hookups, as I’ve concluded they’re bad for my mental health. I’ve dealt with too many dick biscuits to continue with casual sex. Even if I hadn’t, Gabriel isn’t exactly offering. I’ve never met a more standoffish, prickly man.

I’d wonder if he’s simply arrogant—a perfectly formed man who doesn’t deign to mix with average women like me. But it’s fairly clear he’s this way with everyone.

So, yes, leaving this beautiful being behind at the tarmac has always been part of the plan. Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so free to be utterly myself with him. What does it matter if he finds me lacking when we’re nothing more than strangers forced to endure each other’s company for one night of travel?

But now everything is upside down and sideways. I will be seeing him in England. He works with Brian Jameson, which he informs me is actually a false name for Brenna James, who runs the PR department for his organization.

Why Brenna James needed to give me a fake name is beyond me, but definitely piques my interest.

Gabriel spares no time extracting himself from my hold and putting as much space between us as possible. The turbulence has died, so there isn’t an excuse to linger anyway. We spend the rest of the flight in awkward silence.

Right before we arrive in London, I try to get him to talk about the job, about Brenna. But he refuses, telling me he’ll let her explain everything.

The only good thing to come out of my nagging is that he’s too busy bickering with me to notice the landing.

“I’ll have my driver drop you at your hotel,” he says as we make our way out of the gate and into Heathrow’s terminal.

Since it’s late at night, and I’m in a foreign country, I’m not inclined to argue. In fact, I’m grateful and more than a little shocked by his offer. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

He gives me a look as if I’m being ridiculous, but nods in acknowledgment. “I assume you have luggage?

“Of course,” I tell him, looking around at the closed-up shops that line the way. “Don’t you? Or I guess you live in London.”

“My main residence is in New York now. But I keep a wardrobe here in my London home.”

Pondering a life where I jet around the world and have wardrobes and homes waiting for me, I almost miss the escalator to baggage claim. Graceful as ever.

Gabriel, however, walks exactly as I’d expected him to: like a man accustomed to people getting out of his way. His stride is smooth, brisk, and

confident.

Here on terra firma, I can appreciate the full effect he has on others. People actually do edge out of his path. It’s fascinating—they simply part like the proverbial Red Sea and gape at him as he passes.

While Gabriel’s masculine beauty is truly breathtaking, the force of him is earthier, almost brutal. Most charismatic people make you want to be a part of their inner circle, make you feel special. With Gabriel the message is much different: here is a man with whom you do not fuck.

He doesn’t talk to me while we walk but focuses his attention on his phone. Apparently he has a million and one emails to answer. His texting- while-walking skills are impressive, though I guess it helps when you don’t have to worry about running into anyone.

We halt at the baggage carousel.

“Do you see your bags?” he asks, nose deep in his phone.

Along with my carry-on, which holds my camera and equipment—there was no way I was losing sight of my babies—I have two large suitcases. I usually pack lighter, but “Brian” had suggested I pack for an extended stay should I get the job.

“Not yet.”

“Color?”

“Red.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Not surprising.”

“Let me guess,” I ask as he taps away at his phone. “Had you the need for luggage, it would be as black as your immortal soul.”

He tucks his phone in his pocket and gives me a level look. Amusement lightens his expression. “As it happens, my luggage is dark brown alligator leather.”

“I don’t know why I bother teasing you,” I mutter.

Again that hint of a smile flirts with the edges of his lips. “You are persistent. I’ll give you that.”

I spot my bags, but before I can grab them, he has a porter attending to us and we’re off again. It’s ten at night, which is unsettling since we’ve already spent an entire night on the plane. Taxies are thin, and the majority of people are being greeted by loved ones.

Travel loneliness claws at my belly. I hate landing in new places at night. It always feels as if I might be left behind and end up sleeping on an airport bench.

Not so tonight. And another swell of gratitude fills me when Gabriel guides me to the black Rolls Royce Phantom waiting at the curb, the driver already opening the door.

Gabriel gestures for me to enter. But then frowns. “You’re not going to bounce on the seats and cry who-eee, are you?”

I glare at him. “I’m not completely uncouth, you know.” Okay, I might have done so had he not mentioned it.

“I’ve been in a plane with you for seven hours,” he reminds me as he follows me into the car.

I have to grit my teeth, because, who-fucking-eee!, the car is fine. I want to rub my cheeks against the butter soft leather and play with the array of buttons so badly my fingers twitch.

