August sent me on the bus ahead of the rest. The other band members were saying goodbye to their friends and family. I didn't want to snoop, but I was curious.

I peeked out the window to see Ian and Hope still clinging to each other. The lead singer Noah Hart had his arm around two women. One of the girls had a strong resemblance to the lead singer. The same dark hair and dark eyes, both tall with strong cheekbones. I reasoned it had to be his sister.

The bassist came up behind the raven-haired girl and snatched her away, twirling her around with a grin as she shrieked. He placed her on her feet and planted a kiss on her lips. Noah threw a disgruntled look their way. I'd heard that the notorious playboy Cameron Thorne had finally settled down. It seemed the rumors about the bassist were true. And with his bandmate's sister, no less.

Not wanting to intrude further on their personal lives, I sat back down in my chair. I went over a few of the shots I'd taken of the concert. I was chagrinned to find most of them focused on August. The blur of his hair as his whole body rocked to the music. The fluid way his arms beat at the drums. The look on utter concentration on his face, eyes blazing.

I paused to examine a few of the photos more closely. Those lines between his brows had returned for the briefest of moments, that same frown as when he'd spoken to the roadie. I hadn't noticed while he was playing, but my camera had caught it. His face was lined with something almost like frustration, or discomfort. His shoulders were tense.

That might have been the moment he strained his shoulder muscle. And yet he'd continued playing without missing a beat. That was dedication. That was passion for his art.

My eyes wandered out the window again to where the band members were saying goodbye to their girlfriends.

I reminded myself I wasn't there to pry. I was there to document. To capture Darkest Days in their element, to show the world their energy, their own passion. I still doubted whether or not I could do what August wanted, but if he believed in me, I was willing to give it a try.

August climbed back on the bus first, not having anyone to say goodbye to. He nodded at the camera in my hands.

"You get some good shots?" he asked.

"I think so. Is your shoulder okay?"

"I'm fine. It was a momentary spasm."

He sat next to me on the love seat. Even though we were separated by the gap in the sofa cushions, I became painfully aware of his body heat, of his still-warm skin flushed from the concert.

His scent filled the air, earthy, like fallen leaves in a forest, only slightly sweeter. I took in a shaky breath. My fingers clenched around my camera, squeezing unconsciously.

"Can I see?" he asked, seemingly unaware of the effect he was having on me.

I handed him the camera wordlessly. He clicked through the images, viewing them through the digital screen. He nodded and hummed to himself.

"These are good," he said.

Relief blossomed in my chest. Without realizing it, I'd been worried what he would think about my work. Worried that he'd have second thoughts and decide he'd made a mistake in hiring me.

"Not great," he continued. "But good." His eyes were less penetrating than usual. Almost distant, fuzzy. Although he was speaking to me, it looked like his thoughts were miles away. Something was off about him today.

I stared at him quizzically.

"Would you rather I lie?" he asked, curious. "Would you prefer to continue taking average photos and never reach your true potential?"

"No," I said firmly. "I don't want that. I want you to tell me the truth, even if it's not what I want to hear."

"You'll always get the truth from me." He handed the camera back. "Next time take more photos of Noah. He's the frontman, not me."

I swallowed down the embarrassment swirling in my chest.

"I was near the back and you were the closest," I lied. I didn't like the glint of amusement I saw in his eyes, less distant now, more focused. "What was wrong with the photos?" I asked hurriedly.

"There's nothing wrong with them. You're a skilled photographer. They just lacked that unique quality I'm looking for."

There it was again. August was looking for something I had no idea how to give.

"Maybe you chose the wrong person," I said.

"I don't think I did."

He said the words with that same easy assurance he used when telling me he was sure I would say yes to the job.

August took the camera from my hands and set it aside on the sofa. "I told you I've been following you."

"You know how creepy that sounds?"

"It's a compliment."

"Because you mean you've been following my work."

"I think you misunderstand what I mean when I say I see something in your art. In your photographs."

"Passion?"

I inhaled a sharp breath as August cupped my cheek with one warm, large palm. His eyes burned into mine, startling clear now.

"Passion doesn't have to be sexual."

My face flushed. "I never said it did," I stammered. Was August aware of all the thoughts and images that had been swirling in my head?

"I'm going to tell you some things. I want you to listen."

I frowned, confused. "Okay," I said hesitantly.

"Your first boyfriend asked you out, not the other way around." He said the words as if they were a matter of fact, not a question. "You only said yes because you had no reason to say no. You never felt anything for him."

My mouth gaped open, stunned and slightly freaked out.

"You're afraid you'll never feel anything for anyone," he continued. "Am I right?"

I pulled away, scooting to the other side of the sofa. I shot him a look of disbelief. "What are you, psychic now?"

"You never told anyone you felt that way. Even though you're afraid you'll never be able to make a real connection with people, you pretend everything is fine. You pretend that's the way you want it."

Drawing my knees to my chest, I snapped at him. "Stop talking."

"But something inside you craves intimacy. You want to experience true passion. And you use your art to channel all the feelings you can't express out loud."

I went silent.

"I see passion inside you," he said. "You just need to let it out." August stared at me, blue eyes alight with an intense heat. "I can help you with that. If you want me to."

My pulse spiked, warmth spreading from my chest down my stomach to my core.

This was desire. A desire I'd been trying to ignore since the first moment I'd laid eyes on this man.

I couldn't ignore it anymore.

"I want—" my voice faltered. I steeled myself. "I want you to teach me. Teach me how to find my passion."

The sound of footsteps climbing up the bus startled me.

August kept his eyes locked on mine as one of the twins climbed onto the bus, saving me from having to respond. My face burned hot, all my nerve endings tingling. I pressed my knees together, heat pooling at the apex of my thighs.

Damon flopped onto the nearest sofa. He stretched his long legs out and draped his arms over the back, feigning a casual pose.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think were we going off to war, the way those losers are acting," he said. "You better go drag them in here or we're never going to leave."

"Give them a few more minutes," August replied. "It's hard for them. This is our first long tour since they got girlfriends."

"I don't know why they all went and did that. Don't they know how many girls are going to be crawling all over us on tour? Whatever," Damon said lazily. "More for me."

"One day you're going to fall for a girl and then you'll know how it feels," the drummer said.

I slid my eyes to August. He leaned back against the sofa, nonchalant, and looking amused at Damon's visible cringe. August pulled a paperback book off the side table and opened it, scanning the pages.

No sign of what he'd just said. It was as if nothing had happened.

And yet there I sat, disorientated, as if the earth had shifted and tilted beneath my feet.