Just thinking about Hayden in a suit made my mouth water. Right now, he was scruffy in that I-slept-in-my-clothes look some men had; his faded Rolling Stones T-shirt was rumpled and his jeans must have been ten years old. He even had a stainless-steel chain against his left hip to complete the look. He wore scuffed brown leather boots that were probably as ridiculously expensive as they were sexy.
Must have been my visit with Ken, who was all buttoned-up and arrogant, this week. Because right now, I preferred Hayden with his bad-boy, casual vibe—a first for me. I finished putting another quarter in the meter, and we turned in tandem, meandering down the sidewalk.
“I’d forgotten how big Seattle is.” Hayden said, glancing around. “It’s a bit like Sydney, but not.”
“Is that good?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I can see why Aussies like the Pacific Northwest. Colder and grayer, but similar.”
I quirked my lips up. “Better music scene.”
He hip-checked me. “Careful, love. Those’re fighting words. We have our fair share of talent.”
“I’ve heard of Kylie Minogue. She remade an American song.”
“I’m appalled. We export greatness. Lenka, Gotye, Hugh Jackman, Nicole Kidman. And I bet you have a thing for the Hemsworth brothers.”
“Most of the people you listed aren’t singers.”
He waggled his eyebrows at me and I sucked in a breath. My lips tingled and my nipples perked up. Lia talked about lust at first sight in her books, but I’d never experienced anything this raw, visceral. I stepped back, afraid of what Hayden Crewe was doing to my body. I needed to get a grip on these thoughts.
I’d already compared him to Ken and found Hayden better, proving I had a serious case of rebound syndrome. Any man seemed a step up from my ex—because just about any man was. I sighed, wishing I’d left Ken sooner.
I’d thought about it, but I loved Rosie too much to risk not seeing her anymore.
“Admit it, you love Aussies. Want to know everything about us.”
“Nope. I don’t need to even guess.”
“Sure you do. C’mon. You know you want to.”
I stared at him, meeting what I expected were his eyes through his dark lenses. “Guess about you? Besides the instruments you play and that your band’s called Jackaroo. Fine.”
“Yep. What else do you know?” he waggled his brows again, and I’d bet his eyes were shining with humor.
I didn’t have to think long. “You’re staying at The Edgewater, in one of the Beatles’ suites.”
His lips curled up in a smile. “The Beatles came to Oz, too. I wasn’t born yet so I didn’t get to see the concert live.”
I tapped my lips. “You’ve already Googled the band list at The Showbox and The Crocodile. You’re hoping to hear a new up-and-coming group of the same caliber as Nirvana or Death Cab for Cutie.”
“If I’m on hiatus, the least I can do is support and listen to the local talent. No surprises in your guessing, love.”
I shrugged. “Asher likes to pop in at the singer-songwriter shows when he’s in town. That’s how he and Lia met. Well, met again.”
“She’s a music aficionado like you?”
I snorted out a little chuckle and began to walk toward the food truck. “Lia actually understands the music and stuff. I just listen and sing along. I’m having the kimchi fried rice bowl.”
“A particular favorite?” At my nod, he leaned against the counter. “The lady and I’ll have the kimchi rice.” He raised a thick golden brow at me before he said, “Hers with chicken, mine with kalbi beef. Thanks.” Another pang built. Ken never ordered for me. I was a strong, independent woman. But Hayden remembered my comment about the miso chicken, made sure to order it with my meal.
I resisted the urge to rub my hand against the painful squeeze in my chest. I liked this man. Liked that he wasn’t afraid to take care of me. He glanced back at me, and I stood straighter.
“Water,” I said, my voice sort of strangled from my throat.
“And two waters.”
Hayden paid and we stepped back, letting the other lunch stragglers order.
“I told you I’d get lunch.”
“You drove. No worries.”
“You’re good with the American money.”
He checked, a scowl building. “My mum’s American,” he reminded me.
A sore spot—his relationship with his mother. I searched for something else to bring back the lightness we’d shared before, but he beat me to it.
“So music’s not really your thing?” he asked.
“I love it. Just never got much of an education in it.”
“Aren’t all American kids forced to play some instrument? A form of torture for teachers and parents.”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t. We moved to Seattle when I was ten. My school before, near the army base, didn’t have a real music program. Most of the kids here were already all set in choir or band, and I struggled enough to fit in. I refused to even try. Stupid, I know, but in my defense, my dad had just died.” I shook my head. “God. I said all that aloud, didn’t I? I’m officially embarrassed.”
“No need for embarrassment. I’ve been told sharing is cleansing.” He paused, clearly pondering something. “My dad died a few years back. I miss him.”
Something else we shared. I picked at my water label, head down. My feelings toward Hayden built into more than a case of lust.
“I miss mine, too. So.” I said, flailing and failing to pick a safe topic.
Hayden linked his fingers, his elbows on his knees. “Before you ask—and because I know you’re interested—my mum has pancreatic cancer. I didn’t find out until a couple of days ago. Her nurse called my record label. Took time for her information to get routed to me.”
