I wake up alone. The house is quiet. Pete's car isn't in the driveway. There's no sign of him anywhere.

Shit.

I go for my usual morning hike, get home, and shower. There's still no sign of him.

No sense in putting off my day. In the kitchen, I put a pan on the burner, break eggs into a plastic bowl and whisk. Now coffee.

The carafe is already full. And there's a note next to it, black marker on torn piece of paper.

Making sure everything is taken care of with the label. Should be back by lunch.

He left me a note. It's domestic as hell, like our relationship is normal instead of complicated.

After cooking, I sit down with breakfast, coffee, and my latest YA novel. It's no Hunger Games but it's still quite the page-turner. I get caught up in the book until the door swings open and slams shut.

Pete is wearing a frown. His brows knit. He runs a hand through his dark hair and lets out a sigh.

I put down my book and push out of my chair. "Hey. Thanks for the coffee."

He looks back at me with surprise. "Hey."

"How was it? Is everything taken care of?"

"Should be." The frustration falls off his face as he moves closer. Then he's six inches away and he's smiling.

He's smiling because I'm here.

Because we're together.

"Should I make lunch?" I ask.

"Later." He slides his hands around my waist and pulls me into a soft, slow kiss. When it breaks, he runs his fingers through my messy hair, his eyes filled with affection. "You busy today?"

"I have a lot of reading to do."

"I'm gonna practice." He motions to his room. "Stop by if you need a break."

* * *

After an hour of reading, I'm more than ready for a break.

I go to knock on Pete's door but it's already open. There's music flowing into the hallway. It gets louder as I step inside.

He's sitting on his bed, his bass in his lap. The instrument is plugged in to an electric amp and there are headphones over his ears.

"You don't have to use headphones," I say. "I'd like to listen."

He pulls his headphones off as he turns to me. "Nobody listens to a bass on its own."

"What about house music at clubs? Isn't that nothing but a bass line?"

His lips curl into a smile. "You gonna put on a tight dress and dance?"

Dammit, it's hot. I shake my head. "I'm just going to listen."

He unplugs his headphone and pats his bed.

Tempting. Incredibly tempting. I take a step backwards. School first. Then sex. "I have to get my book."

Pete nods then his attention turns back to his bass. Music fills the hallway. It's familiar. Something off one of the Sinful Serenade albums.

I close my eyes and try to place the song. It's not one of the singles. I listen to enough alternative rock radio to recognize those.

The answer doesn't come. My eyes open and catch his. There's all this affection in his deep brown eyes.

Last night, I told him I cared about him. He hasn't said anything. Hasn't responded.

My heart aches. How the hell am I supposed to stomach all these feelings? I want to talk, to tell him how much Dad's non-response is weighing on me.

But not if he's going to keep running off.

His eyes turn towards me. He cocks a brow. "You okay?"

Yes, great. The lie forms on my tongue. I swallow it down. I like being honest with him.

I shake my head.

He slides out of his shoulder strap, sets his instrument in its stand, and kneels in front of me.

Pete pulls me out of the chair so I'm kneeling next to him. His fingers brush my chin and jaw. He brushes stray hairs behind my ears, his eyes fixed on mine.

"Please don't pretend you care about me," I say.

"Do you really think I'm pretending?" He pulls me into his lap as he sits cross-legged.

I shift so I'm straddling him. I stare into his eyes. Run my fingers through his short hair. He smells good. Like soap and shampoo.

The expression in his deep, brown eyes is earnest. He does care about me.

That makes this harder.

My chest heaves as I inhale. I can't tell him how I have feelings for him. Not yet.

"You're going to explode, keeping everything bottled up." He pulls me closer. "Talk to me."

"Don't you do the same thing?"

"I have music. You don't have anything."

He looks up at me, brushes my hair from my eyes. "I want to know you. The person you want to be."

The words jump into my throat. He's warm. He's comforting. I really do believe he cares about me.

