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PROLOGUE
KYLE
As soon as I see her, I stop walking.
She’s wearing a black dress with a matching dark sash, her red hair twisted back with a few curls escaping. Proper business attire, paired with light-blue rain boots.
I glance past her, out the windows that take up most of the far wall of the small kitchen.
Not a single cloud in the sky. It’s a bright, sunny morning.
A smile tugs at my lips as I watch her fiddle with the coffee maker, frowning the whole time, as if the machine personally insulted her at some point. After huffing out an exasperated sigh, she pours a stream of dark brown liquid into a mug, then returns the pot to its spot with a clang.
Suddenly, she spins, facing me.
“Shit.” One hand flies to her chest while coffee sloshes precariously toward the rim of the mug she’s clutching in her other hand. Her eyes widen, showing off a shade of blue that’s startling against her pale skin, black dress, and vibrant hair. “Saysomething before you sneak up on someone!”
Before I can decide how—or if—to respond, she’s in motion again, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a carton of creamer out of it.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my slacks and continue watching from my spot in the doorway. Every motion is entertaining. Her tongue sticks out of one corner of her mouth as she pours the creamer. Her eyebrows furrow as she scans the contents of the fridge before setting the carton back on the shelf. Then, she hip-checks the fridge door closed. There’s poetry and chaos to each motion she makes that’s hard to look away from.
Or maybe I’m just jet-lagged. Nine hours ago, I was in Vancouver.
Her eyes flutter closed when she takes a sip of her coffee, the bob of her throat swallowing mesmerizing. She sighs, and then she turns, refocusing on me.
Blinks rapidly, like she wasn’t anticipating I might still be standing here.
“First day?”
I raise an eyebrow, thinking she’s joking.
My career has expanded far beyond the promises made when I signed a contract in this building. By most measures, I’m considered a household name, but I don’t walk around expecting every person I encounter to know who I am.
But here, at myrecord label? Yeah, I was kind of expecting recognition.
She sighs when I don’t respond. “You’re probably looking for Katie. She’s head of HR. Go down the hall, take a left, and then—”
“Piper!” a female voice calls.
“What?” the redhead asks, looking past me.
I follow her gaze, glancing over one shoulder at the brunette woman who’s appeared. She stills when she focuses on me, her lips parting slightly. And I see what I was just looking for—recognition.
“Kyle. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Harper Williams.”
I shake her offered hand. “Nice to meet you, Harper.”
Without permission, my eyes bounce back to the redhead.
Piper.
The name suits her, in a way I’ve never felt like either of mine have. I’m not really Kyle Spencer, the chart-topper and the heartbreaker. But I’m no longer Miles Spencer from Oak Grove, Texas, either.
I’m stuck as some hybrid of those two versions of myself, switching between them based on where I am and who I’m talking to. Mabel’s the only one who calls me Miles anymore. Everywhere else, I’m Kyle or Spencer.
Harper nods toward the kitchen. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like. We also have refreshments set up in the conference room.”
I nod, not revealing how the special treatment chafes. I’d rather grab stuff from the kitchen, like everyone else. “Great. Thanks.”
