The iconic image of Isabella wearing a diamond bra and panty set with white angel wings fluttering behind her as she struts the catwalk comes to mind. I’m not even into women, and I found those pictures irresistible. “Bet you got into a lot of fights.”

A smile creeps into his eyes. Just barely. “You have no idea.” Laughing darkly, he shakes his head. “Thing is, she’s a good mom. Loving, if a little flighty.”

“And your dad?”

“Killian Alexander James, the second.” He gives me a wry look. “I’m the third. My dad is a hedge fund manager. He met my mom at a Met fundraiser, and that was it for him. They were good parents, Libs. Well, as good as they could be. But they were also busy and traveled a lot. My grandmother took care of me most of the time. She was great, you know? Took no shit, always kept me grounded, made me do chores, learn how to cook, that sort of thing.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Killian nods, but he’s not focused on me. “She died about two years ago. I still miss her. She was the one who encouraged me to start the band. Hell, encouraged all of us to keep at it. We’d practice, and she’d listen. Even when we sounded like shit, she’d praise us.” His gaze draws inward, and a frown pulls at his mouth. “When our album went platinum, she was the first person I went to see.”

He stops talking, just scowls at the scarred kitchen table. And I find myself reaching for him.

At the touch of my fingers to his, Killian looks up. “She fluttered around the apartment she practically raised me in, dusting off the seat for me, running to get me coffee and pan. My abuelita,” he hisses, leaning in. “Like I was the fucking president or something.”

My fingers twine with his cold ones. “I’m sorry, Kill.”

He holds onto me, but doesn’t seem to see me. “I sat there on the old chesterfield sofa I’d peed on when I was two, while she tittered away, and I knew my old life was over. I’d never be the same. That no matter what I wanted, there would be a dividing line between the world and the person I’d become.”

“Killian…”

“It’s not all bad, Libby. I’m living the dream.” His lips pinch. “But it gets fucking lonely sometimes. You start wondering who you are and how you’re supposed to be. And I think…shit, I know that’s why Jax couldn’t handle things.”

His eyes meet mine then. “I didn’t want to tell you who I was because you looked at me like I was just another guy.”

“More like you were a pain in the ass,” I correct with a watery smile.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “That too.”

“Okay, so I got a little…starstruck. But I still think you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Promise?” The worry in his voice, his eyes, has me squeezing his hand again.

“My dad was a studio guitarist,” I tell him. “Played backup in recording sessions for a lot of huge bands in the nineties.” Killian jerks up in surprise, but I forge on before he can speak. “My mom was a backup singer. That’s how they met.”

“Hell, that’s awesome.”

“Yeah, they thought so.” I still do.

The sun rose and set on Mom and Dad. They’d do a duet, and joy would flood me. Music has always been a part of my life. A way to communicate. Silence entered my world when they died.

Emptiness threatens to pull me under. I focus on the present. “Thing is, Dad was always around famous people. He never gave it much thought. It was talent he respected—and a good work ethic. But one day, David Bowie came in for a session, and my dad literally fell off his seat. Couldn’t play for shit, he was so overwhelmed. Because Bowie was an idol to him.”

Killian chuckles. “I can see that.”

“You ever meet anyone you’d been a fan of?” I ask him.

“So many,” he admits. “Eddie Vedder was a big one. I think I grinned like an idiot for an hour. He’s a cool guy. Down-to-earth.”

“Well, there you go. You’re my Bowie, my Eddie Vedder.”

I start to pull away, but he gives my hand a little tug, and I finally see the twinkle in his eyes. “You like me better than Eddie.”

“Whatever you say, hon.”

But he’s right. I’m beginning to think I like him more than anyone.

Killian asks for a second slice of pie as we spread out on the floor and sort through Dad’s old records. I’m determined not to act like a nut anymore.

We listen to Django Reinhardt, one of my dad’s favorites.

“You know he only had use of three fingers on his left hand,” I tell Killian as we bop our heads to “Limehouse Blues.”

“One of the greatest guitar players of all time,” Killian says, then pulls out another album from the stack I’ve set on the rug between us. “Purple Rain. Now, talk about a fucking brilliant guitarist. Prince was a monster, just so…effortless but with such badass soul.”

Resting my head in my hand, I smile up at him. “You ever seen the actual album?”

His dark brow quirks. “No.”

My smile grows as he slips the record out of its sleeve and his eyes go wide. “It’s fucking purple!”

The way his deep voice almost squeaks makes me laugh. “Yeah. I had the same reaction when I was eight and found it. My dad totally yelled at me when he caught me using it as a tea tray for my dolls.”

Carefully, Killian tucks the purple record back into its sleeve. “I think it’s awesome that you grew up with music that way. My family appreciated it, but not with the same consuming love I had.”

I hum an acknowledgement but sorrow holds my tongue. Life has been so silent since my parents died. Too silent. I never really thought about how I turned my back on the simple joy of loving music, and how badly that has affected me.

I’m so distracted by my own thoughts that I don’t see Killian reach for the black file box until he’s already opening it.

“No, don’t—” My words die as he lifts up the battered ream of paper.

His gaze darts over the first page. “What’s this?”

Kill me now. Just take me out back and shoot me. Heat pushes through my flesh with a thick, uncomfortable fist. “Nothing. Just scribbles.”

I make an attempt to grab the stack, but he easily evades me by sticking out one of his freakishly long arms and holding my shoulder with his freakish strength.