To this day, I can still clearly see the look of crushing devastation on my mother’s face.

“Fuck, Lyla. I knew I hated that guy for a good reason.”

“Yeah. That was the last time Rally picked me up for a visit. My childhood relationship with Rally consisted of calls with his PA and presents and cards all done by his PA. That worked just fine for me since I pretty much hated him after that.” I meet Tom’s eyes. “He didn’t attend my mother’s funeral, you know. Didn’t call to see if his eight-year-old daughter was okay after losing her mother.”

“Some people don’t deserve to have kids. I always say, family is the one you make.”

I smile. “My Aunt Steph and Uncle Paul are great.” I avoid mentioning Dex again. That’s a whole other can of worms in my pathetic life story, which I’m not ready to open with Tom. “I’m lucky to have them.”

“How do they feel about you coming into the music business?”

“They’re really supportive.”

Then, unease sweeps through me. I’ve told Tom things that only a handful of people know. People I trust.

After worrying my lip with my teeth, I say to him, “Tom, all these things I’ve told you about Rally and my mom, it’s not stuff that many people know. Only people I trust.”

So, why did I tell him?

He smiles. It’s warm and genuine. “As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this conversation never happened. But to me, it happened. You ever need to talk again, you come to me.”

He leans back against the seat with one leg crossed over his other thigh and his arm around the backrest, his strong, masculine fingers tapping against the wood. “I didn’t get a chance to say it last night, but you fucking rocked the place.”

He’s changing the subject. I appreciate it.

I smile, curling my fingers around the cooling coffee mug. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Then, I remember why he wasn’t there to tell me that last night, and the smile disappears from my face.

Sharing my life history with him and him being so sweet had me forgetting for a moment just who I was talking to.

He takes a sip of his coffee. “You have fun last night after the show?”

Yeah, but not as much fun as you had, I’m sure.

Nodding, I say, “Yeah, it was all right.”

“Did you get back late?”

“Yep. You were sleeping.”

Nodding, he rubs his hand over his smooth chin. “I was wiped.”

From banging the brunette.

Stop it, Lyla.

Then, an unwanted image flashes through my mind.

Ugh. Image of Tom with the brunette be gone!

“You shaved,” I say, trying to direct my thoughts elsewhere.

I glance down at my coffee, and when I look back up, his eyes are intense on me. I have to stop the shiver I feel.

He rubs his hand over his chin again. “Yeah, it wasn’t working for me. Women seemed even more attracted to me with the beard. Go figure.” He grins.

“Like the one from last night?”

And there it is.

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut about anything ever? Even more so when it’s something I don’t want to know.

It’s like I have a self-inflicted torture button in my brain.

Tom tilts his head, giving me questioning look. “The one from last night?”

I bring the mug to my lips and take a drink before speaking. “Yep, the brunette groupie you were talking to after the show. The one you left with.”

He rubs his forehead in thought, his eyes meeting mine. I see something there in them, but I can’t quite decipher it. I don’t get a chance to though because whatever it is disappears, and it’s like a light comes on in his eyes.

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “You mean, the one with long dark hair, legs that went on forever, and the biggest pair of fake tits I’ve ever—”

“Yes, that one,” I cut him off just as he’s sizing a pair of breasts with his hands in front of his own chest.

He stands and moves away from the table. “Yeah, I didn’t leave with her.”

“You didn’t?” It’s hard for me to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“No, I didn’t. I left alone, came back here, and crashed out.” He turns back to face me. “You sound surprised.”

“No, I’m not. Well, kind of.”

“But more so, you look…relieved.” He places his large hands on the table, leaning in close to me. “Are you?”

His nearness has my brain scrambled. “What?”

He leans in a little closer. “Relieved.”

“Of course I’m not relieved.” I force indifference onto my face.

But he knows I’m relieved because I am. It’s written all over my imperfectly indifferent face.

“I guess that’s a good thing then.” His voice sounds husky. “If you were relieved at the thought of me not being with another woman, then that would mean you care…about me. And if you cared, that would mean you want—”

“I don’t care,” I say quickly. “And I certainly don’t want anything.” I lift my chin, trying to give off more of that indifference but failing miserably.

All I really manage to do is put my face closer to his. Well, technically, my mouth is closer, like within kissing distance.

I can feel his hot breath all over me, and the scent is minty mixed with coffee. It’s like an aphrodisiac.

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