Gabriel eyes me for a long moment as the driver shuts the door with a soft thud. “Go on,” he says in a cajoling voice. “Give it a little bounce. You know you’re dying for it.”

With his heavy-lidded stare and deep rumbling tone, he makes this sound illicit. I cross my legs, and his eyes track the movement. His lids lower just a bit more, and a shimmer of unwanted heat licks under my shirt.

“I’m good,” I tell him with false lightness.

He grunts in response. The car pulls away from the curb, all smoothness and power, and I sit back in my plush seat with a sigh. Whatever happens from here on out, I’ll have this small moment of complete comfort.

We sit in silence as the car heads toward London. I can’t look out the windows without being disoriented; it’s just wrong to be driving on the left side of the road. I keep expecting to crash into an oncoming car.

Gabriel is already back on his phone. This time he’s talking to someone named Jules, peppering him or her with questions—is his house ready, have certain contracts arrived, and so on. The cool-yet-even tone of his voice soothes me in the cozy quiet of the car.

I lean my head back and let my eyes close—until I hear his last line of questioning: Is the hotel room ready and sufficiently prepared for Ms. Darling?

Hearing him discuss my lodging arrangement drives home the fact that I’m truly interviewing for his company. And I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or excited. Perhaps a bit of both.

“You’re not going to try to talk Ms. James out of hiring me, are you?” I ask when he hangs up with Jules.

“Because we spent time together on the plane, you mean?” His brow lifts as his lips flatten. “I’d be a right prat if I did.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Are you saying you think I’m a prat?” He appears so honestly offended, even a bit hurt, that I instantly feel tiny and petty.

“No, no. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” I wave a hand because I can’t stay still. “I’m flustered. It’s not every day you antagonize your prospective employer for hours on end.”

A small smile creeps up along the outer corners of his eyes. “Yes, well, technically I’m not your employer. Brenna and I are partners of a sort. But I’ll take note of your remorse.”

“Remorse implies I did something wrong. This is more awkward embarrassment.”

The smile moves to his mouth, pulling at it. But he won’t let it unfurl. I wonder if I’ll ever see this man smile with ease. I wonder how long I’ll

even know him. My chances of landing a job in a business that he’s a part of feels slim. I’m not the button-down type.

“You’re still not going to tell me what you do?” I ask.

“You could Google my name or Brenna’s at any time.” He gestures toward my handbag with a tilt of his arrogant, stubborn chin. “So go on then. Pull out your phone and check.”

Oh, I’m tempted. So very tempted. But it feels like cheating somehow. “Maybe I want you to trust me enough to tell me.”

A soft scoffing noise escapes him. “It isn’t a matter of trust. I hardly consider this a secret since you’re going to find out soon enough. It is a matter of respecting Brenna’s somewhat overzealous but apparently adamant desire to keep you uninformed until the time of the interview.”

I flop back against the leather seat with a huff. “You’re right. I’ll respect her wishes too. But this just means I’ll have to use my imagination.”

“No doubt you’ll have me pegged as an international spy by the time we arrive,” he deadpans, though amusement glints in his eyes.

“Hey, I only thought that once.”

The corner of his lip twitches, and then his phone chimes. He glances down at it before tapping out a message.

“Is that Brenna?”

“Chatty and nosey.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. “A winning combination.”

“You love it,” I counter with false bravado. Nerves are starting to make me jumpy. And I’m seriously considering poking him right now just to get an answer—something I think he knows because he glances my way, and that stern expression of his returns.

“Yes, that was Brenna. I informed her I had the package on board and ready for delivery.”

“Har.”

He turns toward me in his seat, leaning against the corner, his big body sprawled like some Armani ad come to life. All that harsh male beauty focuses on me; it’s like being under stage lights—exposing, blinding, hot.

I try not to squirm. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at him without being rendered breathless and mushy-brained.

Thankfully, our stare-off is broken when the car pulls up before a small hotel with an unassuming front. The door is Victorian style with glossy green paint, cut-glass windows, and a simple black awning to protect visitors from rainfall. It looks clean and cute but not like a place I imagine Gabriel Scott, with his perfectly tailored clothes and crisp mannerisms, would stay. There isn’t even a doorman. Gabriel is definitely the doorman- needing type.

