P.S. I’m Still Yours: Chapter 12

My first week as a waitress goes by in a flash.

By the time my day off rolls around, I’m exhausted in every sense of the word. All in all, I like working at Sandy’s, but Ania, my coworker and the lady training me, just might be my least favorite part about the job.

She expects absolutely nothing short of perfection, despite the fact that I’d never waitressed in my life less than a week ago. I’m a fast learner, sure, but I’m still a human being.

She seems to assume that because she’s shown me how to do something once, I won’t have any questions or require her assistance with it ever again.

Having Jamie around does help balance out the bad, though. If it weren’t for her, I’m not sure I would’ve made it through my first week.

She reminds Ania to take a chill pill whenever she goes off on me for not mastering every part of the job. Even my boss had to say something. I just might have to ask him if Jamie can train me instead.

Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling and reflect on all that’s happened since I moved in.

From eavesdropping on Kane and his sober sponsor in the bathroom, reconnecting with my childhood friends, to waking up alone in Kane’s bed the morning after Vince’s party. It’s been an eventful first week, to say the least.

It must’ve taken me a solid forty-eight hours to even look Kane in the eyes after I threw up all over his expensive shoes.

There was something particularly vulnerable about waking up in his bed half naked and realizing I was wearing his clothes—well, technically, I was wearing his T-shirt and my panties.

Apparently, drunk me got hot halfway through the night and thought it would be a good idea to strip.

I wish I could say I didn’t remember a thing when I woke up. That the booze wiped my memory clean, but the truth is I remembered every embarrassing moment.

Every nice thing Kane did when I had my head in the toilet. How attentive he was to my every need. The way he held my hair while I was puking.

I even remember backing up into him, his hands clutching my body as he pulled me in, the warmth of his chest on my back.

God, I’m such an idiot.

Kane was nowhere around when I woke up, so I did what any sane, mortified person would do. I grabbed my clothes off the floor, threw them on, and ran to my bedroom before Kane came back.

We haven’t said a word to each other since.

I considered thanking him for taking care of me—once the initial humiliation wore off—but he’s been treating me like I’m see-through ever since that night.

There has been no more intense staring at breakfast, no more conversations in the backyard, and definitely no more cuddling. He went from tucking me into bed and holding me until I fell asleep to leaving the room as soon as I walk in.

It’s getting to be a running gag around here.

Everyone, and I mean everyone in the house, has noticed. Scar even made a joke out of it. Something along the lines of “Legend has it these two have never been seen in the same room.”

Normally, I’d be annoyed.

After all, I told him I wouldn’t tolerate him treating me like I carry a deadly virus, but I was so exhausted from trying to meet Ania’s expectations all week, all I wanted to do was crash into bed when I got home.

On the bright side, Kane ignoring me ensures that I’ll continue to see him for who he really is rather than the nice, hold-your-hair-back-while-you’re-sick version of him.

I refuse to even entertain the idea that he might be a good person.

He looked me in the eyes and told me he’d never cared about me. One decent gesture doesn’t change the fact that his insides are so rotten his heart is probably coal black.

I decide I should probably get out of bed a half hour later. I need a shower, for starters. I was so tired last night I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.

I’m quick to select an outfit and walk to my bedroom door. I’ve just swung it open when the door to the room across from mine opens, too.

The bedroom is Drea’s.

But the person coming out of it is Scar.

Well, well.

Look who finally acted on all that tension.

Scar is shirtless, his black hair is a tousled mess, and his blue eyes are so small he looks like he’s been up for twenty-four hours straight.

He, Drea, Kane, Jamie, Cal, and Vince were supposed to hang out at the docks in Hillford last night.

We used to do it all the time as kids, except that now, instead of just watching the stars and skipping stones, the guys pass a joint around and drink themselves into a coma.

