The door to my cottage blew open, the chuff of air spreading a fresh dusting of sand on my wood floors.

Groaning, I made a grab at the stack of papers on the table in front of me.

Beckett strode in, checking the label on the box. “This says ‘bathroom.’” He glanced at me. “Which bathroom?”

“There are only two bathrooms,” I grumbled. “Take your pick.”

Shrugging, he headed down the hall.

“If you’re so concerned about space,” he called, “maybe we should have rented a bigger place.”

We. My stomach knotted at Beckett’s choice of words. We weren’t together. In the six months I’d been at the Hollywood Hills house, I’d displaced him from his room, taken over his private bathroom, and made the kitchen my own. But we weren’t a couple.

He ambled into the kitchen, humming to himself as he grabbed a box from the floor. As he unpacked the glassware and plates, he stumbled upon a couple of wine goblets. “Red or white, babe?” His long fingers turned the bottles in the built-in wine rack to examine the labels.

He wanted merlot, which I hated.

“On the left.” I settled into the chair, bringing my knees to my chest as I drank him in. He was beautiful, as always.

“You didn’t answer.” He replaced the cork, then swirled the burgundy liquid around the glass while he assessed me. “Do you want cabernet or something white?”

I dropped my gaze to the bottle in his hand. “How do you know I don’t want merlot?”

“Because you hate merlot.”

And yet, bottles sat in the half-empty rack. I’d stocked up at Trader Joe’s on my first shopping trip. Along with pistachio nuts and his favorite cherry ice cream. Neither of which I particularly cared for. A Beckett-friendly house. If there was such a thing, I had it.

Abandoning the glass, he crossed the room and knelt in front of my chair.

“Babe, what is it?” His fingers twined my hair as he examined my face with a look of concern so genuine, I winced. “Is it your stomach? You shouldn’t have eaten the—”

“The what?” My feet hit the floor with a thud. “The dried tomatoes on my pizza … is that what you were going to say?”

His palm trailed down my arm, and he took my hand. “Yes.”

“Why?

“What do you mean?”

“Why shouldn’t I eat the dried tomatoes?”

Confusion lined his brow. “T-Rex … what’s the matter?”

“Just answer me.” A tear spilled onto my cheek. “Why?”

“Because there’s too much acid,” he said cautiously. “And it upsets your stomach. Is that what this is? A stomach ache?”

I’m not fifteen, I wanted to yell. The stomach aches that brought me to my knees as a teenager were no more. But Beckett knew everything about me. Everything. There was no getting away from our history.

“Is it something else?” he asked, reaching to check my temperature.

I batted his arm away. “We’re not together, Becks.”

I said it more to convince myself than him, since I’d apparently turned one of the most sex-crazed rockers on the planet into my sexless husband.

I’d expected Beckett to fall back into his old ways, staying out all night or sneaking a girl into the house when I was at work. But he never did.

“I know that,” he snapped. “You don’t have to remind me.”

He stared out the window, not meeting my gaze, but deeply aware of my every look. Like always. I softened as I took in the hard edges of his profile. He jolted as my fingers traced the stubble on his jaw. I’d picked up razors too. They were tucked in the box he’d just stowed in the bathroom, ready for him to use.

“Beckett. This isn’t—”

Fair. Right …

“I’ll wait.” He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch. “I’m waiting. For you.”

My fingers trailed into his hair, testing the consistency. The rich, brown locks were silky and as familiar to my touch as my own.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be. You’re worth it.”

My attention turned to the grains of sand on the floor.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “It’s everywhere.”

He rose, more sand joining the pile when he stomped his feet. “You wanted to live at the beach.”

“You never see this part on TV.” I grabbed the broom. “I’m not going to last out here.”

Beckett scrutinized me while I swept up the mess. “Don’t you think you should start getting ready?” Glancing at my rumpled T-shirt and messy hair, he lifted a brow. “I know you’re going for a casual vibe with the new agency, but there are limits. We’re still your clients.”

As I dumped the sand into the trashcan, some of the grains blew back and landed on the floor, and I scowled. “I don’t think I’m going to go tonight.”

His boots thundered against the hardwood as he marched to my side. “What are you talking about?” Prying the dustpan from my hand, he threw it on the floor and then dragged me to the couch. “You have to go. You’re the publicist. We need to discuss the arrivals for the party tomorrow night. It’s your project.”

My last project. The end of an era. Now that the Leveraged album was complete, my business with Twin Souls was concluded as well.

I shrugged and smiled at him. “It’s just dinner, right? I don’t need to be there.”

He ripped a frustrated hand through his hair, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “How long are you going to keep this up, T-Rex?” Exasperation laced his tone. “You can’t avoid her forever.”

Like everyone else, Beckett had grown accustomed to speaking about Tori in the generic. “She” or “her.” For the most part, I managed to avoid the subject altogether. During my months of self-imposed exile, I went about my business setting up Ayers Public Relations, and Tori did … whatever it was she was doing.