I squeeze my inner thighs against his hips, settling onto his body. "Even the ugly things?"

"We all have ugly things in our past."

"Yeah, but you turned yours into something beautiful." I point to his tattoo, though it's covered by his jeans. "And your music too. You make your pain so beautiful."

"No." He stares back at me. "The pain is ugly. Dealing with it is the beautiful thing."

"You sound like a self-help book."

He pulls me closer. "Tell me anyway."

I want to tell him. I really do. It's not just that I want this off my chest. I want Pete knowing me. The ugly parts too.

I swallow hard. I have to find out. "My dad is an alcoholic. He went to rehab last year, but there's no telling if he's really sober. He's high-functioning. He's good at hiding. My whole family, we're great at hiding things."

His voice is steady. "His whole life or after your mom left?"

I nod. "It got worse when Mom left. He'd fall asleep drunk on the couch. He'd miss work."

He rubs my shoulder. It puts me at ease. My self-preservation instincts don't kick in.

I stare back at him. "When it started, I was a kid, and I didn't know better. But after a while, I could tell he had a problem. I knew I had to do something or he'd drink himself to death, but I didn't. I lied for him a million times. I lied to teachers, to my aunt. I even lied to Madison, so she wouldn't know how bad it was."

"He's not your responsibility. He's an adult."

"Maybe when I was a kid. But, by high school, I was old enough to know better. Madison is the one who got him help. I don't know if I'd have ever stopped lying. I woke up one morning to him passed out in a pool of vomit. Madison had already called 911. They said he was a few minutes from dying. Would have been my fault."

"It wouldn't have been your fault, Jess. You can't fix someone else. No matter how badly you want to."

"Yeah." I press my fingers against Pete's cheeks. It does something to me, his skin against my hands. It makes me feel safe. Like I can take the pressure of this. "I'm sure it's nothing compared to your father hitting you."

"You can't win at having a fucked up childhood." He slides his hands to my waist. "Don't make it a competition."

"You're mature for a guy who became famous at 19."

"I know." He slides his hand into my hair and pulls me into a tight hug.

My body floods with relief. It feels good getting this off my chest.

There's no running from my feelings this time. I'm falling hard and fast. There's no way to avoid it.

I whisper in his ear. "I lied so much, Pete. I thought it was for the best, that I was protecting my family. But all it did was make him sicker and grind me to nothing. I barely know who I am now, what I want. That's why I had to leave New York. So I could figure it out."

"Have you?"

"Getting there." I press my hands together. "But… I don't think he's doing well. He keeps dodging my calls. The way Dad lies… I won't know what it is that's wrong until the doctor calls me to tell me he's gone."

"Come here." He pulls me closer, his chin nestling into the crook of my shoulder.

My eyelids press together. I squeeze him tightly, then I release everything. When a sob rises up in my throat, I do nothing to choke it back.

Within moments, I can't keep my eyes closed. I'm crying. Ugly crying. Instead of wiping my eyes, I dig my fingers into his t-shirt.

"Hey." He slides his hand to my cheek and wipes a tear with his thumb. "It's okay, Jess. You're gonna be okay."

"You promise?"

He nods. "It's not your fault. But I know it feels like that sometimes."

I choke back another sob. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't unload on you like this."

"You walk around like you're carrying the world on your shoulders."

"No." I press my lips together. He has a point. "Maybe."

"Maybe just North America?"

I laugh. He's the only person who could make me laugh at a time like this.

My heart flutters. I let my eyes close. I let my muscles relax as I sink into him. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I'm crying."

"So?" The pad of his thumb presses against my cheek. "Was it hard for you, telling me this?"

"You know it was."

He nods. "That's strength, not weakness. Most people spend their lives running from intimacy."

Intimacy. It's a beautiful word.

"Most people run from all the ugliness in their lives."

"How did you get so perceptive?"

"Emo music." He smiles.

"Are you kidding?"

He nods. "It was metal."

I laugh. "That's not funny."