I was supposed to go, but I got off work late, and I wasn’t in a drinking mood. Although, I take it from Scar’s walk of shame that he and Drea were in the mood for something entirely different…

Scar and I make eye contact instantly, but he seems too tired to give a shit about getting caught while trying to sneak out because he flashes a smile, quietly closes the door, and dashes down the hall toward his own room.

I’m hopping into the shower ten minutes later. I was thinking I’d go shopping for painting supplies today.

I miss painting more and more each day, and I may be flat broke right now, but I figured I could pay off my credit card once I get my first paycheck.

I’m jogging down the stairs shortly after. The smell of bacon makes my mouth salivate, and I make a beeline for the kitchen, excited to see what Sue’s got planned for breakfast.

I thought Kane and Evie were extra for taking their private chef everywhere they went, but I have to admit it’s been nice coming downstairs in the morning and finding a hot breakfast waiting for me.

My pulse stills when I turn the corner and find a shirtless Kane sitting around the breakfast nook.

He seems to be the only one who’s up, and I assume my mom and Evie are already at the club.

Kane doesn’t notice me, staring at something on his phone.

“Good morning, miss,” Sue greets me with a radiant smile. “How would you like your eggs this morning?”

I debate on telling her that she doesn’t have to call me miss, but I’ve told her five times this week and it clearly hasn’t stuck.

Kane’s head snaps up, the worry etching his face twisting my stomach into a knot.

Something’s wrong.

I want to ask him about it, but he closes himself off to any sort of interaction, diverting his focus to his phone again.

Okay, then.

I return Sue’s smile. “Scrambled, please.”

She nods, finishing up the plate on the counter before bringing it over to Kane. She places the food in front of him. “Your breakfast, sir.”

He’s so absorbed into whatever he’s looking at he doesn’t even hear her.

Inhaling a breath through my nose, I make my way to the breakfast nook and take a seat across from him. We don’t have to be friends, but we can at least eat at the same table like two civil adults.

Only, Kane seems to disagree because his eyes dart to me from the second I sit down, and he jumps to his feet in a knee-jerk reaction.

“I’ll eat later,” he drawls, and poor Sue doesn’t argue, clearing the table. “If my mom asks, tell her I’m in the gym.”

Right.

Because the beach house has a gym.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.

Kane’s gone before I know it, and my blood sizzles with annoyance. What the hell is wrong with him? I should be the one avoiding him after everything he’s done.

Does he realize that the more he acts like he can’t stand to be near me, the more I want to follow him everywhere he goes just to spite him?

I’ve just told Sue to give me Kane’s untouched breakfast instead of cooking a new one when Drea walks into the room, her left hand smacked against her forehead.

“Please tell me we have aspirin,” she groans.

I decide to put her out of her misery before I start interrogating her about Scar. “I think I saw some in the cupboard over there.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, walking over and throwing the cupboard open. She’s gotten herself a glass of water and downed the pills in no time. Sue asks her how she’d like her eggs, and Drea gags, the thought of food making her nauseous.

She’s barely plopped down onto the bench on the other side of the breakfast nook before I pin her with a look that says, “I know what you did last night.”

She picks up on it right away, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” I dig my fork into my eggs and take a small bite. “What time did you end up rolling in last night?”

“I don’t know. A little after midnight?” She sounds like she’s asking me.

“Really? Because Jamie posted an Instagram story around two, and you were in it.”

The story was of Vince and Scar trying to light fireworks in their mouths. I’m pretty sure I lost a few brain cells just watching that.

She shrugs. “It must’ve been 2:00 a.m., then.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, 4:00 a.m.,” she admits, a guilty smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I’m starting to know Drea.

Probably because we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. We get together in the home theater most days after work and watch our favorite reality TV show together. It’s really helped us bond.

She even confirmed my suspicions about her and Scar. I was right; he was the guy in her story. She and Scar got down and dirty on the bus the last day of Kane’s European tour.

Kane walking in right as they were getting to the best part kind of ruined the mood, to say the least.

Nothing else has happened between them after that.

Although… judging by what I saw this morning, that might not be the case anymore.