“I’m not avoiding her,” I lied. “I’m going to see her tomorrow night at the launch party, babe.”

I swallowed hard at the endearment I didn’t mean to bestow. Old habits die hard, and in the natural progression of our path from lovers to friends, sometimes I lost track of where we were. Or when we were.

Beckett didn’t notice, his focus on the picture window overlooking the shore. “I just want things to get back to normal.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder. “You two need to get over … whatever it is that this is.”

I glanced around at all the boxes littering the floor of the small beach house. This was not something we could sweep under the rug like the grains of sand that blew in from the shore. Tori and I would eventually speak. It was inevitable. She was my best friend. But truth be told, we would never be what we were. I no longer lived in Austin, and I didn’t work for Twin Souls. That part of my life was over.

I shifted, creating some distance. “I’m going to talk to Tori privately next week when I go home. If I can get past Stacia.”

My lip curled inadvertently around the name of Tori’s assistant. Since Stacia came on board at Twin Souls, she’d taken it upon herself to run interference between Tori and me. For all I knew, that was in her job description—keep Taryn out of Tori’s hair—in big bold letters on the top of her offer letter.

“Just give me the word. I’ll take care of Stacia for you.” Beckett paled when I shot him a speculative glare. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

Beckett shut off the ringer on his phone when a Damaged song broke the silence. I glanced at Tori’s picture, still lighting his screen.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then looked around glumly. “How did everything get so fucked up?”

“It’s not fucked up … it’s life.” I smiled sadly. “People change. They grow apart. They—”

“Die,” Beckett said softly, turning his attention to the framed pictures on the sofa table.

Most were photos from the first tour. Rhenn and Paige were in every one.

I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat. “Life goes on. Even if you don’t want it to.”

Like an unwelcome visitor, Chase Noble flashed in my mind. He was the bookend on the painful chapter of my life that closed the day I left Austin. I couldn’t think of him without smiling. Or crying. The fact that I thought of him at all was the greatest irritant.

Beckett stood, adding in a dash of guilt to try and change my mind about dinner. “Every song on that album is for you.” He took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Take a shower and come with me. It won’t be the same without you.”

Biting my lip, I counted to ten in my head, the proper amount of time for faking consideration. “Nah, I’ve got a little work to do for the party.”

“That was exactly ten seconds.” He bent to brush a kiss to my lips, lingering with his mouth an inch from mine. “You need some new material; I taught you that trick.”

I was about to mention that the proper length of time for a peck on the lips was one second—according to Beckett’s Rules To Live By. And he’d just spent a good four seconds with his mouth pressed to mine. But that would only start a debate. Most likely he would want to provide a demonstration. I wasn’t going down that road. I’d only kissed Beckett a handful of times in the past few months. Really kissed him. I wasn’t sure if I did it to keep him with me, a vague promise for a future that would never be. Really, I wanted to see if I could breathe life into the corpse of our relationship. It’d be so much easier if I could love him the way I used to.

“You better go.” I patted his chest. “I’m so proud of you, Becks.”

The new album was a masterpiece. And tomorrow night everyone was going to know it. I kept my back to him when he walked away.

Pausing at the door, he said quietly, “I love you.”

My chest constricted at the sincerity in his tone. Six months and our roles had reversed. “Love you too.”

I waited until I heard his car door slam to shuffle to the refrigerator. Pulling out the bottle of chardonnay, I frowned at the thin sheet of metal covering the cork. Life was simpler when my wine came with a top that screwed off. Spotting the box in the corner labeled “stuff,” I sank to my knees in search of a corkscrew.

As I dug through the mishmash of items, a pair of yellow eyes caught my attention. I plucked the card from the box, my thumb tracing the Nite Owl Pub logo. Grabbing the elusive corkscrew, I stood on shaky legs and then released the card. It fluttered to the top of the heap of junk, the yellow eyes staring up at me.

I gave the box a good kick, and the container skittered across the hardwood. Snatching the bottle of wine from the counter, I headed out the back door and onto the beach, leaving all thoughts of Chase Noble where they belonged. In the past.

Passing one of the bonfires dotting the landscape, I trudged along the water’s edge to avoid the raucous game of football taking place a few yards away.

“Want a beer, honey?” one of the shirtless hunks called out.

I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder and see whether he was actually speaking to me. I was never insecure about my looks until I moved to California. At home, in the land of sanity, the few extra pounds I carried in my hips and the laugh lines around my mouth were sexy. Out here? A standing appointment for Botox and a plastic surgeon on speed dial were all the rage to wipe away such imperfections.

“No, thanks.” I lifted my hand and dropped it just as quickly when I realized I was waving a half-empty wine bottle. Which may have been the reason the guy was proffering an invitation.

Pathetic, drunk girl walking on the beach. Yeah … I was a catch. I bet the hunk could smell the desperation from a hundred paces.

