Page 4 of The Rockstar

I don’t believe in fate or the higher power, but I can’t help the creeping feeling that maybe I’m supposed to be here just when she needed help.

My whole world tilts on its axis. I close my eyes and press my thumbs to my eyeballs. My thoughts are careening off course. I’m supposed to stay here for a few weeks to recharge. After two years of nonstop touring, I was beyond exhausted. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open long enough to finish one song. I had several appearances booked, but I just wanted to sleep.

Then there was the matter of zero privacy. Just because I was a public figure didn’t mean I was fair game. From fans trying toclimb my terrace to those shoving their cameras in my face while I ate my lunch, it became too much.

I’ve been in this industry for over ten years, but at twenty-eight, I lost my passion for music. I can’t write, can’t even remember which note to play. My fingers shake as I play the guitar, and my voice sounds weird to my own ears.

I should be pissed at Vivian’s intrusion. After all, I’m still not one hundred percent sure this isn’t a ploy to find out things about me.

But … whatever.

If she’s pretending, then she’s the most talented actress in the world. Since she’s staying until the rain lets up, I, too, can pretend this is normal. That I’m a regular guy in a cabin with a regular girl.

Except there’s nothing regular about her. Her eyes remind me of the forest surrounding us. They don’t blink much or soften. And that mouth? God, it should be illegal to look the way she does. She only ever sassed me and scowled, but what I would give to have a taste of those full lips, to feel her walls crumble at my touch.

Ah, fuck.

I lace my hands behind my head, trying to put a lid on my libido, thinking of other things than her naked body in my bedroom. My skin flashes hot as unbidden images shuffle in my brain—her on my bed, that sassy mouth moaning my name, those toned legs around my waist.

Goddammit.

Primal need shoots through my bloodstream as dirty thoughts drift through my mind. I need to get a grip on myself. I am not a hormonal teenager about to get laid for the first time.

I’m a grown man who has been starved for so long. But no, it’s not just that. For years, one day bled into the next. I was in a dark place for so long that it felt like I just saw the sun shine.

I sink into the sofa, pulse loud in my ears, my palms sweaty, my cock straining against my pants. I’m like a boy with a crush and no damn clue what to do with it.

2

VIVIAN

I’m shaking like a leaf.

Of all the cabins in all the remote woods in all the damn world, I had to break down in front of his. Ryder Cross. Rockstar. World’s hottest man for two years. Multiple Grammy awards. Sold-out concerts. Swankiest cars. Most expensive homes in different post codes.

And I showed up in my most basic ensemble, wet and shivering, on his doorstep.

Mom’s voice nags in the back of my head. “That van is going to give out one day, Vivian, mark my words.”

Well, she can mark them all she wants, because this van is mine. Ours.Dad and I spent an entire summer under its hood, fixing every creaky inch together (well, he fixed it and I just handed him the tools while keeping him entertained), painting the sides with sunflowers and cacti. He gave me the keys on my seventeenth birthday, grinning from ear to ear with grease on his cheek. I’m not just going to give her up because her engine hiccuped in the middle of nowhere.

Just my luck, too, that Dad’s currently halfway across the country visiting his childhood friend.

I shove my wet hair from my forehead and wipe the moisture from the mirror, looking at the bags under my eyes, the lack of color on my face, and what my beloved sister, Valerie, calls my overall ‘sickly Victorian child’ aesthetic.

Less than twenty-four hours till the festival. If I don’t make it there in time, Valerie will kill me, and half her inventory—vintage records she has collected and restored herself—will be for nothing. I promised her I’d help, but here I am stuck with the hottest guy on the planet.

No cell service either. I already tried walking up the road with my phone raised. Nothing. Dead bars.

Which is why I ended up knocking on his door. It wasn’t the wisest decision I’d ever made, and I had to psyche myself up repeatedly, fully prepared to deal with a serial killer or a psycho who has an entire collection of animal bones in one of his rooms.

But it’s just Ryder Cross. JUST THE RYDER CROSS.

I hate to admit it, but I get it now. I really do.

Okay, look. I’ve seen pictures of him, album covers, music videos. I even watched an interview once where he gave three-word answers to everything and smirked, and the entire audience went bananas. I wasn’t impressed.

But in real life?

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