Shane

I was already in a shitty mood from having to be away from Makena for a few days, but the last twenty-four hours, dealing with accountants and financial advisors, has left me with a headache the size of Carrauntoohil. Because, despite not understanding half the jargon they spewed, one thing is certain, the label is in the red. We’re losing money.

“We need to sell. Now.” I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I know a sinking ship when I’m standing on it.

“Give it another year.” Owen leans back in his chair, his brows furrowed and arms crossed. And I know he won’t budge. “We’ll recoup our losses as soon as Bree’s album comes out.”

If I didn’t think of Owen as a brother, I’d have half a mind to sell my half of the company tomorrow. But I’m not that much of an asshole. And the losses are nothing compared to the money our own albums are still bringing in.

After spending a few hours in one of the recording rooms messing around with a couple song ideas, I drive back to my Dublin apartment. The place feels cold and empty. A reminder of my life before I met Makena.

It’s only been a couple of weeks, but she’s turned my whole world upside down in that short amount of time. I wanted her here. Asked her to come. And I admit I was more than a little disappointed when she refused.

Our time together is limited, and I don’t want to waste a day, especially not on bullshit financial reports, when I could be buried inside of her, tasting her lips, swallowing her moans.

I try calling her again, but there’s no answer, which is starting to piss me off and worrying me at the same time. She said she wanted a few days to think about things. Whatever the hell that means. I’m not sure what she has to think about. Everything between us is good. Hell, it’s better than good. It’s been fucking perfect. And I’m worried she’s going to mess things up by overthinking this whole thing.

It’s been two damn days since I’ve talked to her. How much space does she need?

I drag my fingers through my hair and curse under my breath.

Jeezus, I’m turning into a damn girl.

She’s become an obsession.

I toss my keys on the kitchen counter and dial Emer. No answer. Damn it. I try Aiden.

“Yeah?” Aiden’s voice is groggy. I can hear Cadence crying in the background.

“I need to talk to Emer.” If Makena won’t answer my calls, maybe she’ll talk to my sister.

“She’s not here. She took Makena to the Shelbourne for a couple days.”

“They’re in Dublin?” I frown.

“Went to a spa to get their toes painted, or whatever chicks do at those places.”

“Ye’ve got the kid all by yerself?” I chuckle, imagining Aiden juggling diapers and bottles.

“Yer mom’s been helping, but told her to leave a couple hours ago.”

“Already regretting it?”

“Ye have no idea.”

I shake my head as I end the call, thinking about how much our lives have changed in the last year.

Except, right now, it’s not the music that I can’t stop thinking about. It’s Makena. And the fact that she’s here, in the city.

She wants space. And I need to give it to her. She’s with Emer, which could either be a good thing, or a bad thing, depending what stories she’s told her. She has more than a dozen reasons to get even with me, and double the amount of exploits to embarrass me with for years to come.

I pull a beer out of the fridge and uncap it. That’s when I notice an envelope on my kitchen table with my name scribbled on it.

Frowning, I pick it up. No one, other than my cleaning lady, has access to my apartment. And even before I open the letter, I have a sinking feeling I know who it’s from. Scanning the handwritten words, bile burns in my throat.

…we can be happy…

…a family…

…your child needs you…

…you betray us with that whore…

This is the longest letter so far. And like every other one, it isn’t signed. But it does include a lot more personal information than I’d like anyone to know, including Makena’s name and the fact that I’ve been pretty much living with her for the past couple of weeks.

Fuck.

Whoever this woman is, she’s delusional. Maybe even batshit crazy.

Snapping a picture of the letter, I send it to my manager. Two minutes later, he calls me.

“She got into my fucking apartment.” The fear that I’d felt when I first started receiving the damn notes is nothing compared to what I feel now. Because now I have something even bigger than my reputation and freedom to lose. I have Makena. And I know without any doubt that she’ll hit the road the second she gets wind of this scandal.

Not that I blame her. She’s already been through enough with her ex. I need this situation straightened out, or, at the very least, I need to know how much fucking truth is in those letters.

“I think it’s time we got the police involved.”

“We do that and we’re practically inviting the media smack into it. I want this dealt with quietly.”

“And if the woman goes public?”

“Then I deal with it. But we need to know who she is.”

“I’ll have someone take a look at the security tapes in the building. If she’s been there, then we should have a visual.”

“I also want ye to put a man on Makena Fraser. She’s staying at the Shelbourne with Emer. Whoever wrote these letters knows I’m with her. There wasn’t any clear threat, but I’m not willing to take any chances until we know who this is.”