Sprawled on one of the lounge chairs beside the infinity pool, I’m dozing in the sun with a cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth when a sudden splash hits me out of nowhere. I’m doused instantly from head to toe.

“Fuck!” I sit bolt upright, water streaming off me. My eyes fly to the pool, where the source of the unexpected cannonball has just broken through the surface, a huge grin plastered on his dripping face. “Was that really necessary, Dunn?” I bark.

Grayson Dunn — Hollywood’s biggest action-movie heartthrob and, for the past two years, my only friend in Los Angeles. The bastard always has to make a fucking entrance, whether it’s at the hottest nightclub in Beverly Hills or here, in his own goddamned swimming pool.

“I take it you’re surprised to see me?” he asks, hopping out of the water. He grabs a towel and rubs it over his mop of messy black hair, which has paid for at least three separate multimillion-dollar shampoo campaigns by last count.

“You put out my cigarette,” I grumble, settling back against the lounger and lighting a fresh one.

“Ornery as ever, Woods.” He throws his body on the chair beside mine, the eight-pack that paid for his Bugatti on full display. “God, I forgot how humid it is in Hawaii. Makes LA’s heat waves seem almost reasonable.”

“Dunn, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Last I checked, I owned this treehouse you’re so happily crashing in.” He gestures around vaguely.

True enough.

Hanging on the side of a remote cliff on Oahu’s western shore, the modern villa isn’t massive, but it’s totally secluded on a private acre of land… which makes it the perfect place for hiding out from the world. The incredible views, infinity pool, and perpetually-stocked refrigerator aren’t bad perks either.

“Am I not allowed to visit my own property?”

“I just didn’t know you were coming.” I shrug. “You never spend any time here.”

“But I could,” he says, green eyes gleaming. “That’s the beauty of collecting houses all over the world.”

“Not all of us are obscenely wealthy, Dunn. How much was your last contract? Seven figures?”

“Eight.” He chuckles. “You know, if you got off your ass and made a new album, you could buy a place — or five — of your own.”

“You want me out of here, say the word.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He glances at me. “Stay as long as you want. Like you said, I’m never here.”

We’re silent for a while, staring at the nearby waterfall thundering down in a cloud of mist. The green cliffs all around us are lush with life — full of tropical birds calling to each other in a medley of contradictory harmonies. The sun hovers high in the sky overhead, deepening my tan to an even darker bronze.

“Why’d you buy this place, anyway?” I ask, brow furrowing. Compared to his other places — the modern mansion in Malibu, the upscale ski chalet in the Alps, the penthouse in Tokyo — it’s pretty rustic.

“You know I filmed that plane-crash movie out here last year. With Kat.” Grayson’s eyes flash with memories at the mention of his former co-star. “I don’t know, I thought… maybe, if I bought a place here, I could hold onto the feeling I had when we were…” He breaks off. His cheeks look uncharacteristically flushed. I chalk it up to sun exposure — Grayson Dunn doesn’t do embarrassed. It’s not in his DNA.

He clears his throat hard. “You know what? Never mind. I really don’t know why I bought this place. Call it an impulse purchase.”

I don’t push him. I’m in no position to call him out for being in denial over a woman, for holding onto something he should’ve let go a long time ago.

“Can I bum one of those?” he asks, eyes flickering to my cigarettes.

I toss the box at his chest, watching as he lights up and inhales deeply. “Thank god you didn’t give up all your vices, Woods.”

A ghost of a smile twists my mouth. “I’ve got far too many to ever be a true choir boy.”

“Amen, motherfucker.”

“So, you plan on telling me why you’re really here, Grayson?”

“Eventually.” He blows out a stream of smoke. “Can I ask you something first?”

I shrug.

“This life.” He gestures around. “This solitary mountain man shit you’ve been doing for the past six months…”

“Still waiting for a question.”

“Are you happy?” he asks bluntly.

“What kind of shit question is that?”

“Guess that’s my answer.” Smirking, he holds up his hands in surrender. “I’ll rephrase. If you could have your life in LA back — not the partying, not the drinking… but your life, the way things were before it all went to shit. The tour. The album. The way it should’ve played out, before she…”

My glare is lethal.

He smartly swallows whatever he was about say in regard to my ex and pushes on. “If you could have that life back… Would you still want it?”

I shove to my feet and stalk to the railing, not answering him as I take another long drag of my cigarette.

“Woods?”

“Where’s this coming from? Emotional bonding sessions aren’t your style, Grayson.”

“Just answer the damn question.”

“That life you’re talking about — it’s never going to happen,” I grit out. My free hand curls around the deck rail so hard I’m surprised I don’t indent the wood. “No use thinking about it or talking about it.”

“What if—”

“What if is a damn good way to torture yourself, nothing more.”

I hear him heave a deep sigh and a second later, his wry tones reach my ears. “So, you wouldn’t want to know that the tour is back on, then.”

My voice is a growl. “Look, if Francesca sent you out here to try and convince me to do the tour alone, you can get on your damn jet, fly back to LA, and disappoint her once again. Because, as I’ve told her a dozen times in the past two years: I will never do a Wildwood tour without…” The word breaks in my throat. “Without her.”

Grayson scoffs. “I shouldn’t even tell you, you stubborn bastard. You hardly deserve the truth.”

I turn to look at him, spine rigid. “Just say what you came here to say, Dunn. I’m not paying you by the word.”

“You’re not paying me, period.”

I glare at him in stony silence.

“Fine.” He stares at me from the lounger, his typically cheerful features set in a somber mask. “The tour — you wouldn’t be doing it alone. She’s back.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence. Even the birds seem to hold their breath.

“What did you say?”

“She’s back. Felicity is back. She’s agreed to do the tour and— Hey! Ryder! Where the hell are you going?”

I don’t answer. I don’t stop.

I’m already running.

Two years underwater — a muffled world of dim color and sound where things like light and hope and music cannot penetrate — and with two little words, my head finally breaks the surface. They ring in my ears, startling in their clarity as I swipe the Wrangler keys off the counter, overriding Dunn’s shouts as I run for the door.

She’s back.