“What’s with the interrogation?” she asks.

“Just curious. What about Scar? Do you know when he came home… or if he came home with anybody?”

Drea avoids my gaze. “I wouldn’t know.”

I can’t conceal my grin. “I see.”

She can barely hide her own smile. “Don’t even start.”

“What? I’m just asking.”

“You’re one to talk, Miss Kane Wilder held my hair while I was throwing up.”

I grab a grape off my plate and throw it at her.

That’s what I get for telling her about my history with Kane. She confided in me about Scar, and I figured the least I could do was tell her about the embarrassing crush I used to have on him. I might’ve also told her that I threw up all over his shoes.

It took her a while to manage to stop laughing, but once she did, she told me she’s never known Kane to be the caring type. “But then again, he’s been doing all sorts of things he’s never done before when it comes to you,” she added.

It sounds good on paper, and I might even feel special if it weren’t for the fact that I know him coming to my rescue probably had nothing to do with me.

He told me my brother would’ve wanted him to keep an eye on me, which is just another way of saying that he feels guilty for losing touch with Gray and treating him like a stranger for years before he died.

My best guess is he didn’t help me because he cares. He helped me because he knows my brother would’ve cared, and he thought the good deed would help ease his conscience.

My cheeks flare. “Nice try changing the subject. I’m not the one we’re talking about here.”

She gives me a smile that says two can play at this game. “I’m just saying, that was awfully nice of him. Does he do that often? Do nice things for you? Like in a horizontal position, maybe?”

I stick my hands up. “Okay. Message received. No more questions.”

We leave it at that, discussing everything but the guys as I finish my meal. It isn’t until Drea checks her phone and color drains from her face that I know my intuition was right.

I thought something might be wrong when I saw the look on Kane’s face earlier. He was staring at his phone, too.

“No, no, no. Fuck.” Drea scrolls through what seems to be an article.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, but she’s already out the door.

I hear her say, “I need to find Kane,” before booking it up the stairs.

Curiosity overtakes me, and I pull my phone out of my pocket. I type Kane’s name into the search engine, and the first headline that pops up reads:

I read the title a few times.

Tate Zimmer.

I’ve heard that name before.

No, I’ve read that name before.

In the countless articles speculating about why Kane lost it that night at the club.

She’s an Instagram model. Redhead, tall, slim. The girl is known for her bikini pics and owning a makeup brand. She’s not nearly as big as Kane, though. I’d say she has around two million followers, a far cry from Kane’s two hundred and eighty-seven million dedicated fans.

She and Kane were rumored to be dating after they were spotted together in New York two months ago. Although, as far as I can tell, it was mostly speculation.

I couldn’t find a single picture of them kissing. One of the articles said she and Kane had broken up just minutes before Kane attacked Josh, and he lashed out at the first person he saw.

I don’t believe that for a second, but it doesn’t matter what I think. All that matters is whether or not the world believes it.

I tap the link, my eyes skimming over the article.

Let’s see what this Tate girl has been saying.

My jaw drops when I reach the third paragraph.

Oh, this is bad.

I spend the rest of my day off holed up in the sunroom, working away at what might just be the darkest painting I’ve ever done.

It’s a little after midnight when I realize that I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, so engrossed in my painting that I didn’t notice the hunger pangs gnawing at my stomach.

It’s a good thing Mom was having dinner at the club, or she would’ve dragged me downstairs by my hair and forced-fed me whatever meal Sue whipped up for dinner.

I almost wish she would’ve.

My body definitely didn’t appreciate being ignored because it skipped the growling stomach and jumped straight to the hunger headache and shaky hands.

I take a step back for a broader shot of the raging storm on my canvas.

Thick clouds are rolling in above an empty field at nighttime and a flash of lighting is striking a tree that’s shaped like a heart right down the middle.

I didn’t plan on creating something this depressing, but there was a sale on dark colors at the nearest store, and I wasn’t trying to max out my credit card, so I grabbed whatever I could afford and headed home.

