William stands tall at the table, looking as polished as a financial manager should be in his tailored suit and power tie. He points at me. “It’s the next Ed Sheeran.”

I clap him on the back at Ruby’s Kitchen. “Please. I’m aiming for the next JT, don’t you think?” I wink.

William bends to high-five Ben. “What do you think?” He tips his forehead to me. “Ed Sheeran or Justin Timberlake?”

Ben screws up the corner of his mouth. “What about Taylor Swift? All my cousins sing her songs.” We grab seats at the table in the café.

“The kid has a point,” William concedes, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Dream big, right?”

Settling in at the table, I grab a menu and flip it open. “I’m happy to be me. But the next Sam Smith works too.”

That’s more my level, and it suits me fine, even though I’m taking an extended break from actively touring and playing big arenas. I returned to Manhattan earlier this year when I learned what my sneaky-ass brothers were up to.

They tried to pull a fast one on me—they reunited, the fuckers. I can’t believe they thought they could do that without me.

Then again, they started the band in the first place, leaving me behind. Fine, I was twelve when Campbell and Miller formed the Heartbreakers, so I guess our parents weren’t too wild about their youngest playing in a pop band. They told me I had to wait till I was “old enough,” so I joined when I turned sixteen. I guess I was always on the outskirts—the kid brother who tagged along. That was why I was so eager to launch my own solo career when the Heartbreakers split before I turned twenty.

But there was no way I was letting them restart one of the most popular boy bands ever—or evah, as the fans used to say—without their youngest member. I’m back, and I’m all the way in. For the last several months, we’ve played gigs in Manhattan and the tristate area, and we launched a brand-new YouTube channel that is on fire.

Once a Mouseketeer, always a Mouseketeer.

“How are the school visits going?” William asks, not bothering to open the menu. This is his stomping ground.

“The art teacher was fishy,” Ben offers, grabbing a jar of crayons from the middle of the table and sliding them closer.

“Boom. Enough said.”

“Speaking of fish, Bingley is a bit like a school of piranhas,” I say, then detail what went down, as Ben busies himself by drawing a dolphin on the white paper placemat.

“That school is nuts. It’s full of the Crazy Factor, as my sister would say,” William says, and I sit a little taller at the mention of Roxy. I’ve come to know her through William, but also because her best friend, Mackenzie, happens to be Campbell’s fiancée.

“I’d have to agree with the Crazy Factor assessment.”

“That’s why you need to ask me these things. Lean on me, man.” William pats his chest animatedly. He’s never met a conversation that can’t be improved by talking with his hands. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“I thought it was to tell me where to invest and whether cryptocurrency was the new thing.”

He shoots me a searing look with his intense eyes. “I’m your everyman. C’mon, help me help you.” He slows his speech more, gesturing from him to me. “Help me help you.”

I smirk. “Sure, Jerry Maguire.”

He raises both arms in the air in victory. “Yes! I take that as a full-speed-ahead compliment. Jerry was dedicated, and you know I am too.”

I do know that. William’s been great since he started handling my financials a few years ago, and even better since I moved to New York. But I don’t want to hassle the guy for everything, especially since he has a life of his own, with a wife and kids.

He tells me New Yorkers are usually blasé about celebrities, then he tosses out the names of some elementary schools to check out. “Don’t forget to check out the Drew School. That’s where Daniel goes, and hopefully all the parents there will think you’re hideous.”

“That’d be a welcome relief,” I say, laughing. Sadly, it would. I’m not complaining. But since Ben’s mom took off before the episiotomy stitches had even fallen out, I’m not so wild about getting in a relationship again. Sure, I’ve had a few dates here and there, and I definitely haven’t retired from my favorite horizontal hobby, but mostly I’ve been laser-focused on music, singing, and taking care of this awesome kid. Attention from strangers—even if they’re beautiful women—doesn’t interest me. Call it once burned, twice shy. I had that kind of attention from Ben’s mom, and I was sure we had something special going on. So special we decided to have a kid.

Then she decided to skedaddle.

Oops. I was wrong about how special we were.

I spot the waitress walking toward us, and I turn to the center of my world. “Do you know what you want, little man?”

An impish grin stretches across his face. “Guess.”

His tastes are pretty simple, but I play along, arching a brow and humming. “Could it be liverwurst?”