Even so, we’re here. I smooth my hands down my plain black yoga pants. Christ, I should have dressed up for the plane ride. I can’t even remember what interview outfit I brought. Will it work? Will Brenna be waiting for us now that Gabriel’s alerted her? I thought I had until tomorrow morning before I’d meet her.

“Sophie,” Gabriel says, his deep voice even and low. “You’re fretting over nothing.”

“I’m not fretting.”

One eyebrow lifts, challenging me.

I pluck at the edge of my shirt. “Okay, maybe a little worrying is occurring.”

“You’ll fit in fine. Perfectly, actually.” He frowns as if this bothers him. Or maybe he’s placating me. “If she’s at all like you—”

“She’s not.” He straightens and adjusts his cuffs. It’s a tick. But I don’t know what he has to be nervous about. “None of them are like me. You’ll love them.”

I want to ask who “they” are. But I don’t like the implication he’s made about himself. “I like you fine,” I tell him.

“Well, good.” He knocks on the window. The driver opens the door, clearly having been waiting for Gabriel’s signal. “If all goes well, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”

He does not make it sound like a reward.

 

 

LAST NIGHT, after Gabriel made certain I’d been properly checked in—he refused to leave me at the curb and was affronted that I’d assumed he would

—I was so tired, I stumbled into my room and crawled under the covers.

I didn’t sleep a wink, which was annoying, but it was dark, and the sounds of traffic coming through the massive, old windows reminded me of home, so I was content just to lie there.

Now, in the light of day, I’m dressed in my favorite ’60s-style teal sheath dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Black buttons run down one thigh and a flirty little black ruffle dances along the hem. I’m wearing black kitten heels and my hair is in a chignon.

I could have gone for something more conservative, but that would be a lie. I’m not conservative and never will be. And really, if Brenna James hires me to run her social media campaign and be a photographer, I’ll be in my jeans more than anything else.

I dither in front of the mirror for as long as I dare, then make my way down to the lounge. The hotel is an old, Victorian, four-story townhouse. The staircase is narrow with worn wood risers that creak under my feet. There’s a tiny claustrophobic elevator that I used last night when the porter brought my bags up.

I’m on the fourth floor, and the lounge is on the second. It’s done up like a classic gentleman’s club with various leather arm chairs set around small wooden tables. Emerald silk wallpaper meets white wainscoting, and subdued conversation rises from small groups having their breakfast.

I’m supposed to meet Brenna in an hour. And though I’m not hungry, I manage to order coffee after asking the waitress to decipher the menu.

Apparently, I need a flat white, since I’m not in the mood for a frothy cappuccino.

“Why does it say no pictures at the bottom of the menu?” I ask the waitress as she sets down my coffee.

“This is a private club,” she says in a thickly Eastern European accent, “for entertainment professionals. The members want to feel comfortable eating without the threat of someone taking their picture.”

I glance around with wide eyes and spot a woman who I swear is an up- and-coming singer. She’s eating with a man; they’re snuggled up and laughing quietly. I can’t see his face, but there’s something familiar about the way he holds himself. Or I just might be spinning castles now.

“A club? Really?”

“Mostly music, stage, and screen,” the waitress tells me blandly. “And some footballers, I think.”

After that, I can’t concentrate. I drink my creamy coffee and hear snatches of conversation around me: a documentary producer lamenting his inability to find a proper narrator, a record exec mentioning heading to the studio to work on a new album, a television reporter whining to his agent about his contract.

I have to wonder (again) who it is I’m interviewing to work with. An actor? Is Gabriel an agent too? I could see him doing that with ease. Or maybe he works for a movie studio.

I’m so engrossed in shameless eavesdropping and speculating about Gabriel that I don’t notice the stylish woman until she’s at my table, pulling out a free chair.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m Brenna. Or Brian.” She laughs. “Scottie told me the jig was up with my secret identity.”

Brenna James is tall, thin, and severely pretty with honey-red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She’s dressed in a gorgeous copper-colored suit and sky-high turquoise heels.

“God, that’s a cute dress.” She plops down in the chair opposite me. “Is it wrong to want to hire you based on that dress alone?”

“I wouldn’t complain,” I say, shaking her hand. “But feel free to ask me more questions if you must.”

“I know we’re supposed to meet in thirty minutes, but I saw you sitting here and thought it’d be rude not to come over.” She gives me a wide smile that makes her appear impish. “Forgive me for intruding?”