I set up my easel near the grand piano in the center of the sunroom and, after looking for a tall enough seat, grabbed a stool from the upstairs bar.

I’ve been at this for over eleven hours, and while I do like where the painting’s heading, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s missing something.

In all fairness, that’s how I’ve felt ever since I started painting again. I’m never satisfied with my work. Probably because, deep down, I think my skills should be further along by now.

I could’ve been good.

With practice, time, and effort, I might’ve even had a shot at this. I might’ve been able to actually sell my paintings and make a reasonable living from them.

Now, I know being a full-time artist is not the most realistic goal, but I like to think I would’ve beat the odds if I hadn’t stopped painting.

Maybe then I would be doing what I love now instead of trying to major in communications. Maybe I would’ve had the guts to make it a double major and study art as well.

Maybe.

The hunger tremors in my hands spread to my arms, and I figure I should call it a night.

I begin gathering my brushes to wash them.

“Anyone ever tell you the human body needs food to survive?” His voice makes my pulse accelerate.

I whisk my head back and see Kane leaning against the doorway, one of his arms propped up against the frame. His all-black outfit, intimidating presence, and the cunning smirk on his lips send confusing signals to my brain.

He’s talking to me again?

Because this morning at breakfast, he couldn’t have been more eager to get me out of his sight.

I’m also surprised he noticed that I didn’t eat. I figured he’d be too busy trying to clean up his PR disaster to pay attention to what anyone else is doing.

“I wasn’t hungry,” I say flatly.

Because my stomach’s timing is the worst, it makes an extra-loud growling sound the next second.

He raises a brow at me.

I think it best to specify, “I am now.”

Kane gives a nod, pushing off the doorway and venturing into the sunroom. He stops three steps in, taking in his surroundings as though he’s never been here before.

“Shit,” he breathes, memories swirling around his demon-ridden eyes. “I haven’t been in this room since…”

We exchange a look packed with shared trauma.

The last time we were in this room was the day I walked in on his dad beating the shit out of him.

It was the day I wished Mr. Wilder would disappear from Kane’s life.

And then, he did.

I turn away from Kane, continuing to gather my things. I don’t know what’s gotten into him or why he’s acting decent all of a sudden, but I’m too exhausted to care.

“What are you working on?” His breath slides along the side of my neck, and I jump, flicking my head to see him standing way too close to me, looking at the painting over my shoulder.

The only light in the room originates from the night sky, the stars’ glow invading the space through the windows covering the walls.

The moonlight hits the left side of Kane’s face, gliding along the curve of his jaw and casting an aura on his godlike features.

My throat dries at his proximity, and I have to force myself to stare ahead before he notices me ogling him.

“That’s… depressing,” he comments on my work.

I gesture to the tubes of paint next to my plastic palette. “I didn’t have much of a choice. I could only get dark shades.”

My comment piques his curiosity. “Why?”

“Not everyone’s loaded, remember?” Venom drips from my voice, and I try to lessen the blow by adding, “They were on sale. I grabbed what I could.”

Sometimes I wonder if he can even recall what it’s like to be broke. The only time Kane didn’t live a luxurious lifestyle was during the first few months following his father’s death.

Back when his mom couldn’t afford to get him a phone and he’d lost a bunch of weight from skipping two meals a day.

Kane nods, distancing himself from me and dropping onto the bench in front of the piano.

My lungs fill with relief, the tension in my shoulders easing the second he walks away.

He starts tinkering on the piano with one hand. “Is that why you stopped painting? Because of money?”

I raise a brow. “Who says that I stopped?”

He looks up, staring right at me. “I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’re in school, majoring in communications, instead of a famous artist selling your paintings for a fuck ton of money?”

How does he even know what I’m majoring in?

I snort. “Like that would’ve ever happened.”

The frown on his face tells me he disagrees, but he digs his teeth into his bottom lip as if to stop himself from arguing. “Did you even try to put your work out there?