He laughs, shaking his head.

William pipes in. “I bet you have a hankering for a house salad with extra kale.”

“No, no,” I say, getting into it more. “He wants a kale smoothie. Don’t you?”

Ben’s nose crinkles. “That all sounds gross.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine, if it’s not oatmeal with chia seeds, I don’t know what it could be.”

Before he can answer, the waitress arrives, flashing a cheery grin at my kid. “Hey there! Did you know we have a grilled cheese special today?”

His blue eyes light up, and Ben points excitedly to the waitress. “Yes! She knew it. She must be a cheese magnet.”

The woman with the blonde ponytail and freckled face smiles at him. “I’m definitely a cheese magnet.”

When she meets my gaze, she blinks. “Oh.” She steps back, nearly stumbling.

I smile widely at her, checking her name tag. “Hey, Marissa. I’d love a chicken sandwich with a small house salad.”

She stares. For one second, then four or five. When she finally speaks, her voice shoots up several octaves. “Chicken sandwich. Of course.”

Ben shrugs happily. “My dad is a chicken magnet. But that’s okay. I’m used to it.”

Marissa’s face flushes beet red. “I’m so sorry.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s all good.”

She clasps her chest, sighing. “I’m just such a huge fan of your music, Mr. Hart, and I was trying to play it cool. But I love, love, love your songs so much. Like, more than Ed Sheeran. And I can absolutely get you that chicken sandwich, and a grilled cheese special for the handsome little fellow.”

She turns on her heel to go, when William calls out, “Yoo-hoo. I’d like a Cobb salad.”

She spins back, smacking her forehead. “My apologies, sir.”

“No worries. I’m used to playing chopped liver to this guy. Also, I need a pasta primavera for someone who’s joining us in a few minutes.”

When she leaves, William mouths appreciatively, “Better than Ed Sheeran.”

I blow on my fingers. “What can I say?”

“If I were still single, I’d ask you to save a little on the side and give it to me.”

“You know I’d gladly do that for you.”

“Also, I might have to take back what I said about New Yorkers being low-key. I don’t know that you’re going to be able to navigate this town without a slew of autograph and date requests.” His phone pings, and he glances at the screen. “Roxy’s nearby, and I told her to come for lunch too. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not in the slightest.” And I don’t. I really don’t.

“Great. Let me catch you up on business.”

We dive into the latest investments he wants to make for me, as Ben switches from a seascape to a landscape. William updates me on the value of my assets, and my mind briefly wanders to other assets, namely his sister’s.

It’s not that I think my buddy’s sister is a babe. It’s that I think she’s a total babe. Red hair, hazel eyes, full lips, fantastic wit, big heart, and a rack I’d like to get to know. As William talks about return on investment, I try to listen. Truly, I do. But I’m not a numbers guy. Percentages baffle me. Spreadsheets bedevil me. All I want is to make music and have someone smarter than I am invest the money from it.

That’s this guy, and he’s been amazingly good with my portfolio so far, tucking millions safely away for my boy and me. So I try in vain to focus on market performance and increasing valuation, but mostly I’m wondering what Roxy will be wearing and if it’ll accentuate her increasing valuation.

I try again to clear my head, but then I spot a woman with a familiar face. She’s walking past the restaurant and I do a double take.

It’s not Roxy.

Instead, the brunette with the sharp, straight nose is smack out of my high school yearbook. I wave to get Natalia’s attention, and she stops in her tracks, raises her arms, and runs excitedly into the café, an impressive feat given she’s sporting a pregnant belly. I stand and give her a big hug when she reaches the table.

“How the heck are you? It’s been forever,” I say when we separate.

“Only fifteen years, but who’s counting? I heard you were in Manhattan these days. How lucky am I to run into you? How are you?”

“I’m well,” I say, then make quick intros to Ben and William. “Natalia was our class president. And now you’re. . .” I wait for her to supply an update, including about the resident in her body.

“I’m a director at an advertising agency, happily married, with a two-year-old at home and another kid on the way.”

“Congratulations. That’s fantastic.”

We chat about school, and I love that she hasn’t first asked me about music or touring or anything like that. It’s nice to catch up with someone who knew you years ago.

She parks her hands on her hips and stares down the sharp bridge of her nose. “So . . .?”

