Callused and warm, his big hand finds my smaller limp one. He gently presses my palm into the center of his wide chest. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm that matches my own.

“Feel that? That’s just from standing close to you.” His voice vibrates against my neck, tickles along my nerve endings. “From me thinking about all the ways I could figure you out, find all the little things that will make you come.”

My knees go weak, and I sway. Just once. A small movement. But he notices. His grip tightens a fraction, a rumble sounding in his throat. I take a breath, push back. I haven’t fully prepared myself for the heat I see in his eyes, the unapologetic want he’s showing me. I’ve never had it aimed my way. I rest my butt against the counter before I end up on the floor.

“Now you know,” he murmurs deep and firm. “I’m physically attracted to you. Always was.”

God. He isn’t supposed to say these things. We have a silent but very clear deal based on mutual loathing and avoidance.

“This isn’t attraction,” I manage to get out. “It’s agitation.”

He hasn’t stepped away. He’s still so close our chests nearly touch with each unsteady breath we take. I wonder if he can smell the lie I’ve just told.

Blue eyes the color of well-worn denim spear mine. “It’s a promise.” The words come down like a hammer. “A promise, Bren, of how fucking good it can be if you just let go of your pride.” With that, he steps back, his hands open and facing out as if showing he’s got nothing to hide. “Think about it, okay? Just…think about it.”

He leaves without a backward glance. And I curse his name for the rest of the night because I don’t get a wink of sleep.

Bastard.

Chapter Three

Brenna

“Rye isn’t here,” Sophie says with an exasperated sigh.

The tip of my Jimmy Choo Love pump beats a rapid tattoo on the polished concrete floor of the photo studio. I take a moment to admire them—bright yellow leather with a white pointed tip and an elegant black heel. The other pump is white with a black tip and a yellow heel.

Something in me calms, as it always does when I admire my shoes.

Vain, yes. But for a girl who grew up with nothing, while watching her rich cousin and his friends get everything, the luxury of being able to buy beautiful shoes for myself is something I’ll never take for granted. Silly as it may seem, just the knowledge that I can afford these shoes, that I made it to this place through my own hard work, puts everything back into focus. More than any other arsenal in my wardrobe, my shoes have become a talisman of sorts, able to bring me comfort, take away my fears, and soothe my nerves.

So, yes, I stare at my shoes and quietly release the urge to strangle Rye. Because, when he’s late for a band photoshoot, we all have to wait. Sophie has a babysitter who’s on the clock, and the rest of us have various other appointments we have to attend later. But here we are, sitting around waiting for Rye to get his ass to the studio.

Whip and Jax are playing Minecraft in the small lounge we have set up. They’re arguing about the architecture of the Fortress of Solitude they’re building. Scottie is half on the phone, half watching them and muttering pointers. Killian is on a chair, idly strumming “Stairway to Heaven,” which the guys find hilarious. I know there’s probably some musician joke in this, but I’m too annoyed to remember it.

“He’ll show,” I say, silently cursing Rye in my head. I haven’t seen him since he dropped the sex bomb on my head last night, and I’m not exactly keen on coming face-to-face with him. Even so, we have work to do, and he needs to get his act together. Not that this is anything new for him. Rye is unreliable. Which is why, when I told him I couldn’t fully trust him, I wasn’t blowing hot air.

“He hates having his picture taken.” Sophie seems more amused than offended. She sets down her camera and runs a hand through her hair. It’s nut brown at the roots, lightening into marshmallow white at the tips. “Funny thing is, when I started, it was Killian who was most resistant to photos.”

“That’s just because he was being an ass.” I smile wryly. “Just like Rye.”

Sophie shakes her head, sending the pale strands of her hair swaying over her shoulders. “I don’t think it’s that. With Rye, I mean.” She picks up a bottled iced tea and takes a long drink. “Something’s going on with him lately.”

Everything in me freezes in cold horror as if somehow the entire band, all our friends, know what happened last night. My heart clenches with the fear that the next words out of Sophie’s mouth will be to ask me what’s up.

But she simply caps her tea and looks thoughtful. “He seems…off.”

“Does he?” I hadn’t noticed. Which is strangely upsetting, because I should notice. It’s my job to notice everything about my boys. Not that I like to think of Rye as “my boy” but… I shake off my wandering thoughts and tap my toe again.

“He used to be larger than life, the first one to stick his face in my camera…” Sophie grins. “Waggling his tongue and saying something wildly inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate is kind of his thing,” I say dryly.

She shakes her head fondly. “He reminds me of me, so I can’t throw stones. We’re both like these eager puppies, wanting attention, but when we have it, we don’t know what to do with it.”

My tapping toe stills. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

She hums in agreement. “But now? Rye’s gone quiet. Like he’s drawing in on himself.” Her brown eyes meet mine. “You know?”

I didn’t. Not until Sophie pointed it out. An uncomfortable emotion—prickly and itchy, like the weaker cousin of jealousy—fills my insides. Sophie noticed but not me. Deep down, or maybe not so deep, I thought I was the one who paid the most attention to Rye and how he acted.

I don’t want to consider why that is. I don’t want to think about how he was in my house, asking to be the one that gets to fuck me, and I’d never suspected anything deeper was going on with him.

I make a noise of agreement and act like I’m fine. Everything is fine. But it’s not. Everything is off and twisted, and where the hell is Rye, anyway?

My silent scream of frustrated worry cuts short as the elevator dings, and Rye struts into the loft.

“Finally.” Killian sets his guitar down.

“Sorry,” Rye mutters, not sounding exactly sorry. He’s not looking at anyone but is focused on carrying a large tray of takeout cups in his hand. “This took a little longer than expected.”

“This” being the takeout. Instantly, I feel like an ass for cursing him. He sets his messenger bag down then starts handing out drinks. I feel even worse when it’s clear he got everyone their favorite.

“With a twist of lemon,” Scottie says, impressed but trying not to show it as he sips his Earl Grey.

“Without the lemon, you don’t achieve the proper snooty lip pucker,” Rye says with a wink.

Whip and Jax snicker. Scottie drinks his tea.

Rye approaches me last. It’s a struggle to maintain a neutral facade. It gets more difficult as he draws near. His presence takes away my air. He’s just too much. Too big, his body too strong and tight. His voice too deep—not a bass but a low baritone that has a tendency to vibrate along my skin when he’s near.