Page 25 of Me and Mr. Just Right

“And it’s not our fault that—”

“Iknow.”

“And if she thinks—”

“She does. And we will.”

Jules let out a disgruntled huff but dropped the issue. To be quite honest, none of them hated the movies, and all three of them knew they’d done Rosie wrong by leaving her out of so many of their trips. Without their dad around, they were the only steady males she had in her life.

He’d successfully distracted his brothers from pushing him to talk about Lia, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking of her. He did like her. He hadn’t been so intrigued by any woman—ever.

And yes, she was gorgeous in the way where he almost needed to blink to assure himself that she really did exist. Especially on this island, where myths were bigger than reality.

It was more than her stunning good looks, though that drew him in. It was the way she hummed notes like they belonged in the very air they flowed into, the adventurous spark in her mysterious eyes, how she made Bennett smile again and Jules soften and Haydn want to unfurl his roots into the dark Alaskan soil.

It was dangerous, this new dynamic she brought. And it couldn’t last.

Chapter 11

Liasteppedoutofthe shower to hear the low rumble of the brothers’ voices drifting down the hallway. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the happy sound of it was comforting. Lia lived alone, and even though she’d convinced herself that she liked it that way, she missed the sound of someone else in the house, existing in her sphere, adding their own energy to her space.

Ideas lit up in her mind like an old-school switchboard, each one demanding her attention before another one lit up just as quickly. She changed into a fresh pair of leggings and a tank top before throwing on an off-the-shoulder, oversized tour sweatshirt. Gathering her things, she took one last look at herself in the steamy mirror—pink cheeked, wet haired, and for once not feeling like all she wanted to do was cry.

When she’d discovered Bo and Gwen’s relationship, she’d been devastated but still felt like she had her feet beneath her. When she’d learned they’d stolen her songs and recorded them behind her back, it was a bit like how it felt to fall through the floor at the cabin: one moment steady and absolutely confident in her support, and the next careening downward into a patch of painful thorns.

The worst part was that her muse had tucked tail and fled, and she’d been unable to coax it back. Not even sure if she wanted to try. Some people wrote from a place of pain. They fed off of those emotions to create and heal.

Not Lia.

Though she included her painful experiences in her writing, she needed to write from a place of joy. Or at least acceptance. Her devastation led to nothing but blank pages and un-plucked strings as her mind whirled over everything she must have missed for those two to betray her so terribly for so long. And so easily.

Maybe that was the most difficult part of it all—she’d been so trusting, she’d never once suspected anything until her manager had send her Gwen’s latest demo and she’d recognized the song right away. From there, it was like a house of cards falling, one truth coming out after another.

How gullible she’d been.

But she didn’t want to think about them anymore.

Instead, she rushed to her room and riffled around her duffel bag for the pen and paper she almost hadn’t brought with her. She wished she had her guitar, but she’d left it in the living room. She was already infringing on the brothers’ house; she didn’t want to impose on more of their brotherly time, no matter how much they insisted they didn’t mind.

And she didn’t think she’d have the restraint to go in, grab her guitar, and leave them again. Not if Bennett started another story, not if Jules had another drink for her, and definitely not if Haydn motioned for her to sit beside him, giving her a tingling feeling throughout her entire body with one look.

She opened the notebook decisively to jot down some of the images she’d seen that afternoon.

Light-dappled dust in a forgotten place.

Thorns hidden under soft leaves.

Lost love.

She wrote out as many words as she could, and started linking phrases together. Hours passed, but it felt like only minutes, and it was only when the boys stopped talking that she realized their quiet chatter had been the peaceful backdrop to her songwriting session.

She heard them moving around in the hall and bathroom, then heading into the bedrooms. She ached to pick up the guitar and pluck out the notes she’d been humming earlier, along with some of the lyrics she’d pulled together, but she didn’t want to keep any of them up.

Instead, she got into bed. Haydn’s bed.

She tried not to think of him, but it was impossible when the bed smelled just like him. His sheets were soft and smooth against her skin, not unlike how his hand had felt running down her leg so tenderly, yet so capably, as he’d taken care of her thorns. In some ways, he seemed like a remnant from another century. She’d never met anyone quite like Haydn.

She finally gave in to the urge to burrow her face into Haydn’s pillow and breathe in his scent. Forest and sunshine. The undeniable essence of him.

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