Something in his voice caused me to pause, consider what I could see of his face behind the glasses and the deep shadow cast by the cap. The woman in the truck called out our order. Hayden hopped up from the rough bench we’d commandeered. Holding the bags, he followed me as I turned toward the park a block or so to the east. We found a spot near the fountain with a view of the Space Needle.
Opening my bag, I started eating. Skipping breakfast was a bad idea. One of these days I’d actually remember to eat it.
Hayden followed suit, making humming noises in the back of his throat as he sampled the various items in his bowl. We ate in silence for a few minutes, comfortable in the quiet between us. I finished and set my empty container back in the sack and relaxed into the bench, tilting my face up toward the watery sun.
Hayden packed up his trash. His arm rested on the back of the bench, inches from my hair. Tension pulled at his mouth, firming his jaw and neck. His glasses faced the Space Needle. He was thinking, hard. He took off his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his T-shirt.
“I didn’t want to come here. I plan to head back to the band tonight. After I talk to her doctor, square away the finances with the director.”
“You said you and your mother have a rocky relationship?”
“That’s a polite way of stating it.”
His eyes narrowed as if he considered something but discarded the idea, and I mourned the loss of his openness. It was obvious Hayden wasn’t emotionally cold like Ken—he felt deeply, but he kept that part of himself behind a wall. I’d bet his emotional repression started with his mother.
“My mum left when I was little. My dad took me back to Melbourne, where he’d grown up. She never called or wrote.”
I sucked in a breath. We were more alike than I’d realized. I didn’t think about it, just leaned into his side and gripped his hand, trying to offer what little support I could.
An immediate and desperate craving to get even closer speared through me. Either he didn’t feel the attraction or he was lost in his thoughts, because he squeezed my fingers with gentle pressure.
He met my gaze, confusion and sadness mingling in his eyes. “I’m leaving as soon as s
he dies, maybe before. This is duty.”
“I get that,” my voice regretful. Like mine, his mother had been selfish, thinking of her own happiness. Never mind her child’s suffering.
He shrugged, as if trying to brush off the pain that never quite left. “I keep thinking about how she chose to leave me. I can’t imagine making the same choice.”
He turned back to look at the fountain. So him being here wasn’t just duty. He’d been thrust into an untenable situation and was floundering, both with his feelings for his mother and how to proceed as an orphan.
“My mom left my dad when I was six. My dad was active-duty military and she hated the moving.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Got worse when she started a new family here in Seattle.”
“And that was that? For you and your sister?” Hayden’s voice sharpened.
My turn to turn away from his all-too-knowing stare. “Until my dad died and she was forced to take us in. Yeah.”
I peeked up at Hayden from under my lashes. The sadness was still there, shadowing his lovely brown eyes.
I’d been numb for so long, it’s what I knew, how I kept my sanity. But this man somehow wormed through my long-standing ice wall and was already in my head. No way I was going to forget his sad eyes. Ever.
“I just wanted you to know I get it,” I said, my voice cracking. “And I’m really, really sorry.”
7
Hayden
I’d tried to warn her I was leaving. Soon. I had to be honest, no matter the awareness sparking between us.
All I could do, I guess. Didn’t feel like enough. Not when we shared the same lost look. I recognized it from my own broody eyes whenever I looked in the mirror to shave. The same hitch in her smile I’d developed since I found out my mother had stage-four cancer.
I didn’t want to lose my mum. She hadn’t been there for me since I was ten, but with her death, I’d have no one left. No one to ask about family history or an amusing anecdote from holidays long past. No one to remember my first step, my first word, my first piano recital.
The idea of walking through the rest of my life solo was depressing. Fear crept up behind the sadness. Thanks to years of distancing myself, I didn’t really know how to not be isolated, even in a group of people.
Briar’s head settled more firmly against my upper arm. Not an embrace because neither of us was ready for that. Not even with the heat between us building faster than a bonfire. I liked her, though I didn’t want to enjoy her company as much as I did. She could easily become my crutch while I was here. Leaning on her was unfair to us both. I was leaving. My life, my career was based on traveling the world. And even if that weren’t the case, I lived in Sydney—almost eight thousand miles away.
Yet I sat, enjoying the feel of her next to me, especially the silky texture of her hair on my skin. Her body heat mingled with mine on the damp bench, warming me more than I expected.
She, like me, had been hurt deeply. There was a reservation in her demeanor that I understood. Protective armor, my dad had called it.
“You know what I think?” Briar asked. Her voice wrapped around me, all soft and warm, like one of my mum’s merino wool blankets. The one I’d taken to college just because I’d needed some connection to her even if she didn’t want me. When I started touring, I’d put the blanket in storage, refusing to carry it around with me like a two-year-old, but I missed its softness, the faint scent of the childhood home I no longer owned. My dad sold the place after we moved back to Melbourne into a modest cottage with a large back garden, not too far from the beach.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You need a friend.”
I snorted. “I’m surrounded by people all the time.”
“Key word: people. I’ll restate my conclusion. You need someone you trust,” she said, her voice dipping lower than usual.
Like an arrow of lust to my gut, all kinds of fantasies erupted, triggered by her voice. I’d like to show her where to put my . . . trust. I smirked at the image but then had to shift, easing the tightening in my jeans.