“So what?” I ask, confused.

She wags a finger. “I sent you an invitation. You still haven’t RSVP’d.”

“To what?” I ask, hoping it’s not a baby shower. Those give me the willies, though that may be because She Who Shall Not Be Named demanded we have a joint one when she was five months pregnant and then played the most awful games imaginable, including Guess the Position the Baby Was Conceived In.

“Our fifteen-year reunion. It’s next weekend.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “I guess I missed it.”

“You have to come. It’s going to be so much fun, and it’ll be a great chance to catch up with the gang. Remember that joke you made at prom?”

I squint. A joke? At prom? “Not sure.”

Natalia punches my arm. “C’mon. It was about this very reunion.”

William leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and stares like a satisfied cat. “I can’t wait to hear the prom joke.”

Natalia’s bright smile spreads as she looks to William then me. “Well, Miles played at our prom junior year, and we were wild about him being on stage. We all danced and sang from the audience and had a blast. And he was shockingly crowned prom king.”

“Such a shock,” William deadpans.

“And when he accepted, he told us if we bought his first album, he’d come back and perform for the reunion when he became a famous rock star.”

William slaps a palm on the table, hooting.

I blink at the memory that tickles my brain. “Did I say that?”

William points at me, cracking up. “Did you?”

“Oh, he most definitely did,” Natalia says, with a clever little grin. “We caught it on camera. It started making the rounds last week on our reunion email list. We were all trying to figure out how to reach you about your offer.”

She whips out her phone, clicks on the screen, and shows me a grainy video. William leans in close, and so does Ben.

I’m onstage in the high school gym, sporting my favorite accessory—a Stratocaster. Damn, that was one fine instrument I played in high school. I grab the mic and the reverb echoes, then my voice grows louder.

“You’re a great crowd! I will never forget this night. I will never forget playing here. If I make it to the big time, I promise I’ll come back and rock out at our high school reunion.”

I gape at my sixteen-year-old self, cocky and barking out goals.

William chuckles. “So, you had a real problem with self-confidence back in high school, Miles.”

Natalia laughs too. “We were so excited when he said that, since so many of us loved his music already. And on our email chain recently, we were all sharing stories about when we listened to your first song with the band and then all your solo albums. You have so many fans at Northwell High.” She glances at her watch. “I have a pitch meeting in ten minutes. I should go.”

She drops a kiss to my cheek. “Anyway, I’m glad you spotted me. It’s so great to see you. Your son is a sweetheart, and we’d love to have you perform.” She turns to my friend. “And nice to meet you, William.”

She waves goodbye, swerves through the tables, then she’s out the door. I sit down again, scrubbing my hand over my jaw. My son looks at me, his eyes big.

“What?”

“Dad!”

“Dad what?”

“Daddy, you’re going to play at your high school,” Ben practically shouts.

I hold up my hands. “Whoa. Not so fast.”

He crinkles his brow. “But you told everyone. You said you would. That’s so cool that you told everyone you were going to become a rock star, and you did. And now you can go back and play for them.”

William parks his chin in his hands and stares at me, batting his eyes. “What would Ed Sheeran do?”

I sigh, partly because I’m not sure if I’ll run into the same situations I try to avoid—like the come-ons at the Bingley School. But honestly, the reunion intrigues me. I loved high school. Loved the friends, loved the good times, loved how it all rolled into some of the best moments of my life. Playing at the reunion also sounds like exactly what I should do—honor the promise I made fifteen years ago. “Looks like I have a reunion to go to.”

But when William’s sister walks into the café, I’m not thinking of high school or teenage years. I’m thinking about how sexy she looks in those jeans and that green top that slopes down one shoulder, revealing pale skin I’d like to—

I slam on the brakes.

She’s your buddy’s sister. And you’re not interested in anything serious because serious sucks.

“Hey, Roxy,” I say, then do my damnedest to strike the dirty thoughts from my mind as we chat and William tells her all about my reunion promise.

Even though I’m thinking about her legs most of the time.

For the record, it’s really fucking hard not to think about something when you know you’re not supposed to—that pretty much guarantees it’s the only thing in your head.

But once the food arrives, the chicken sandwich is so insanely tasty it distracts me from imagining how my friend’s sister would look naked.

God bless chicken sandwiches.