“It’s no problem at all.” I signal the waitress before asking Brenna, “You said Scottie. Do you mean Gabriel?”

Her mouth falls open as if I’ve slapped her. “Um…yes. Gabriel Scott.

Everyone calls him Scottie.” “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

She leans in, her eyes wide and curious. “He, ah, gave you his first name?”

Is it some kind of dire secret? I’m veering back toward them being international spies. And I’m only half-joking. “Well, getting him to give me his name was like pulling teeth, but yes.”

This seems to placate her because she relaxes in her seat and, after ordering a pot of coffee, black, surveys me with a discerning eye.

“Would you like to view my portfolio?” I ask, handing over the thick leather case I brought along with me.

But she waves me off. “No need. I viewed your work before asking you here.”

“Of course.” Heat flushes my cheeks. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”

She touches my hand. “Don’t be. You survived the trip sitting next to Scottie. That’s the biggest trial by fire.”

I eye her warily. “Did you put me in that seat? I thought I’d been bumped, but now I’m not so sure.”

The waitress arrives with her coffee, and Brenna is quick to pour herself a cup.

“Of course I did.” She takes a sip and sighs with appreciation before turning her sharp gaze on me. “As an enticement to working for us. Not so you’d have to deal with him. I’m not cruel.”

“I didn’t realize it would be a cruelty.”

“Well, most people wouldn’t, until he opens his mouth and eviscerates a poor soul with a few words.”

I have to smile at that. “I don’t know if he even has to speak. That glare of his would probably do the trick.”

“But you survived,” she says again, staring at me as if I’m a rare bird.

A weird sort of protectiveness rises up in me. Not that Gabriel needs it, but I can’t stop myself from defending him. “I had fun.”

Her red brow wings up at that. “Fun?”

There’s so much skepticism in her voice, she’s practically choking on it. “It was a lovely flight,” I assure. “Thank you for putting me in first

class. I’ll never forget it.”

She clears her throat. “Yes, well, that’s…good. I’m glad. Ah, anyway, I figured Scottie would have that divider panel up before his fine ass hit the leather.”

I don’t mention the broken panel.

Brenna glances at her phone. “The guys are ready. Shall we head to the interview now?”

Nerves flutter to life in my belly. “Guys? There’s a group interviewing me?”

“More or less.” She gives me a small smile. “You’ll see. Come on. We have a private room set up.”

“Okay.” My legs are suddenly wobbly as I stand. “Is Gabriel going to be there as well?”

A small part of me doesn’t want him to witness this. I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate under his laser gaze. But the needier, base part of me

wants to see him again. He’s familiar. And oddly, I feel confident when he’s around.

Brenna halts a step. “Yes, Gabriel will be there.” We walk a few paces before she glances at me from under her lashes. “Though, maybe call him Scottie from now on.”

“Why?” I don’t get the nickname or why someone like Gabriel would allow it. Scottie doesn’t fit him at all. Scottie is a dude who yells, “We need more time, Captain!” Not an impeccably dressed man who looks like a male model and speaks like an ornery duke.

Brenna’s heels click on the floor as she guides us to a back room. “It’s what everyone in the business calls him. Honestly, I haven’t I’ve heard anyone refer to him as Gabriel for years.”

I’m glad I didn’t tell her I also called him Sunshine. She’d probably up and die on me. Or maybe I’d lose the job. I decide not to talk about Gabriel aka Scottie any more than necessary from now on.

We enter a room, and a group of men turn our way en masse. My first thought is that maybe Gabriel and Brenna run a modeling agency, because they’re all gorgeous in their own way. But then I really look at them, and horror hits me with a cold slap. I know these guys. I know them well.

Kill John. The biggest rock band in the world. My eyes flit over them. Their expressions range from welcoming to mildly curious to sexually interested. Rye Peterson, the bassist, massively muscled and boyishly handsome, gives me an open grin. Whip Dexter, the drummer, nods politely. Jax Blackwood, the infamous guitarist and sometime singer is the curious one, though he doesn’t seem upset.

I shy away from his green gaze, feeling ill and unsteady on my feet.

Then there’s Killian James. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression. He stood as we entered, his head cocking as if trying to place me.

My heart starts to pound. F**k. I need to get out of here.

I take a step back and collide with a body. The scent of expensive cologne and fine wool hits my nostrils.

“Going the wrong way, chatty girl,” Gabriel murmurs in my ear, gently nudging me forward.

