Brody led me upstairs, to the second floor. To the room at the very end of the hall—and when we stepped inside, I had to do a double-take.

Unlike the rest of Brody’s house, which was clean and modern, but with woodsy, manly touches—big, solid slabs of wood and stone, interspersed with glass and clean white walls—this room was soft, warm, cozy, and undeniably feminine. But what really caught my eye was the music gear.

There was a Fender Stratocaster in a light coral color on a stand, next to my acoustic guitar. There was a small amp, a mic on a stand, and other equipment stacked in a couple of hard travel cases—also coral, with metal studs on them.

Then I noticed the big window seats along the bay windows, cushioned in velvety coral pillows… and the sofa and a couple of cushy ottomans clustered in one corner—also coral. My favorite color.

The walls were painted a soft cream. A very girlie chandelier sparkled in the center of the room.

On the antique desk, my laptop sat on a stand next to a bouquet of roses in a crystal vase—movie star roses; big, beautiful roses in a coral color… my absolute favorite flower.

There was a beautiful silver tea tray with a matching tea pot and a couple of antique tea cups on saucers, with an assortment of teas. There were colorful spiral-bound notebooks stacked alongside the computer. A rainbow of gel pens were arranged in a ridiculous mug my brother had made for me at school, when he was a little boy and I was probably still in diapers, that said #1 Sister on it.

There were other mementos around the room, too. Framed photos on the walls of my family; my mom and my dad and my grandparents, me and Jesse as kids, Grandma Dolly, and me and the band jamming when we were young.

Seth was in none of them, which I was both relieved and a little sad to see.

I perused the small library, a bookshelf on one wall filled with books about music—writing reference books and biographies of great songwriters, from David Bowie to Bob Dylan to Billie Holiday.

I spun around, just taking it all in.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice choked up with wonder. I knew what it was. It was a songwriting room, filled with lovely things, chosen with care, just for me. Things that I would love, and everything I could ever need to find solace and let my creativity flow.

“It’s a place of your own, to do the thing you’ve always wanted to do,” Brody said. He took my hands in his. “Maybe I’m taking the lyrics of that song you wrote about Katie and Jesse too literally, you know, about sliding into home?” His lips quirked. “And making space for someone when you love them. But I wanted you to know I’d make room for you.”

“You did all of this? For me? Because of that song?” I was kind of in shock. I knew Brody could be sweet… but this?

“Maggie and Jesse might’ve helped out with some of it,” he confessed. “But yes. It’s for you, princess.” He pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You like it?”

“Brody… yes,” I breathed. “But… I mean… what if I fuck it up?”

He frowned.

“I know it sounds stupid,” I said. “But I promised you I’d be honest.” I put my hands on his arms and held on tight. I was holding on now with everything I had; I had to, to resist the urge to pull away. To run. Because I wasn’t fucking doing that anymore, no matter how scared I felt. “And honestly, Brody, I’m scared. I’m scared to put everything into this and fail.”

“Of course you’re scared to fail.” He smoothed a lock of hair out of my face, gently. “Because you want it so much. But failure is impossible, Jessa.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, incredulous. “I wrote those lyrics for Love Struck when I was just a kid. I mean, literally a kid. The band, they were kind of kids too, barely twenty-two, twenty-three when they made it big. But I was sixteen when I wrote those words. I had no idea what I was doing. The beauty of that was there were no expectations of me, and I wasn’t worried about what anyone would think. I just wrote. And you might not think so, but I paid attention to what went on after I left the band, Brody. I’ve seen the balance on my trust account; all the royalties I make from the songs. I know Love Struck is sitting up there on the list of top debut albums ever, right alongside albums I grew up listening to. That is fucked up.” I took a steadying breath. “What if I commit to writing with the band now, on the new album, and everyone has these expectations that we’re going to do another Love Struck, and it flops?”

“Shit. Is Jessa Mayes talking shop with me?”

I rolled my eyes. “So?”

“Are you really asking me for career advice?”

“Maybe.” I chewed my lip. “Just a bit.”

“This has to be the first time I can ever remember you asking me for my thoughts on your career or your talent.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve given me plenty.”

“Sure. But you’ve never asked. You’ve never really listened, either.”

“So tell me,” I said softly. “I’m listening.”

“Alright,” he said. “The truth is, no album Dirty has ever put out since Love Struck has done as well. But we’re not exactly suffering. We’ve got hits on every album. None of them touched the success of ‘Dirty Like Me,’ but they don’t have to. That song is a thing of its own. And the market is different now. The focus is more on single songs than the albums. We can’t expect to touch the kind of album sales we could even five years ago. Worst case, with or without your involvement, the band cuts another album that, overall, ranks up there with everything they’ve done since Love Struck. Dirty isn’t gonna shit the bed, no matter how much they’ve been struggling with writing this new album. I know that in my gut, in my fucking bones, Jessa.” He gave me a squeeze. “You know what else I know in my bones?”

“What?”

“You belong with us. You belong writing songs with Dirty.” His blue eyes scanned my face, softening. “Every great artist has doubts about their talent sometimes, Jessa. But what you did as a sixteen-year-old girl, unfiltered, uncensored, and without overthinking it, was magic. And sweetheart, I know you’re a great model. You’re fucking gorgeous. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s like I’m… I don’t know… looking at a dream.” He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Was that cheesy as fuck?”

“Let’s just say you’ll never make a living as a lyricist,” I teased.

“Right. Well, my point being, you’ve been extremely successful as a model. I know it. You’re beautiful. Like the kind of special beautiful they don’t even have words for. Or at least, I don’t. But I will tell you this. You’re a better writer than you are a model.”