I shivered as the tide crept in, soaking me to mid-calf. Stupid California and its stupid weather. It was hot enough downtown this afternoon to fry an egg on my head. But in my little corner of heaven, the temperature plummeted as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. The climate was as schizophrenic as the people.

Pulling out my phone, I glanced at the time and seriously considered calling Beckett. But that would be awkward.

What would I say?

Please, come find me. I’m drunk on the beach, and I lost my house.

Not the way to go. It would only cement his theory that I had no business living out here alone. A battle I was fighting on the daily. Since I realized this afternoon I was unwittingly aiding Beckett’s cause by turning my place into our place, I needed to tread lightly, or I’d end up with a roommate. And at some point, I’d like to get laid.

I giggled at the thought. Drunk and horny. Not a good combo. Drunk and horny led to rash decisions of the Chase Noble variety.

Get out of my head.

I glanced at the rows of houses cupping the shore. They weren’t the custom two-story homes with elaborate decks that lined the beach two miles north. I knew I was headed in the right direction.

Finally.

When I’d first ventured out this evening, I’d taken a detour after I’d spotted a small patch of trees in one of the more palatial enclaves a mile or so up the shore from my bungalow. I missed trees. And grass. Staking out a spot under a palm, I’d finished most of my wine and didn’t get back to the beach until the sun had set. Hopelessly lost, I’d wandered the same three-mile stretch of beach for the last two hours trying to find my house.

The tension floated away as I approached the familiar sign warning of high tides and the danger of swimming without a partner.

No worries there.

The Pacific Ocean was beautiful, with its sparkling blue water and frothy waves. But like the people, I found this particular ocean cold and foreboding. The Gulf of Mexico was inviting. I could venture into the warm, still water without falling off the edge of the world. That’s what I felt here—like I was at the end of the world, and if I wandered too far into the frigid deep, I’d be lost forever.

I took another sip of the wine. Then another.

Spotting the rickety steps attached to the back of my cottage, I trudged up the small dune, my feet sinking into the unforgiving sand. My legs wobbled from the exertion as I climbed the stairs. Four steps from the top I lost my footing, falling to my knees.

“Fuck!” The ear-piercing shriek escaped into the night air, full of all the frustration that bubbled inside me.

My chin fell to my chest as hot tears stung my eyes. I had everything I wanted, the freedom and the success, and it wasn’t enough.

More time.

I just needed more time to adjust.

Panic seized me when the wood planks on the deck creaked. And then a beat-up pair of Doc Martens appeared in front of me. I knew those boots. And even in my drunken haze, I recognized the scent drifting to my nose.

My mouth dropped open when Chase extended his hand. “Let me help you, baby.”

Inwardly I balked at the request, even as my palm slid into his. Knees weak from the contact, I dropped the bottle clutched in my other hand, and the glass landed with a thud and then rolled down the steps.

Chase’s arm slid around my waist, and I was off my feet, pressed against him. “Careful.”

I blinked up at him. His lips were right there. So close I could lean in and …

Coming back to myself, I scrambled to the top of the deck. Our gazes now level, I scowled. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”

A stupider question never left my lips. His brother was my client. My best friend was his business partner.

“Never mind,” I said, defeat coloring my tone. Not because he was here, but because I wanted him to be here. “Thanks for the hand.”

Stumbling to the door, I pressed my shoulder against the wood and pushed, nearly falling over the threshold.

Fucking perfect.

The rickety steps protested Chase’s weight when he walked away. It was that easy. Tell him to leave, and he was gone.

More wine.

I stumbled to the counter and grabbed the hated merlot. My fingers froze around the neck of the bottle when Chase’s voice sounded from the door.

“Judging from this bottle,” he held up the wine that I’d dropped, inspecting the contents, “you might not need anymore.”

“Well, that’s none of your concern now, is it?” A smug smile lifted my lips as I poured the crimson liquid into Beckett’s old glass. “This is California, not Texas. They have laws against stalking, so you better get.”

The southern belle warred with the angry drunk bitch in my head as I leaned against the edge of the counter and glared at him. He looked too damn good, this man. And he brought feelings to the surface I’d suppressed for months.

“Technically, you’re the one who’s stalking me.” He grinned that cocky grin. “Since I’ve owned a house on this beach for five years.”

I nearly choked on my next sip of wine. “W-what?”

Before I could process the information, Chase stepped inside. “I had to see you, baby. I want to explain. If you let me … I …”

Brazened by the wine, I snorted a very unladylike laugh while he fought to find the words.

“This should be good.” I lifted my goblet to him. “Can I pour you a glass? You’ll probably need it to wash down your bullshit excuses.”

He gazed at the glass in my hand, then up to my face. “I don’t drink.”

Another snort tickled my throat. “Since when?”

My mouth dropped open to protest when he took tentative steps toward me. But I couldn’t find the will.

Stopping a foot from where I stood, he released a staggered breath. “Since I got out of rehab.”