But I need to escape.

Killian is still staring at me like a nearly solved puzzle. At his side is a pretty woman with dark blond hair—the woman who was eating breakfast earlier. She’s Liberty Bell, I realize with a start. Killian’s wife and a singer in her own right. I should have recognized her sooner. I should have realized that good things do not, in fact, happen to me.

I glance at Gabriel. He’s wearing his neutral façade, but there’s a small glimmer of encouragement in his eyes. I don’t want to look away from him. He’ll be gone soon enough, and it hurts. Too much for such a short acquaintance.

Brenna is introducing me. She takes the portfolio from my nerveless fingers and hands it to the guys. “Sophie used to be a photojournalist—”

Killian makes a strangled sound before exploding. “Oh, fuck no! Now I recognize her. Are you kidding me with this shit?” He takes a step in my direction, anger infusing his cheeks with red. “You have some nerve coming here, lady.”

I hold my ground, even though my pride is imploding. I don’t know any other way.

But Gabriel puts himself between us. “Calm yourself,” he snaps at Killian. “Ms. Darling did not come here to be harassed.”

“Oh, that’s fucking rich,” Killian says with a sneer. His eyes are not kind. “Isn’t that a pap’s job?”

The other guys look confused.

“Kills, man,” Rye says. “Ease up. Lots of people are photojournalists without being a sleazy paparazzi.”

Oh, if only that were true of me.

“No.” Killian slashes a hand through the air. “She’s not just a pap. She’s the one who took those pics of Jax. Weren’t you, honey? Think I didn’t see you there, with your fucking camera? Shoving it in my face when he was fucking dying on me?”

Gabriel’s head snaps up. “What?”

“You heard me. It was her. She was the one who sold those pictures of Jax.”

“Impossible,” Gabriel spits out. “Martin Shear sold those pictures. I ought to know; I spent the better part of a year having our lawyers go after that tosspot.”

He lifts a hand as if to say he rests his case. I can’t decide if he’s trying to rationalize my actions or if he’s just that logical. I’m afraid it’s the latter. His cold demeanor hasn’t thawed. And he’s waiting for an answer, his brow quirked in that arrogant, impatient way.

I take a shallow breath. “Martin was my boyfriend at the time.” Gabriel’s head rears back as if I’ve slapped him. The look on his face,

the utter disappointment mixed with growing disgust—I’m ruined in his eyes. I can see that clearly. I don’t blame him. I’m disgusted too. It’s amazing how low a person craving love can sink when she thinks she’s found it.

If the ground could swallow me up now, I’d be grateful. But it wouldn’t change the thick, gritty sludge of regret that fills my insides every time I think about that night, about taking those pictures of Jax Blackwood, unconscious and covered in vomit. I can still hear Killian shout his name as security rushed in. I’d been so blind then, only focused on my next paycheck, egged on by Martin to never think of the subject as human but as potential dollar signs.

I’d been the ugliest, darkest version of myself. So confused and lost.

And now that past is staring me in the face.

“Martin was—is—a dickbag,” I say. “I know this now. At the time… well, I don’t really have a good excuse. I met him at a low point, and he had a strange sort of charisma. He made his job sound fun: easy money, providing a service for fans.”

Several annoyed scoffs sound in the room.

“They were the lies I let myself believe,” I admit. “I wanted to quit, but I hadn’t found anything else to do. And then that night happened. When I got home, I told Martin where I’d been. He was…” I clear my throat. “He was over-the-moon happy, said those pictures would have me set financially for at least a year.”

I can’t miss the way the guys flinch, or the way Gabriel ducks his head, grinding his teeth as if he’s fighting not to explode. My stomach flips, and my fingers are ice. But I continue.

“God, I wanted that money. I won’t lie. I’d had a slow year and was living off ramen. I could have quit with that money, taken the time to find a decent job. But I looked at the shots, and they were awful. Painful.”

It hurts even now to remember them.

Clearly it hurts these people too. So much more than it ever hurt me. I want to cry.

“I was hesitant to sell them after that. Martin picked up on it and, when I went to bed, he took them for himself.”

“He stole them from you?” Gabriel’s voice is flat. He won’t look me in the eye.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I wanted to fight it. And then I didn’t. Because they were splashed everywhere, and I felt…ashamed.”

Gabriel makes a noise as if to say I should be.

Killian isn’t so quiet. “She can’t be here. This is too fucking much, Brenna.”