“Shit, Brody,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and molding my body to his. “You do love me.”

“Jesus,” he murmured against my lips, “she’s a little slow on the uptake, yeah?”

I smiled and he kissed me, slow and deep. I melted right into that kiss, into the taste of him, as his warmth enveloped me. As always, I got the feeling he was claiming me with his kiss; that I was his. Always would be… always had been.

“You still haven’t told me,” he murmured against my lips.

“Told you what?”

“What I wanna hear.”

“And what do you want to hear?”

“Move in with me,” he said between kisses. “I want you here. Need you here… always.”

I held him tighter, pushing back against the reactive fear. “What happens if I say yes?” I whispered.

Because I really, really wanted to say yes.

“We celebrate,” he said, walking me backwards across the room, “by breaking in your new furniture.” Then he laid me down on the couch, laying himself right on top of me. I loved the feel of him; his weight crushing me, forcing out everything else, even the breath from my lungs… everything but him. His strength, his warmth, his manly-woodsy smell. “Then we go back downstairs and call it a moving-in party, yeah?”

“Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

He did too, apparently, because he had my jeans off in record time. “Jesus, you still wearing panties, princess? When are we gonna break you of this habit?”

I laughed and squealed a weak protest as he tore them off. I stopped laughing as he kissed his way up my thigh, wrapped my legs around his hips and smoothed the head of his cock against my pussy. I writhed in response, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“You sure about this?” I asked him as he filled me, gasping as I adjusted to the sensation—the fullness and the slight shock of it, followed by that familiar rush of heat and pure pleasure.

“What? Why?” His eyes found mine, a little dazed as the pleasure took him over, too.

“I own a lot of clothes.”

“Okay,” he breathed, but I was pretty sure his brain had left the building as he started screwing me slowly against the couch.

“We’ll have to ship them up from my place in New York,” I said as he kissed his way down my neck, and my body flooded in a wave of sensation… a tingling, buzzing warmth that shot to the tips of my nipples, the tips of my toes.

No man had ever made me feel like this. This alive…

This loved.

“No problem,” he said, losing himself in kisses on my skin. “You smell like heaven…”

“And I have some stuff down in L.A. that I’ll need to get…”

He flickered his tongue over my grateful nipple and I momentarily forgot what I was saying. I arched beneath him, strung tight, wanting more.

“Cool…” he mumbled. “Jesus, you taste like sex…”

“And… over at my brother’s.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Roni’s.”

“Great,” he said, kissing his way back up to my mouth.

“And I still have some stuff in storage at Dolly’s.”

His eyes caught mine. “Don’t make me regret this, princess.”

I laughed. Then I caught his lip with my teeth and wrapped my legs higher around his waist, urging him deeper. He groaned as he sank into me, settling his weight between my thighs.

“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.” I lapped my tongue against his, making him moan. “Now fuck me,” I whispered, “and make it good, so we can get back to our guests.”

* * *

I stood outside, in the dark, just beyond the light thrown out the windows from the party room. I listened to the rhythm of the party within, the happy voices of my friends and family, as I gazed out over the city.

My city.

Here, just taking a momentary breath on the edge of it all, I felt right where I belonged.

A part of it all, but separate. In my own skin, my own space. Finding my way… but I no longer had to do it alone.

When I was a kid, I’d found music. And through music, I’d found a way to love myself. Over the years that love had faltered, but I was healing now, and finding my way back to me again.

I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy road. Like Elle had often told me, hearts need time to heal.

I knew everyone was thrilled to have me back, but they’d also lost Seth, again, and it hurt. I knew it did, even if they’d spare me the sight of it. They’d feel it, when they thought I wasn’t looking.

And there was still a void there. Seth Brothers had left big shoes to fill, and everyone in and around the band—Brody included—seemed to feel it was time they get filled, for good. I didn’t envy them in that process. Seth had mad talent; that was never in question.

I just hoped they could find the right man or woman for the job. Soon. So we could all move forward.

The music and voices swelled as a door opened behind me. I turned to find Brody standing on the patio.

“You okay?”

He was worried; I knew he was. Still worried I’d start to pull away, even while I was standing right here. So when he came to me and put his arms around me, I leaned into his embrace. “I’m great. Just taking it all in, you know?”

“Good,” he said, kissing my neck.

“Just thinking about my new room. I love it, Brody.”

His arms tightened around me.

“You took a risk decorating it, you know,” I teased. “What if I’d said no?”

“Then I’d turn it into a crash pad for Jesse, for when Katie kicks his ass out.”

I snickered. “Bet he’d love the chandelier and pink furniture.” I turned in his arms and looked through the window. I could see Jesse and Katie. He had his arm around her waist and he was listening, with a big, dumb grin on his face, as she told Dylan and Ash some story, her cheeks pink with excitement. “But she’s never kicking him out.”

“That’s good,” Brody said, turning my chin until our noses touched, his face tipped down to mine. “Because the room is yours.” He kissed me then, sweetly, his lips lingering as he breathed me in. “The house is yours,” he said. “Everything I’ve got is yours.” He drew back just enough to lock his blue eyes with mine, his eyebrows furled. “Don’t leave me again, Jessa. I know I said I’d wait, but I can’t really stand forever without you.”

My throat got a little tight as I swallowed. Forever without Brody?

No fucking way.

“I’m not going anywhere, Brody.”

Then I told him the words he’d been waiting to hear… the words I should’ve had the courage to say to him, so many years ago. “I’m home.”