A long pause stretches between us before he exhales heavily. “No,” he mutters, and I don’t miss the frustration in his tone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a seat on the exercise bench nearby. The music plays on, filling the silence between us. “I know this must be maddening.”
I close my eyes as the melody surrounds me, sinking into it, letting it take me back. I can see it—us—so clearly. The way his music was more than just sound; it was a thread that bound us together. Each note feels like it’s pulling at a memory I’ve tucked away, weaving its way through me.
The song fades, and the next one begins—Falling Into You. Suddenly, I’m not in the room anymore.
I’m twenty again, my hiking boots crunching against loose gravel as I trail behind Keane on a steep, winding path. The sunbeats down, my breaths come hard and fast, but he’s there ahead of me, turning back with that grin of his, reaching out a hand to pull me up. And just like that, I’m falling—into him, into the moment, into everything we were.
Chapter Forty
Ophelia
Ten years ago. . .
“Are you sure this is the right spot?” I ask, trying to catch my breath. The backpack on my shoulders feels heavier with every step, and my legs are burning.
“Of course it is,” Keane calls back, not even looking at me as he powers ahead. He’s carrying his guitar slung across his backlike it weighs nothing, a notebook sticking out of his pocket. “Just a little further.”
I groan, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “You said that half a mile ago.”
He finally stops, turning to face me with that crooked grin of his—the one that somehow manages to make my heart stumble and my fists itch at the same time. “And I meant it half a mile ago. You’re going to love it, Philly. It’s perfect for everything. You can use your camera to capture life—like you always say you’re doing when you’re clicking through the lens. Just trust me.”
I roll my eyes, but my feet keep moving, following him up the trail because—God help me—I do trust him. He’s been nothing but amazing, even when I’ve tried to keep my walls up. He’s patient when I doubt myself, encouraging when I feel like I can’t keep up, and somehow manages to make me laugh when all I want to do is quit because musicians are worse than divas. They’re toddlers on a power trip.
And the worst part? I’m falling for him—I’m falling for a musician. I don’t know what happens at the end of this internship—if I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his and forget about me. If this connection we’re building will find a way to hold. But right now, in this moment, I can’t think about the ending.
I glance at his back as he walks ahead, the way he moves with this easy confidence that feels almost contagious. He turns around again, his grin softening as his gaze meets mine. “Almost there,” he promises, his voice lower this time, more intimate, like he’s letting me in on some secret only we’ll share.
And maybe that’s what this feels like—a secret. Something beautiful and momentary that I want to hold, even if I’m scared it won’t last.
We finally crest the hill, and he’s right. Of course, he’s right. The view is breathtaking—layers of green rolling into thehorizon, a crystalline lake glittering in the sunlight below us. The air feels different up here, fresher, cleaner.
Keane pulls the guitar off his back and sets it down carefully. He sits on a flat boulder, his legs stretched out in front of him, and pulls out his notebook. He’s quiet for a moment, just looking out at the view, his pen hovering over the page.
I sit down next to him, my heart still racing from the hike—or maybe just from being this close to him. “So, is this where the magic happens?” I tease, nudging him with my shoulder.
He winks at me. “You’ll see.”
He strums a chord, and I feel it vibrate through the air, settling somewhere deep in my chest. He plays a few more, experimenting, his head tilting as he listens. And then he starts to hum.
I don’t say anything, afraid to break whatever spell he’s casting over the moment. I just watch him, the way his fingers move over the strings, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way the sunlight catches in his hair.
“You know,” he says suddenly, his voice breaking through the music, “you’re kind of my good luck charm.”
I laugh, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, still strumming. “Every time you’re around, things just . . . click. I’ve been stuck on this song for weeks, but now? I think I’ve got it.”
I feel a blush creeping up my neck, but I play it off with a smirk. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not going to follow you around like some sort of songwriting muse.”
He grins, setting the guitar down. “Why not? You’d be great at it. You could carry my stuff, make sure I don’t forget to eat . . .”
“Wow,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What an honor.”
He laughs, and the sound is warm and infectious, wrapping around me like a blanket. He leans back on his hands, looking out at the view again.
“I’m serious, though,” he says after a moment, his tone softer now. “You make everything feel . . . easier. Like I don’t have to try so hard to be something I’m not.”
