He bites the inside of his cheek, creating a little dimple, before taking a deep breath and speaking. “Look, I realize this is uncomfortable as fuck. But I’m going to lay my cards on the table. When I first overheard you mention sex, yeah, I started eavesdropping because, yes, I can be an immature shit at times.” His smile is wry, and he squeezes the back of his neck. “But then I really listened to what you were saying and… Hell, Bren, I want that too. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m tired of moving from partner to partner. I’m tired of feeling…” A deep flush turns his face red. “Alone.”

I’m so shocked, a tiny squeak escapes my lips. I’m waiting for him to start laughing, to say he’s kidding, but Rye returns my stare without falter. Oh, he’s still blushing, his thumb twitches—a telltale nervous tic akin to me messing with my ponytail—but he is not laughing.

It takes me a good minute of intense silence to fully process that Rye has admitted he’s lonely. He’s never shown me any hint of personal weakness. I haven’t either. To expose our underbellies is to open ourselves to taunts. It’s just how we are with each other. But now Rye has gone and changed the game. I don’t know what to do.

After taking another steadying sip of water, I set the glass down and try to think. “Okay, so you’re not messing around with me, and you understand how I feel, but, Rye, to solve the problem by suggesting the two of us…” I can’t even finish the sentence without feeling both too hot and too cold. “It’s insanity. A total disaster waiting to happen.”

“Disaster,” Rye mutters under his breath.

“Come on,” I insist, feeling slightly frantic. “We’re like…like orange juice and toothpaste. Mix us together and we’re bound to walk away with a bad taste in our mouths.”

He ducks his head, and his fists curl on the counter, making the muscles along his arms bunch. All those lovely muscles working under smooth tattooed skin. At this point in my life, I’ve met hundreds of men, and none of them have arms as perfectly sculpted as Rye’s. Why him? Why does his body catch my eye and hold it like no other?

Oblivious to my gawking, he raises his head and gives me a look of pure, male stubbornness. “Yeah, okay, it could very well be a disaster.”

“I said it would be. Not could be.” Because it definitely would. Why are we still talking about this? The more we talk, the harder it is to keep certain images at bay. Images I’ve pushed to the haunted corners of my mind for a decade now. A picture of Rye’s naked back rippling with smooth, tight skin and bunching muscles as he works over my body, flashes in my mind, and I blow out a breath. No.

Rye purses his lips. For a second, I wonder if he’s debating turning around and leaving. But I’m not that lucky. Instead, he takes a step around the island, his big hand trailing along the marble.

My back tenses as I force myself to remain unmoved. I don’t know what his blue eyes see, but he approaches with more caution than usual.

“Do you really think I’d hurt you, Berry?”

Berry. I remember the night he gave me that nickname.

I never wanted to crush on Rye Peterson. Truly, I didn’t. When Killian first let me hang out with his new bandmates all those years ago, I thought they were hot. Sitting in on their jam sessions was less about the music—because they weren’t very good initially—and more about watching three gorgeous guys (and my cousin, who I knew was hot but refused to think of that way) dance around on stage. To my teenage delight, shirts always came off.

While Whip and John, who soon became Jax to the world, were mighty fine eye candy, only Rye—the big, clueless lug—made my insides flip and my skin heat. He wasn’t the most physically beautiful; Scottie, with his black hair, perfect features, and ice blue eyes held that prize. Whip was a close second in looks and first when it came to sheer sweetness.

Rye didn’t have the most blatant sex appeal; that was John’s role—and I suppose Killian’s too, except no, not going there. But there was something elemental about Rye. While the other guys were whipcord lean, Rye was a wall of cut, beefy muscle. The way he beat on his bass guitar, all hot, pounding rhythm, was pure sex to me. Not that I had much experience back then, but he made me feel things—hot, sweaty, fluttery things.

Offstage, Rye’s lowbrow humor and quick smiles put me at ease in a way I’d never been with other guys. He was, and still is, the consummate flirt. For a gangly, shy redhead with buck teeth and acne, it was a dream to have an older boy smile at me as though I were the focus of his attention. I knew he did that for every girl. But it felt good to be noticed.

After every gig, Rye would make his way over to me. He’d always ask the same question, “Did that blow you away, kid?”

Kid. I hated that nickname. It made me feel all of twelve.

I’d always answer, “Yeah, Mr. Slap-Happy, it blew me the fuck away.”

Rye would snort over the nickname I gave him. But it didn’t bother him. Over the years, he would develop genius finger skills, but in the beginning, slapping the bass was his main way to play, and he knew it. Besides, poking fun at each other was how we interacted.

On my eighteenth birthday, the guys threw me a party and played all night. Sweat-slicked and flushed, Rye tucked away his bass then sought me out. God, I tried my best not to gape at his bare chest, but it was a struggle. Whenever he moved, those glorious muscles shifted and bunched.

“Did that blow you away, Berry?”

I almost didn’t register the word because, hello, little brown nipples all tight and right in front of me. Were they as sensitive as mine?

“Berry?” I glanced up, finally, to find him smirking.

“You turn berry pink when you blush.”

My happy buzz fizzled. “It’s rude to point out a girl’s flaws.”

The corners of Rye’s deep-set eyes crinkled, his brows winging up in that way of his that made him look boyishly pleased. “Blushing isn’t a flaw. It’s cute. Sexy.” And then he blushed. A soft wash of red across the tops of his cheeks and along the curve of his ears.

Which is the moment I truly fell for Rye Peterson, the hot, muscled man-boy who blushed just as easily as I did. Not that he stuck around for me to practice any more of my amateur flirting skills; Rye made a hasty exit after that remark and started avoiding me. No, worse, he soon would make it painfully clear that he had no interest in me as anything other than Killian’s kid cousin who clung to the fringes of the band like a barnacle.

All for the best. A crush wasn’t as important as the job—one that I had to prove over and over to the world that I was the best person for. I did that by maintaining the smooth polish of absolute professionalism. But now? With Rye standing before me with that look? Like he might lean in and take a little taste of me? Those walls are threatening to crack.

I swallow hard. He’s too near. I can smell the soap he favors—Tom Ford’s Oud Wood. Spicy and smoky and freaking delicious. Scottie bought it for him one Christmas, and Rye was hooked. I know too much about him. I know that ordinarily, he shaves every two days, not because that’s all he needs, but because he’s lazy and doesn’t mind the thick stubble that will coat his jaw like brown sugar. I know he hates shrimp but loves crab and lobster. He drinks icy cold Coke if it’s before three in the afternoon and beer any time someone offers it. I know to stay away from him.