Shame taints my cheeks. “I was going to. My junior year of high school. I even bought a domain, but… let’s just say it wasn’t the right time.”

He nods, showing more understanding than I thought he would. “What? Did life just get in the way?”

I wish I could say none of the above, but it’s a little bit of everything. “Gray got murdered, for one.”

The reminder seems to cut him to the bone, a shadow descending over his beautiful face.

“By the time Mom and I managed to come up for air, it was time to send out college applications. I had to start thinking about the future and getting a real job.”

“And you don’t think painting could be a real job?”

“I used to,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. “But I wasn’t being realistic. I’m fine with it just being a hobby.”

“Why?” he says bluntly.

I glance at him. “Why what?”

“Why are you fine with it? If you want to paint, just fucking do it. What’s stopping you?”

I almost laugh. “And what? Starve? Live on the street? Maybe I could live in a dumpster. Looks comfy.”

I don’t think he’s aware of how rare what happened to him is. He became a worldwide sensation overnight. One video is all it took for his wildest dreams to come true. Not everyone’s this lucky, and certainly not everyone’s as fearless as he is.

My cynical remark doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Play a game with me.”

His request catches me off guard. “What kind of game?”

He props his leg up on the piano bench, lacing his tattooed arm around his knee, the vicious smirk on his lips facing me with a challenge I’m too stubborn to turn down. “The Fuck-Being-An-Adult game.”

My lips curl into a grin.

I drop onto the stool next to my canvas. “What are the rules?”

He shrugs. “Easy. You pretend anything’s possible. Forget about bills and having to pay for shit. Forget about doing the grown-up thing. I want you to imagine you’re free to do whatever you want.”

“Okay. And what if I told you I’d be doing exactly the same thing as I am right now?”

I feel his smirk deep in my stomach. “Then I’d call you a fucking liar.”

He’d be right.

“Fine,” I cave, pondering my answer. “If I were free to do anything… I’d pack up my dorm.” I look at my canvas from the corner of my eye. “I’d get into my car, drive to a gorgeous cabin in the middle of nowhere, and paint until my hands fell off.”

A victorious smile flashes across his face. “That’s my girl.”

His girl?

Shut up, Hadley. You know that’s not what he meant.

“Oh, and I’d get a dog. And a horse named Jolene. Can I get a horse?”

He laughs, the deep, familiar sound comforting. “Fuck yeah. It’s your dream life. You can get anything you want.”

I join in, laughing at his ridiculous game. Our laughter fades out around the same time, and the silence that ensues gives way to a more serious atmosphere.

Reality comes trickling in, but I’m not ready to face it just yet. I’m about to ask him about his dream life when a low rasp cuts through the air. “Hey, um… I’m sorry about Gray. I never got to tell you in person.”

I want to scream, “Whose fault is that?” but I stop myself.

If he had really wanted to, he could’ve reached out. He also could’ve, I don’t know, not shown up to Gray’s funeral drunk off his face.

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

It’s no one’s fault, except for the masked scumbag who killed him.

“Although, the disappearing act before that? Kind of your fault.” I try to pass it off as a joke, but he doesn’t laugh.

He looks dead inside, playing a melody I don’t recognize on the piano, and it feels like a rope is tied around my waist, jerking me closer with each note. I can’t fight it, cutting across the room until I’m standing next to him.

He doesn’t look up, his fingers roughly pressing the keys.

“Are you okay?” My mouth expresses concern my brain doesn’t approve of.

I shouldn’t give a flying shit if he’s okay.

So what if his career’s going up in flames?

He still doesn’t look up. “Fine.”

“Are you? Because after the day you’ve had, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.”

Goddamn it, Hadley. Why are you so invested in his well-being?

“You heard, huh?”

I sit next to him on the piano bench, earning myself some eye contact. He looks surprised that I sat down but doesn’t question it.

“That I did. Your girlfriend’s got quite the imagination.”

