Why now? Why some random person? Why is it making me feel like I should look again—give in and capture her eyes with mine?

No. Big fucking no.

No fucking way.

I refuse to look at her again, but I can still feel her, undulating with the pulsing beat, echoing lyrics with me for the next three songs, and it’s unnerving me. At the end of the set, I can’t help myself. I’m pulled like a magnet, powerless to resist. I search the back of the club for a glimpse of that silky, dark hair, the leather jacket, the tiny diamond in her nose, unable to abandon the odd, intense pull I felt to her.

But she’s gone.

Good.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Is it because I haven’t been able to see Ember—her eyes and her smile—for two months? Am I starving for some kind of chemistry?

That must be it.

After the show, there’s a small, private celebration backstage. The tour reminded us why we sold our souls to make music in the first place—not for money, but for the fans and for ourselves. None of us give a fuck that we didn’t make a dime off any of these shows.

The success is in the smiles.

My phone pings in my back pocket with a text.

Ember: Hi… how was your night?

Me: It was killer. One of the best of the tour. I can’t wait to get home and see you, though.

Ember: I have a surprise for you. ;-)

Me: Really?

Ember: I rented us an Airbnb for tonight. Just a few miles from the club. I thought we could spend tonight together and drive home tomorrow? If you can’t, it’s okay. I can just go home.

Holy shit. I can’t believe she even knows what an Airbnb is, and she drove in to Boston to see me a day sooner.

My fingers fly across the phone keyboard.

Me: Are you kidding? Of course I can. Where are you? I just have to say goodbye, get my stuff, and get an Uber.

She texts me the address, and I schedule a driver to pick me up. I mingle for a few more minutes before I say goodbye and make a fast exit, signing a few autographs on my way to the bus to take a quick shower and grab a few things.

The driver’s right on time, waiting for me in the parking lot. I toss my suitcase and duffel bag in the back seat and text Ember.

Me: On my way, baby. xo

Ember: I can’t wait to see you. It’s apartment 4A—the fourth floor. Just go left off the elevator. I’ll leave the door unlocked. xo

Leaning back, I take a deep breath and stretch my back. Exhausted as I am from performing all night, a new burst of adrenaline is surging through me as we move through traffic, getting closer to the only place I want to be right now.

Ember came for me. All on her own.

Just like she used to.

It’s been a long time since my life has felt so good. Finally, things are looking up, moving out of the limbo we’ve been suspended in.

The driver drops me off in front of a four-story, historical warehouse transformed into “luxurious apartments” according to the sign out front. We’ve stayed in places like this before, and the unique architecture has always intrigued me.

Does she remember?

Me: I’m here. Getting on the elevator. Beautiful place, baby. xo

I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, excitement mounting as I approach the door of apartment 4A and let myself inside.

The lights have been dimmed, the scent of vanilla cinnamon wafting from a lit candle placed in the center of the marble island in the small kitchen.

The space is all brick and exposed beams, with half a brick wall separating the living room from the king-sized bed. It’s my favorite blend of industrial and rustic, cozy where it needs to be.

“Em?” I step farther inside, and she comes around the corner of the kitchen like something out of a dream—a thin, translucent white, thigh-length robe billowing around her, revealing matching white lace bra and panties hugging her curves.

Woah.

Dropping my stuff with a thud on the floor, I blink as she comes closer…because something’s not right.

Something’s totally wrong.

I squint as she nears, wondering if someone slipped something into my soda back at the club and I’m now tripping out.

The woman coming toward me isn’t my wife.

It’s not Ember.

It’s the girl from the club—the one in the back whose presence captivated me. The one I shouldn’t have been looking at and didn’t want to look at.

And I sure as fuck don’t want to be looking at her now, half naked in an apartment my wife rented for us.

What the fuck is happening?

I want to look away as she slowly walks closer, but I can’t. I’m frozen.

Transfixed.

Long, dark hair, flowing just past her full breasts.