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How much my dreams of him have meant to me over the last couple of years. How much his music means to me. How much I love watching him perform, how he moves with the music. How he’s the melody in my mind.
How much that one night meant to me. And how I don’t want to have sex with anyone else ever again.
How I didn’t mean to manipulate him—because I truly didn’t.
I just wanted him so badly. I wanted to be free of my virginity, and I wanted him to take it.
Because I…
I’ve always thought I was in love with him.
But do I really know him? Only as Maddie’s brother. As a rock star. Although I can’t really say he’s astar. At least not yet.
As a rocker, then.
As a rocker who makes my heart sing every time his voice weaves its magic.
His voice is deep, with a subtle rasp to it. The perfect rock voice.
He stands before me, his perfectly sculpted jawline tense, black stubble gracing it. I miss his long hair, but he looks even more handsome with it shorter.
“Why did you cut your hair?”
He tilts his head. “That’swhat you want to ask me?”
“Yes. I loved your long hair. I like long hair on a guy, but so few guys can pull it off. My brother can. Andyoucan.”
“It’s a pain in the ass to take care of.” He looks at my hair, raises his hand, his fingers twitching. Does he want to touch my hair?
“Wouldn’t you agree with that?” he continues. “Yours is longer than mine ever was.”
“Yeah. But I like it.”
“I liked it too.” He breaks his gaze away from me, dropping his hand back to his side. “But I need this tour to be perfect, Brianna. I need to be focused. I want to get rid of anything that takes time away from my music.”
“Your hair took time away from your music?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
I take another step toward him. “Help me understand.”
“Help you understand why I cut my hair? No. My hair is no one’s business but my own.”
He’s right. I’m just stalling. Talking about his hair is stupid. Even I can see that. “You’re right.”
“Exactly. In fact, everything about me is no one’s business but my own.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Certainly not yours.”
This time he turns, and as much as I want to, I do not ask him to wait.
I sniffle back some tears, and then I take a walk around the grounds. Ennis’s place is beautiful and very quaint. Not as beautiful as our ranch, of course, but I can see why he wanted to come back here and live out his senior years in his home country.
The lawn is more like a lush emerald-green carpet, and it’s expansive, stretching out across the estate, offering a sense of spaciousness. The edges of the lawn are sharply defined, forming a clear boundary between the grass and the surrounding flower beds, pathways, and hedges. The flower displays are splashes of color, with roses, hydrangeas, and lavender.
Deciduous trees provide shade in the summer, no doubt. Now their limbs are bare, though no snow is on the ground. It’s an oddly mild winter in London, and though I’m chilly in only my T-shirt, I have no desire to go back into the house yet.
After exploring the grounds, I find myself at a gray stone bench that sits adjacent to the driveway. I take a seat.
I breathe in the fresh air and settle my stomach, which is full of cupcakes and quiches and tea.