“I think it would be good for us,” Brenna says. “We can all close that final door and move on.”

Killian sneers and looks at Brenna as if he can’t believe her words.

Somehow I find my voice. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know the interview was for you. I wouldn’t have come.”

“Oh, sure, that makes it all better. Because we haven’t spent more than a year struggling with the shit you put out in the public eye,” Killian snaps.

All at once, everyone starts talking, words bleeding together, bombarding me. I wince.

Jax whistles sharply. “Everyone shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down.” I’m guessing he doesn’t often shout, because everyone stops and sits immediately, though Killian gives him a disgruntled glare as he drops down

on his chair.

Jax looks at me. When I first met him, he had a boyish quality about him, like a sun-kissed, all-American jock, which was funny as it’s well- known that he’s half English. Nearly, two years later, all that boyishness is gone, replaced by a hard-baked, rugged handsomeness. Life has battered but not beaten him.

“You remember that night,” he says. “Before, I mean.”

I’m extremely aware of Gabriel’s gaze on me, but I answer Jax without looking away. “Yeah.”

Jax nods, biting his bottom lip as if he’s ashamed. “I figured. I’ve wanted to find you. To apologize.”

“What?” Killian bursts out, nearly jumping back up.

“Shut up,” Jax snaps at him, then sighs and runs a hand through his spiky hair. “At least until you hear me out.”

“Ah,” I clear my throat. “I have to agree with Killian’s sentiment here.

You have absolutely no reason to apologize to me.”

Jax’s smile is weary and lopsided as he holds my gaze. I can see the struggle in his eyes. He doesn’t exactly want to say whatever he feels he has to.

Gabriel breaks the moment. “Get to the point, Jax.” His expression is so fierce, he appears carved from stone. “And start by explaining exactly how you know Ms. Darling.”

He doesn’t bother with me. It’s as if I’m no longer in the room.

Jax shrugs and leans against the wall. “We met in the hotel bar the night of ‘The Incident’.”

Gabriel glares at Jax’s air quotes. A muscle twitches beneath his right eye. “Go. On.”

“You offered to buy me a drink,” I fill in, because I’m damn tired of being ignored. And I’m not letting Jax do this on his own.

He smiles. “And you warned me that you were there to steal my face.” The heat of Gabriel’s stare burns. But I don’t acknowledge him.

Whip shakes his head. “You two hooked up. Of course.” Killian scoffs. I don’t dare check to see what Gabriel thinks.

“No,” Jax says. “We had vodka tonics with lime and a few laughs about ridiculous people who would pay thousands for a juicy shot of someone famous.” His soft smile returns. “Sophie didn’t mind that I basically said her job was stupid—”

“It is,” Killian cuts in. We ignore him.

“She needed money to pay off school loans and rent, and we agreed there were worse ways to get it.”

“There are?” Killian asks, still disgruntled.

I don’t blame him. He’s the one who found Jax. The band broke up for a year after Jax’s suicide attempt. I doubt I would feel very charitable toward anyone who’d put my pain out in the world.

Jax levels him with a look, though. “Of course there are. And you know it.” His eyes find me again. “You remember what I told you then?”

Oh, hell. A lump fills my throat, and I swallow convulsively. Gabriel’s frowning as if he might soon explode. His gaze pins me to the spot, but he

doesn’t speak. None of them do. They’re waiting for my answer.

My voice is weak and raspy. “You said… You said… Shit…” I look away, my voice breaking.

“Come to my room tonight,” Jax says for me, “and I’ll give you something big to sell.”

“F**king hell,” Rye mutters. “God damn it, Jax,” Killian snaps.

Because they understand. Finally. I do too. But I didn’t then.

My vision blurs, and I blink rapidly, taking a deep breath. “I thought you were just messing with me, and then you gave me a room key.” A watery laugh escapes me. “And then I thought you wanted to hook up.”

The scoff of disdain from Gabriel lands like a spear in my side. I can’t look at him now. Maybe not ever again.

“I know you did, honey,” Jax says gently. “And now you know; I was counting on you to show up.”

“Why?” I whisper. “Why me?”

He shrugs. “I figured, she’s a nice girl. Too nice for her shit job. She needs money. And I won’t be here so…why not go out with a good deed?”

Killian lurches to his feet, knocking over his chair. He stalks out of the room without another word. Libby soon follows with a muttered, “I’ll talk to him.”