He barely lets me finish before saying, “She is not my fucking girlfriend.”

That’s when it hits him.

He looks up, staring at me in shock. “Wait… you don’t believe her?”

“Not even a little.”

A bitter scoff rips from his throat. “Well, that makes you the only one.”

I’m not going to lie, things aren’t looking good for Kane. This Tate girl has been going around giving interviews to everyone and their mothers, talking about how Kane once put his hands on her.

How his extreme jealousy and possessiveness did their relationship in.

She basically implied that Kane lashed out at Joshua because they’d gotten into a fight a few minutes prior, and he couldn’t accept that she wanted to break up.

She painted him as an abusive boyfriend and an absolute dick overall. If dragging someone’s name through the mud was a career, Tate Zimmer would be employee of the fucking month.

The media ate that shit up, creating scandalous headlines full of clickbait to make Kane look like an unredeemable monster.

I’ve known this guy since I was in diapers. He’s not perfect, but he wouldn’t just go around attacking people because he had a fight with his girlfriend.

And I’m pretty sure he’d rather eat a jar of toenails than lay a hand on a woman. He had to watch his mom get verbally abused by his father for years, and that’s assuming the bastard didn’t also assault her physically.

Fifteen-year-old Kane once threw himself at a grown man, knowing he was going to get his ass handed to him, all because he wanted to protect his mom.

I believe he would die for Evie, no questions asked. No way in hell is he capable of doing what this girl is claiming he did.

“Let me guess. Crazy ex-girlfriend gives exclusive for her five minutes of fame?”

A low curse leaves his lips. “She wishes.”

I wait for him to explain.

He cringes as though he hates the story he’s about to share. “Tate and I fucked. Once. We were at the same movie premiere in New York. I got shit-faced at the after-party, and the paparazzi caught us getting into a car together. They followed us all the way back to my hotel and parked their asses outside until she came out the next day, wearing the same clothes. From there, people lost their fucking minds.

“Josh was adamant that I keep my dating life out of the media. He said my fans wanted me single, and I was free to do whatever the fuck I wanted behind closed doors, as long as the world thought I was available. He seemed to think it would affect album sales or some shit. I managed not to be seen with women for the first four years of my career. Except for that one time.”

Of course, one time was all it took.

“Thing is, when the news came out, album and ticket sales didn’t plummet like he thought they would. They fucking exploded. The dating rumors earned us so much attention that Tate gained a million followers overnight, and I gained three times that.”

“I bet Tate liked that very much.”

“She fucking loved it. The media kept reaching out, asking to speak with her, and her makeup brand started selling out. That’s when she turned into a next-level clinger. She started entertaining the nonsense, playing the part so that she’d get more brand deals. It was a fucking nightmare not being able to say anything, but Josh insisted that it was great exposure and that instead of denying it right off the bat, I should let people run with it for a while.

“I told her when she showed up to Scar’s birthday to leave me alone. I’d had enough of lying to my fans, and she told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life before storming off. At least, I thought she left. We found out through a few of the guests that she’s the one who recorded and posted the video of me punching Josh.”

Holy shit.

Tate posted the video.

“We confronted her about it, but she said we didn’t have concrete evidence. I was hoping she’d back the fuck off after the video went viral because of the bad publicity, but of course, she found a way to make herself look like the victim.”

Man, I almost feel bad for him.

Sleep with a girl once and you just might lose everything.

“Drea wants to put out a statement saying that we were never dating at all. Best-case scenario, because I never confirmed it myself, people will turn on Tate.”

“And the worst-case scenario?” Knowing how harsh the internet can be, the first one isn’t likely to happen.

“Worst-case scenario, they accuse me of trying to cover my own ass and lying because why would I wait this long to come out and say it?”

Damn.

The timing is pretty suspicious. How convenient that he would tell the world they never dated right as shit is hitting the fan.

The saddest part is he had no control over it. His management wanted everyone to think he was dating some model and practically forbade him from coming clean.