"Okay, you got me. It was hip-hop."

I swat him playfully. Another laugh rises to my throat. It helps dissolve the pain.

I look back into his eyes. I run my hands through his hair. "Tell me the truth."

"I tried running from my feelings. For a long time. First, my dad, the way he took out all his misery on me. Then some of my particularly bad foster homes. Then everything with Ophelia."

"The cancer?"

He nods. "She was sick when I was in high school. Breast cancer. It tore me up here—" He places his hand over his chest. "But I managed to keep calm, for her, to be strong for her. That's something I'm good at."

"Is that why you're lying to your family about us being together?"

"Guess I'm a hypocrite, lying to protect my family but telling you that you shouldn't." He brushes my hair behind my ears. "It was more than that. I needed space to think. Been touring since I was a teenager. This is the first time I've been alone in forever."

I let my body sink into his. It feels good getting all this off my chest. It feels honest. Intimate.

I've never wanted to share my feelings with anyone but Madison. Even with Nathan… there was always this space between us. Something missing.

I slide my arm around his neck, soaking in the softness of his skin. "So where do your feelings go?"

He nods to his bass in the corner. "And if that's not enough, I've got a keyboard and a guitar in Drew's old room.”

All the tension in my body eases as I pull back and stare into his eyes. "Does it really work?"

"Yeah. Try it." He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet.

"I can't sing or play an instrument."

"I'll teach you." He grabs his bass with one hand. The other slides around my waist. He sits on the bed, pulls me onto his lap, then positions my hands on the bass guitar.

His touch is gentle as he shows me how to pluck and how to fret. The strings are thick and heavy. I'll have callouses tomorrow.

"I have no musical talent," I whisper.

"That's okay." He slides his hands over mine. "You have a great teacher."

I actually giggle. I want him so much. I want every single piece of him.

I close my eyes and soak in the warmth of his breath on my neck, the hardness of his chest against my back, the comfort of him guiding me through playing the instrument.

"You have a favorite song?" he asks.

"You can teach me the bass line to any song?"

"If you give me fifteen minutes to look it up."

"Really?"

He nods. "You like pop music. The bass parts are pretty simple. Can't teach you to play Hysteria or YYZ."

"What about one of your songs?"

He nips at my ear. "Pick your favorite."

"I don't have one."

"Jess, that hurts. My ego is shattering."

"It is not."

"No, it's not." He presses his lips against my neck.

Again, I'm floating. It's like I've been let out of a cage.

I ignore my inhibitions completely. "How about the one you're working on?"

"Your wish is my command."

He takes me through the bass riff, one note at a time. I'm a hopelessly slow learner, but Pete is endlessly patient. We go through the riff a dozen times before he pulls his hands away.

"Try it," he whispers in my ears.

"I've already forgotten it."

"Try anyway."

His voice is steady and reassuring. Okay. I'll try anyway. I close my eyes and let my fingers do the thinking for me.

The deep sound of the bass fills the room. I'm actually playing the riff. It's a crawl compared to the tempo of the song, but I'm doing it.

I squeal with glee when I get to the end. "It worked." I shift off his lap so I can look him in the eyes. "I can't believe it."

He smiles. "You're a natural."

"Will you teach me the whole song?"

"It gets tricky. I'll teach you something easier. You like The Beatles?"

"I guess they're okay."

He chuckles. "Okay. We'll go for something a little more grunge. How about Smells Like Teen Spirit?"

I bite my lip. "Okay."

He smiles the widest smile in the history of the world. "Ready to drop out of school and drive around in a van playing gigs?"

I shake my head.

"Then you can't hack it as a rock star."

"Maybe I'll fall in love with guitar or drums."

"Or piano?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Or I'll fall in love with Pete. That's a lot more likely.

He moves closer. "Did you feel it when you played?"

"A little."

"Come here." He pulls me onto his lap. His voice is dripping with enthusiasm. He's passionate about this. "You will feel it."

"Okay." I melt.