I took the time to think. Really think.

It wasn’t comforting to realize that part of my reaction to his offer stemmed from the fact that I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t expect him to want something real. I didn’t expect him to want it with me.

Truth?

I don’t think I’m good enough for anyone.

And here’s the real horror: this is the complete opposite of what I project to the world. On the outside, I am a confident woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. I don’t let anyone fuck with me. As Jules pointed out, I hold my own with the most powerful people in the industry without flinching.

I believe in myself. When it comes to my profession.

When it comes to me?

Apparently, I don’t. It took Rye Peterson asking for more to make me see my weakness.

When he returned from Chicago, I made myself scarce. Like a damn chicken. I chastised myself about it every day, but I couldn’t find the courage to face him.

Even though we only spent two full nights together, I reach for him in my sleep, my body aches for him when I wake. The ghost of his scent haunts me, because I swear I catch a whiff of it at odd times. And it doesn’t matter how many times I wash my sheets, he’s still there.

I miss the sound of his voice. I miss his joking manner, the way he forces me to see the world in a different way—not so dire, not so serious. I miss talking to him.

I would have talked to him on Thanksgiving, but he spent it with his mom. Given that my mom sent me a message saying they were going to Florida for Thanksgiving and would see me in England, I spent the day with Scottie, Sophie, Killian, Libby, Jax, Stella, and Whip. And little Felix, who amused himself with flinging whipped sweet potatoes around the table. He managed to ping Scottie’s ice-blue silk tie dead center. Fun times, but the absence of Rye was glaring.

It occurs to me that I’ve always noticed his absence. Anytime he’s not with the rest of us, the group feels smaller, dimmer. At least for me. And the crazy thing is that this has been true the whole time, even when I convinced myself that he drove me up the wall. Oh, the games we play.

Sighing, I collect my things and disembark the plane. It’s the middle of the day, and I’ve arranged for a car to pick me up at the airport and drive me to Varg Hall in the Cotswolds. It’s about an hour and a half of driving, not ideal given that I’ve been on a plane for seven hours. But it’s either get it over with now or rest a day or two in London first. I’d rather get on with it.

Besides, he’s there.

I shove the thought away and head out to baggage claim. It’s a surprise to see Whip waiting for me. Oh, he has a beanie shoved on his head and is wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses in an attempt to be incognito, but I spot him immediately and head his way.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He smiles wide and adopts an affected English accent. “I’m your driver, Lady Brenna. Varg Hall awaits. Let us away posthaste so we may indulge in decadent revelries.”

I roll my eyes but smile. “I hired a car. You didn’t have to come all this way.” I ignore the small—tiny—pang that Whip is the one here and not…No. Nope. I’m not thinking about him.

“A hired car?” Whip makes a noise of disdain. “So you can be stuck with a stranger and spend the entire drive with your nose in your phone?”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“It is.” He points to a set of pale pink bags coming around the carousel. “Those are yours, right?”

“I am horrified that you know my luggage.”

Whip gives me a sidelong glance. “Custom-made Gucci luggage has a way of making a lasting impression, Bren.”

My cheeks warm. “Yeah, well, blame Scottie. They were a gift from him for my twenty-first birthday.” The guys took me out drinking, and I got a killer hangover in return. Scottie gave me luggage. Is there any wonder why he’s my secret favorite?

Whip chuckles and retrieves the luggage. “I know. You know what he gave me for my twenty-first? Mutual funds for my retirement years.”

I stumble a step. “He did not!”

“Yep,” he says cheerfully. “Those fuckers have already made me a ton of money too.”

We both laugh and head for the parking lot. Whip leads me to his car, and I halt. “You thought this would be preferable to lounging in the back of a Range Rover?”

“Hey.” Whip smooths a hand over the hood of the car. “This baby is a blast to drive.”

The “baby” in question is a vintage ruby-red ‘70s Austin Mini with white racing stripes. It’s been lovingly restored. But it’s tiny. “I don’t think my luggage will even fit.”

“It’ll fit. My kit fits, so…” He shrugs.

“You brought your drum kit?” I shake my head. “Uncle Xander will love that.”

“Not to Varg Hall,” he says as if I’m daft. “I dropped it off at my place in London. I’m going to spend some time there after the party.”

“Ah.” With that, I get into the tiny car. And somehow, Whip manages to fit my bags in the back. The Mini isn’t what I expected. It’s not just restored but a custom job, with modern cream leather seats, a stereo, and probably dozens of other upgrades under the hood.

Whip confirms this when he gets in and gives the glossy wood grain dashboard a loving pat. “This little sweetie has been soundproofed, given an upgraded suspension and drive train.” He starts in on engine specs, and I hold up a hand.

“You’re speaking gibberish at this point. Can you simply assure me that you won’t drive like a complete maniac?”

He’s too quick to grin. “I promise I won’t be a complete maniac.”

I’m in trouble.

Twenty minutes later, we’re flying down the M40, and I’m clutching my seat. “When you’re no longer driving, remind me to thank you again for picking me up.”

He chuckles. “What, so you can kick my ass? No way. I’m running for it as soon as we park.”

“Good idea.” I try to relax against the seat and take in the few glimpses of the countryside that we streak past.

Whip turns on the radio, and Ella Fitzgerald croons Christmas songs with her smooth-honey voice.

“God, I love Ella,” Whip says wistfully. “If I lived back in her day, I’d have begged for a date.”

Chuckling, I turn my body a little in the cramped space to face him. He’s almost too tall for the car. While he’s not huge like Rye, he’s six feet tall, and his seat is pushed all the way back. But he doesn’t seem to mind and handles the car with efficiency.

“I have a weakness for women with beautiful voices.” Whip flashes a quick, secretive smile. “Don’t tell Killian, but the first time I heard Libby sing, I got a mini crush on her.”

“No!” Killian would have flipped. Like me, he’s a bit of a hothead, though well-intentioned.

“Yep. But she was Killian’s girl, so I ignored it.”

“Good idea.”

Whip nods, his eyes on the road. “Once had a crush on you too.”

“What?” I sit up straight, shocked. And a little unnerved.

He huffs a sound of amusement. “Don’t freak. It was back when you were eighteen and I was twenty. Lasted about a week, if that.”