Page 47 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

I should leave. Go back to the Mercer, grab a coffee, prep for the noon meeting Luke’s been riding me about. But I can’t. Not now. Not when I know where she lives. I’ll wait here until nightfall if I have to. She’s going to talk to me.

The phone buzzes in my pocket. Luke.

Meet at Twelve Midtown East at noon. See you then, dickhead.

I type out a quick reply.

I’ll be there.

My thumb hovers over the send button before I delete the message entirely. I don’t know if I’ll be there. I can’t think about that meeting right now. Not when my head’s so full of her.

The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up just in time to see her turning the corner. My chest sinks as she walks toward me. I stand to greet her. She holds her head high and her face unreadable.

Great. I have no idea what to expect. But here goes.

"Hey, you. Ollie get off to school okay?"

She tilts her head and her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile. "You’re not wearing green," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"Green. It’s St. Patrick’s Day," she explains. Her tone is casual, like I didn’t just spend the last hour freezing my ass off waiting for her to come back.

It takes me a second, but then I get it. This is her way of breaking the ice, softening the edges while still keeping her distance. "Guess I didn’t get the memo," I say, standing. "You gonna pinch me now?"

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of warmth there. "You want coffee?"

The question throws me. It’s the last thing I expect her to say. "Jesus, yes, please!"

"Don’t make me regret it," she says, already heading toward the door. "Come on."

It’s not the first time I’ve been here, but it feels different now. Last time, I barely noticed the space—too caught up in her, the pull between us, the way she kissed me like she couldn’t get enough.

Now I actually look around, and the place feels like her, like a glimpse into the life she’s built since Charleston. A perfect blend of sophistication and the bohemian rebel I fell in love with all those years ago.

The solid mahogany door clicks shut behind me, and the faint scent of citrus hits me. It’s coming from a candle on the small table in the foyer, the unlit wax filling the air with something fresh and bright.

The rug under my boots is deep red and orange, worn but warm, the kind of touches that fill me with the essence of her.

I follow her into the living room. The large bay windows let in the kind of soft, filtered light that makes everything feel a little more alive.

Ollie’s keyboard sits in the corner by the window, its keys slightly smudged with fingerprints, like it’s been played recently.

A gallery wall covers part of the exposed brick, lined with crayon drawings and framed snapshots—her life on display in a way that makes my chest ache.

The rug under the gray sectional looks expensive and vintage, a combination I've come to appreciate. It’s the kind of detail Iwouldn’t have noticed before, but now it feels significant. Now, every part of this place tells a story.

She gestures toward the couch. Her movements are clipped and her body's stiff. "Have a seat. I’ll make coffee."

I sit, sinking into the sectional that feels far too cozy for how tense this is. My hands rest on my knees as I glance around again, taking it all in. Her small desk sits in the corner, cluttered with a laptop, pens, and scraps of paper covered in designs I can’t make out from here. The light stringing across the brick wall above it glows faintly, softening the edges of the room.

She moves into the kitchen. The faint clink of mugs and the sound of water filling the kettle break the silence. She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the distance she’s putting between us. It’s not just the space—it’s in the way she carries herself, the set of her shoulders, the quick, deliberate way she moves.

The morning I left, everything was raw and new, like we’d stepped back into something familiar but somehow fresh and new and exciting. Now, though, it feels fragile and off-limits and somehow wrong. I’m on eggshells, worried that one wrong word could make it all fall apart.

"You still take it black?" she asks, her tone neutral.

"Yeah," I say, watching her as she busies herself with the kettle. The silence continues to stretch between us. It's heavy and sharp, and there is no mistaking the tension building with every second.

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