It’s as if the smooth foundations of my life have a hairline fracture that’s slowly spreading out in all directions. I want to fall to my knees, plaster over those cracks and get on with my life. But I can’t. I’m changing, my well-ordered plans shifting into something uncontrollable.

It’s enough to make me curl up into a ball and hide. It shames me. Who am I to complain about my life?

Rye hasn’t complained. Even though his hands, his beautiful, talented, perfect hands are letting him down. I want to seek him out and wrap him in a hug.

He’d hate that. The man has recesses of pride I never considered. His sense of honor is rock-solid. The more I’m with him, the more I learn about him, which in turn makes me want to know more and more. I have to stop thinking about him. Work. I need to work.

Only, I don’t want to talk about Kill John. With an ugly start, I realize I could go months without carrying on another Kill John related conversation and be happy.

I set my head in my hands let out a groan.

“Bren?” Michael leans into the office, a small frown of concern wrinkling between his brows. “Your phone is going off nonstop.”

Which is unheard of for me.

“I wanted to make sure you were still alive,” he says with a wink.

Sighing, I sit back and rub my face. “Just taking a breather.”

I don’t think he buys it, but he’s smart enough not to ask any more questions. The phone rings again. I pick it up and do my job.

“Brenna, babe!” Tim Wilks. Another reporter. Lovely. He starts in on all the things he needs to know about Jax and Stella.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Wilks. “But as I’ve said, Jax is not taking questions about his personal life. If you ask any, don’t be surprised if he walks.”

And I won’t blame Jax one bit, I think silently. Ever since the world got wind of his relationship with Stella—and the fact that she used to be a professional friend, something people find either fascinating or unbelievable—he’s made it clear he won’t drag her into the harsh light of public scrutiny. Well, any more than she already is.

For as much as people love their heroes, they’re exceptionally good at tearing them and their loved ones down if they don’t act exactly as expected. Truth is, most rabid fans don’t like the idea of the guys pairing off and finding love. Not that they don’t want the guys to be happy, but it kills the fantasy that someone out there might eventually snag one of them.

Jax and Killian being off the market is both an endless source of speculation, fascination, and disgruntlement. It is my job to protect them all from the brunt of it.

“I hear you loud and clear,” Tim says. “But you have to know his fans keep asking. They deserve to know—”

“Exactly dick about Jax’s personal life,” I snap.

Silence greets me.

For a moment I just sit there, mouth slightly open as if gaping at my rudeness and stupidity. Rule one in my job is not to lose my cool. Getting defensive or snappish with a reporter only makes them dig in further.

But I can’t help myself. I’m tired of fielding the same questions. It’s a horrible shock to realize that I’m sick of even saying Jax’s name. Blood drains from my face, and I pull in a deep, quiet breath. I feel like the most disloyal friend in the world right now. And a shitty PR manager.

“Send me the questions,” I say before Wilks can respond. “I’ll have Jax go over them. He has final approval. That’s all I can promise.”

Wilks grumbles, and I get the hell off the phone with him as fast as possible. My hands are shaking. I need fresh air. Putting my phone on silent—a cardinal sin in Scottie’s book—I head for the coffee shop down the street.

“I’ve worn that frown before,” says a masculine voice over my shoulder while I’m standing in line.

Startled out of my pout, I turn and find Marshall Faulkner grinning at me.

“Have you?” I ask wryly.

“Sure,” he says easily. “It’s the, ‘I’m at my wits’ end and need to mainline coffee stat’ frown.”

Laughing, I shake my head in resignation. “Guilty.”

His blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “But you’re still itching to look at your phone, aren’t you?”

“You are good.”

Marshall shrugs. “It’s the curse of the workaholic.”

The line moves, and we amble onward. “I don’t know,” I find myself muttering. “I’m kind of over work at the moment.”

As soon as I say the words, I want to take them back. I don’t complain about work to outsiders. Ever. But confessing to someone who doesn’t know the guys, or the entanglements of my life, feels like a balm. Marshall might not know me, but he does understand PR.

It’s clear in the way his expression is both sympathetic and amused. “I’ve had those days as well.”

My turn comes up to order. I place mine and pay before stepping aside and letting him do the same. When he’s done, we move to the waiting line.

“Thing is,” he continues as though we hadn’t paused our conversation, “I usually turn my focus to other projects. How does it work when you only have one client?”

A grimace twists my lips before I can school my features. “It doesn’t, sadly. I just…push through.”

Marshall nods, and an awkward air falls between us, brought on by my painful honesty and the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve betrayed Kill John by complaining. It’s broken by the arrival of our coffees. It’s my cue to go, but I find myself walking out with him as if by silent agreement.

It’s one of those perfect New York autumn days where the air is crisp but not too cold and the sun is shining lemon yellow in a lapis sky. We stroll toward Central Park, which is at the end of the block. Tourists are wandering up Fifth Avenue, heading for the Met. We ease past them and go into the park.

“You ever think about taking on more clients?” Marshall asks as we amble down a path.

“I work for Liberty Bell too.” A small, wry smile tilts my mouth. “Although that’s more of a ‘keeping it in the family’ kind of thing.”

“You all really do think of yourselves as a family, don’t you?”

An image flashes through my mind, of Rye kneeling between my spread thighs, his eyes searing with hot need. Cheeks hot, I’m grateful for the cool breeze that cuts across the park. “I suppose we do. Perhaps that’s my problem. Family matters are always complicated.”

“You’re burnt out, aren’t you?” He doesn’t so much accuse as ask, as if it just hit him and he empathizes.

And I find myself telling the truth.

“I think I am. I’m just not into work these days and that’s utterly foreign to me.”

Marshall ducks his head as he walks, and I’m struck by how similar in appearance he is to Rye. But where Rye exudes a kind of kinetic vitality, Marshall is more grounded and serious. My body doesn’t hum with want when it’s next to his, but he does make me comfortable. It’s a rare talent, given that I don’t let my guard down with anyone.

“I’d been planning to ask you something…” He pauses and glances over at me. “Now I feel like an opportunist.”