According to a few of the major magazines, I was introspective, introverted, a bit too stiff and formal. Came from spending too much time with my dad’s set, many of who were at least two generations older than me. While the media’s description bothered me, I hadn’t cared enough to change my image. Until now. But I didn’t know how to be the man she expected me to be—I didn’t know the first thing about trust, or even real friendship for that matter.
I understood my piano. Its hammers and keys and strings. That made sense. I liked to sit, pick out something classical with intricate finger work that my hands remembered well enough for my mind to wander. With this tour, bigger than anything we’d managed before, I hadn’t made time for those long, rambling sessions. I’d been busy perfecting our songs, doing press junkets and making appearances.
I missed the intimacy I shared with my piano. The gleaming ebony grand I’d inherited from my father was my confidant, my one true love. And she sat thousands of miles away, probably dusty and quiet as she waited for me to come back to her. But I wouldn’t. Not for months yet. Not with a massive world tour to complete. The weight of the responsibility pressed onto my shoulders.
“And you’re offering that to me in exchange for what? An exposé to show poor Hayden Crewe whose mum’s done the Harry.”
She sat up fast, her mouth screwed up in disgust. “What did you just say? I got the tone a lot better than the words.”
“She walked out. You going to sell my story to the bloodsucking journos who are every-fucking-where I go? Who gives a shit how that makes me feel, right?”
Briar met my gaze, hers steady and blue. “I haven’t mentioned what I do—did—for a living.”
My stomach, so recently warm and comfortable from my meal, clenched, sliding deeper into a place it should never go.
“I was the editor in chief for a local paper.”
I jumped from the seat, my heart racing. I turned away, ready to run. This woman knew details of my life I’d never shared with anyone, ever. My mum’s problems would soon be splashed all over the national media. And I was the bloody idiot that let it happen—all because of a pair of pretty blue eyes and a soulful voice.
“Sit down, Hayden. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No. You’ll . . . you’ll write about me. Make heaps of cash, all while laughing at my stupidity for trusting you.”
She stood, tugged on my wrist, but still I resisted. “Please,” she said, her voice soft. “People are going to notice this, you. Sit down. I won’t hurt you. I won’t write about you. I promise.”
I refused with a quick shake of my head.
She sighed, her wide lips pressed tight in a firm, unhappy line. “I was fired from my job, Hayden. Fired. Because I wouldn’t rat out my sister while she was struggling with the fallout from Asher’s divorce. I’ve lived through the ugly side of journalism. I’m not about to send anyone down that path.”
I collapsed back on the bench and leaned forward, running my fingers through my hair and knocking the cap off. “Tell me to rack off.”
“Half of what you say is not in English.”
The laugh crept up my chest, unbidden but cathartic. “It’s Aussie.”
She shook her head, causing her hair to spill over her collar. “You’re half-American. Tap your memory for appropriate idioms.”
“Maybe I don’t like my Yank roots.”
“Tough shit, as my dad would say. Doesn’t matter if you like where you came from or if it’s easy to talk about. Anyway, you’re private. That’s different from not liking your roots. I am a little offended you think all journalists are paparazzi. Some of us really do enjoy telling the truth.”
“I don’t want you to spit—er, be angry with me. I’m sorry your boss fired you for sticking up for family. I’m also very sorry I freaked out. Shit.” I moaned. “This isn’t my day.”
“True enough. I’m cons
idering a career change.” She sighed, a heavy sound laced with defeat. “Have been for a while if I’m honest. I did some freelance work, but I haven’t queried anyone in over a week, and I’m shocked by how little I miss the daily routine and the stories.”
“You realized journalism is a vampiric tendency that leeches everything good and wholesome from your body?”
“That would be a no. Ironic to admit this now, but I’ve always wanted to help people. Ever since we came to live with my mom, I’ve had this need to make situations easier, better. Probably because I couldn’t do that for myself.” She laughed, a rueful sound. “Then Lia’s husband was diagnosed with Huntington’s. It’s degenerative, deadly. She and her daughter struggled, and I couldn’t make that situation better. So, for a while, I quit trying. Stuck to journalism.” She murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But I never loved the crazy hours. It’s part of why Ken and I broke up.”
I sat back, loving that her cheeks were pink from being outdoors and maybe even embarrassment. “Part?”
She smoothed her top, her fingers plucking at a small thread. “I liked my work. Most of the time, anyway. I really liked being the boss. I’d been promoted at twenty-seven to the top spot, the youngest woman in the country.” Pride straightened her shoulders. “For a while, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be married to more than my job. It was exciting, interesting. But Ken’s always right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s a doctor, which fits his personality to a T.”
“Not following you there,” I said.
Briar waved her hand. “He has a God complex. He’s wanted me to get pregnant for months, sure that the hormones would kick in and I’d get all loving and maternal and give up my job and life outside our home. I’m not sure that’ll ever be me.”
“Because of your mum?” I asked.
Briar shook her head. “Because I haven’t felt the desire to have children.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I lack whatever that gene is.”
“So he forced the issue?”
“He tried to bribe my pharmacist into giving me a placebo instead of my birth control.”
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