He throws his head back with a low, irritated growl. “Jesus Christ. Sometimes I just want to say fuck it and run.”

“I get it, but you can’t give up on your dreams.”

He snorts. “Says the girl who gave up on her own dreams.”

My lips part.

That came out of nowhere.

He seems to agree because he stiffens. “Fuck, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right. I did give up.”

“Because your brother died. Not because you wanted to. I shouldn’t have… That was a fucked-up thing to say.”

“Still. I’m in no position to tell you what to do.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” The words roll off my tongue so quickly I couldn’t stop them if I tried.

For some reason, we’re acting like friends right now.

Or at the very least, we’re being friendly. I fully intend to go back to hating him tomorrow, so I might as well find out all I can tonight.

He gives a nod. “Shoot.”

“Why’d you really go off on Josh?”

His features twist with uncertainty, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he thinks his answer through.

“It’s…” He pauses for long seconds. “…complicated.”

Then he laughs.

I’m taken aback until I realize he didn’t laugh because he thinks it’s funny.

It’s a self-deprecating laugh, full of guilt, hatred, and shame. “Want to know the worst part? I don’t regret it. Not for a fucking second. I’m glad the motherfucker’s never going to walk again. And I’m glad I got to be the one to stop him from…” He halts himself before he can say too much.

“From what?” I press.

“Doesn’t matter. Out of all the things that could’ve ended my career, I’m glad it was this one. That way, at least, it was worth it.”

I shouldn’t encourage him. What he’s saying is awful, but I can’t help thinking that whatever this Josh guy did, it had to be twice as bad.

“Are you ever going to tell your fans what he did? I’m sure if they knew, they’d be on your side.”

Disbelief fills his green eyes. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

He scoffs. “You’re just going to assume I had a good reason? Just like that? You don’t even know what he did.”

I shrug. “I don’t need to.”

I’m guessing I’m one of the first people to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I might’ve just lashed out for nothing, you ever think about that?”

I shake my head. “You didn’t. I know you didn’t.”

He’s silent for a while.

“Fuck me. Five years later and you still have faith in me.”

It is laughable.

I should demand his side of the story, but I feel like I know him. Even if he didn’t care, even if he left Gray and me behind for years, I know his heart. Regardless of the fact that he didn’t want mine.

“You’re too fucking nice to me, Hads.”

I chuckle. “Do you want me to be mean? ’Cause I can be mean.”

“Hate to break it to you, Queen, but you don’t have a cruel bone in your body.”

I hate that he’s right.

He hurt me, but I still wish him well.

I don’t want him in my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be happy either. It was easy to paint him as a monster when all I saw was this reckless famous guy on the other side of a screen, but now that he’s here? In front of me?

I realize he’s still a person.

“You never told me what you really want?” I issue a question I’m scared I might regret.

My breath stalls when his gaze locks onto my mouth.

He leans in just a tad. “Like in general or… right now?”

I was talking about his dream life, asking him the same thing he asked me, but it’s like he punched me in the throat with a single look, and I suddenly can’t form a sentence.

It makes no sense.

We’re not friends.

And we’re definitely not on good terms.

So why, oh why, do my thighs clench together when he inches forward, invading my space like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and says, “Because I know exactly what I want right now.”

Mayday, Mayday.

I feel like I should have a panic button or something.

He continues to lean in, looking at me like he’s daring me to stop him.

Our lips are about to touch.

Just a few more inches…

That’s when the loudest stomach growl I’ve ever heard cuts through the air.

I swear it sounded like my body was calling me names, spewing out threats to get me to feed it.

The noise snaps me right out of whatever trance was holding me prisoner.

What the hell just happened?

Was Kane seriously going to kiss me?

More importantly, was I going to let him?

I barely have a chance to process it before Kane pushes off the bench, reaching for my wrist and pulling me to my feet without an explanation.

“W-Where are we going?” I stammer as he drags me out of the sunroom.

“To put some food in you.”