The ensuing silence is heavy, and I want to hunch inward, run away. But I can’t hide from my mistakes. I tried that before. It didn’t work.

“I’m so sorry,” I rasp. “That night—it was the worst night of my life.

Worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Jax shakes his head. “You were doing your job—”

“No!” I grit my teeth. “No, I was selling short my humanity and yours. I should have dropped my camera and helped. I should have done anything other than take those pictures and let them get out.”

“We’ve all done things we regret,” Jax says. “I just want you and everyone else to know I don’t hold it against you. I’m cool with you working with us now.”

God. I don’t deserve his calm acceptance.

“Stay.” Whip’s face is pale, but he leans forward and nods as if coming to a decision. “Jax is right. And you’re obviously good at what you do or Brenna wouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Yeah,” Rye puts in. “It will be good for all of us. And for you too.

Cathartic, you know?”

Who are these guys? Really. I expected to be egged at this point.

“Look, I’m cool with this.” Rye stands. “I hope you join us. Anything that shakes things up can’t be bad.”

Whip stands as well. “Killian will come around. Jax will talk to him.”

They both come shake my hand. “Sorry for the drama,” Whip says with a wink. “But it’s kind of hard to escape around here.”

Jax makes his way over to me as Whip and Rye leave. His warm hand rests on my shoulder. “I’m glad I got to talk to you. I always meant to track you down and apologize. It was shitty to use you that way.”

“I’m so glad you made it,” I say in a rush. “That you’re healthy and here.”

His smile is tight but friendly. “Whatever you decide, come hang out with us later tonight. We’ll have fun, Soph. Trust me.”

He gives me a kiss on the cheek and Brenna a look I can’t interpret before leaving.

“This is a mistake,” Gabriel says as soon as the door closes.

I flinch, and he meets my eyes. Everything I saw in him before is gone. He’s ice now—so solid, so polished, I’m surprised I don’t see my reflection in his skin. His voice is strong but monotone, just another day at the office.

“You regret your actions. Jax takes responsibility for his part. None of that matters when it comes to this tour.”

“I’m not following you, Scottie,” Brenna says. Mostly, she’s been quiet, letting everyone talk. But there’s steel in her spine now.

He sits back in his chair, setting one ankle on his bent knee. Such cool repose, as if he isn’t kicking me to the curb when he promised he wouldn’t interfere.

“We’ve only just reached the point where the band is a fully functioning unit again. They’re finally burying old wounds. You bring this element of mistrust into the mix, and you’re risking all of that.”

“I’m a person, not an element.” I shouldn’t let him see that I’m upset, but fucking hell, I am. I thought we had at the very least a small glimmer of mutual…I don’t know, regard. I held him in his darkest hour, and now I’m a fucking element? “And if the guys are cool with it, why should you protest?”

“Because it is my job to think rationally when they either cannot or will not.” He looks at me as though I’m nothing more than a piece furniture in the room. “This is a matter of business, Ms. Darling. Nothing personal.”

“Bullshit. Everything is personal. Especially business. You judge a person and decide whether you trust them enough to work with them or not.” A shudder of rage and hurt runs through me. “You’ve made your decision, Mr. Scott. Don’t weaken it by pretending it’s nothing personal.”

God, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. Just sits there, facing me head on with those eyes the color of glacial ice.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Darling.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I bet you are.”

If I hadn’t been glaring right back at him, I’d have missed the tremor that flickers along the corner of his mouth. With languid grace, he rises and buttons his suit jacket. Giving me a short nod, he leaves the room without a backward glance.

“Shit,” Brenna says when he’s gone. “That went well.” I stare at the door. “I’m sorry for wasting your—“

“You’re hired, Sophie.”

My head whips around, and I’m pretty sure my mouth falls open.

Brenna gives me a long, hard look. “This is the chance of a lifetime. You know it. I know it. Don’t you dare puss out because of a little adversity. Trust me, I speak from experience when I say you’ll regret it.”

I could answer a dozen different ways, from angry to self-pitying. Outside this jewel box of a room, the famous and powerful are having coffee and plotting their lives. I’m in London, being offered the chance to tour Europe with one of my favorite bands. It will be awkward, and facing Gabriel again will definitely be its own brand of torture.

Life in New York would be easier. Familiar. Not personal, my ass.

“F**k it,” I say. “I’m in.”