Page 52 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

"Clever," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Chairs," he says, grinning again. "Anyway, it worked. You’re here."

"Don’t push your luck," I warn, but there’s no heat in my voice. The truth is, it’s hard to stay guarded when he’s like this—easy, light, the Callum I remember.

My gaze shifts to his arm, where the bold letters of his tattoo peek out from under his rolled-up sleeve. "I love it," I say, nodding toward it. "Legend."

He glances down, smirking. "Working on it."

"That’s... bold," I say, leaning back. "Tell me the story again. I think I need to hear it."

He laughs. The baritone laugh is low and warm, and for a moment, I forget why I was ever mad at him. "Okay, but you’re not allowed to judge."

"I’m definitely judging," I say, smiling behind my glass.

He sets his drink down, leaning in slightly. "So, it was right after our first big gig in Nashville—this dive bar packed to the walls, people actually singing our songs back to us. It felt... huge. Like we’d made it. I was a little drunk, feeling invincible, and someone dared me to get a tattoo that night. I said no way, but then Luke goes, ‘What, you don’t think you’re gonna be a legend one day?’"

I laugh, shaking my head. "And that was all it took?"

"Pretty much," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn’t hurt that the tattoo artist was giving us free drinks."

"It’s really unique," I say, tilting my head. "Though I can’t believe you got tattoos at all. You always swore you’d never get one."

"That was a long time ago," he says, his voice softer now.

I nod, the memory surfacing easily. "You said your dad’s sleeves made his failure as a musician stand out more. Like they were proof he thought he’d make it, and then he didn’t."

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Guess I’m finally relaxing that rule. Maybe it’s because... I don’t know, things feel different now. Like I’m not chasing it anymore. I’m just... doing it."

I study him for a moment, the weight of his words settling between us. "You’re making it," I say quietly. "I'm really happy for you. I know your dad is smiling down on you and proud, too.”

"Maybe," he says, his grin returning. "I’ve got another," he deflects. He's always wanted to change the subject when his dad comes up.

"Where?"

"Here." He gestures toward his waist, just above his hip, and for a second, my stomach flips at the memory of my hands there. "Geometric designs. They’re all connected—kind of like a puzzle. I got it a couple of years ago after we finished our first album. It’s about figuring out how the pieces fit. It's on the inside of our cover jacket."

I nod, intrigued. "Cool. I guess it will always be a part of who you are."

"Yeah, well," he says, shrugging. "It hurt like hell."

I laugh, shaking my head. "I still can’t believe it. The Callum I knew would’ve never sat for a tattoo, let alone two. They “suit you, though.

"The Sienna I knew didn’t have hair this long," he says, smirking. "Guess we both evolved somewhat."

I roll my eyes, brushing my fingers through my hair. "This threw me off, by the way. At the gala. You with short hair? Your ponytail was your trademark. It would be like Willy Nelson cutting his."

"You like it?" he asks, running a hand through it self-consciously. "It’s lighter. Easier to deal with."

"It suits you," I say, teasing. "But I’ll always have a soft spot for your eighties throwback, wannabe rockstar look."

He grins. "Funny. I was just thinking how we switched roles. I chopped mine off, and you grew yours out."

I laugh, and the sound feels good, easy. "Life is funny, isn't it?"

"Funny is one way to put it."

EIGHTEEN

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