Page 123 of Hope & Harmony

“Looks can be deceiving,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at you. You look like…uh…you look…you look good.”

My cheeks flushed, and I busied myself with rearranging the guitar display for the tenth time, doing my best to ignore my hammering heart, which was far too excited by this cute American boy. “Not pop music. Like I said before, we play a lot of covers—mostly Britpop and indie rock—as well as our own music. If you come and see us on Saturday, you’ll see. We’re playing at the Rose and Crown pub in Southwark. We’ll be onstage somewhere around eight-ish, I think.”

When I glanced back at him, his own cheeks were flushed, and he was grimacing. “Sorry. I don’t know how to do this. This is all new to me.”

So fucking cute. Maybe teasing him would help to put him at ease. “What is? Talking? Britpop?”

Shaking his head, he ran his hand down the strings of one of the guitars on the wall. “Being me. Fuck. Sorry. That sounded weird. I should just—I should go.”

With that, he spun on his heel and bolted from the shop, leaving me alone.

CHAPTER 2

JAXON

Three months. That was how long I’d been in England, away from the USA and everything I’d once thought was important to me. It had been a huge change, but one I desperately needed. When I’d stripped the famous platinum blond dye from my hair and let it grow from the short, styled cut to its current overgrown mess, it was as if I became invisible. Losing my perma-tan—which had come from a bottle, anyway—and dressing in nondescript, casual clothes had completed my transformation.

My dad lived in the UK, and when I’d proposed a change of scenery so I could lie low and work out what I wanted to do with my life, he’d been nothing but supportive. And so, here I was. At first, I’d stayed with my dad in his house in the city of Manchester, and then I’d relocated to his work crash pad in London, alone and with no one to answer to for the first time in my life.

Going from everyone knowing my name to no one knowing my name had been freeing. If I’d still been in NYC, I might have been recognized, but here on the other side of the pond, Morningside had never reached the heights of fame we’d experienced in the US. I’d gone from Jay Bowman, boy band member and headache for my management teamto Jaxon Messier, another anonymous American tourist in London. Bowman had been my stepdad’s surname, and when I’d reconnected with my dad, when everything with Morningside began falling apart, it had only seemed right that I reverted to Messier. My stepdad had never had much interest in me, anyway, and it felt almost fraudulent to keep using his name.

Being in charge of my own life was a huge adjustment, but I was determined to make it work. I’d been in the band since I was sixteen. I was now twenty-two, and already fucking jaded by my experience in the music industry. Sick of being told what to do, how to dress, how to act. My life had been micro-managed for years. When the label had called us into a meeting and broken the news that they were dropping us after months of tension between Troy and the rest of the band, I’d felt nothing but relief.

Once, I’d had everything, but now I was my own person again. And I was still trying to wrap my head around just who Jaxon Messier really was.

The guy in the music store hadn’t recognized me. I was confident about that. I’d been in there three times before I’d finally gathered the courage to talk to him, having seen no recognition in his eyes. It could’ve gone a lot better, though. Without my pop star persona to hide behind, I’d floundered.Tonight, I needed to rectify that, to leave him with no doubt that I was interested in him.

The way he looked intrigued me—a combination of bad boy and boy next door. With a lean build, soft mid-brown hair, expressive hazel eyes, and symmetrical features, he could have almost passed for a member of Morningside at first glance. That was until I noticed the tattoos, the piercing at the top of his ear, and the matte black nail polish on his fingers. He’d given me what I was sure was a heated, suggestive look from beneath his thick lashes as he invited me to watch his band play, and myheart had skipped a beat at the thought that he might actually be interested in me. Not Jay, famous boy band member.Me.

The thing was, although our management team hadn’t actively discouraged my bisexuality during my time in the band, it had beenstronglysuggested that I keep it quiet. So, I’d felt the pressure, and other than a few discreet hook-ups accompanied by NDAs and a whole lot of fucking stress just to get laid, I hadn’t had a chance to explore my attraction to men. To go on a date with someone—not even a guy—without the paparazzi getting wind of it was almost impossible with my level of celebrity.

It sounded like I was complaining, but it hadn’t been all bad. Far from it. Money, fame, the knowledge that on the rare occasions I posted something on social media, I’d instantly get hundreds of thousands of likes and comments. It was a rush. It was addictive. It had been everything I ever wanted, once.

But it was no longer my life.

So, here I was, outside the Rose and Crown pub, dressed in my most nondescript clothing. I could already hear the band inside, playing a song that sounded vaguely familiar. Probably one of the songs my dad liked to play when I’d been crashing with him after the band split.

“’Scuse me, mate.”

I jumped at the voice close to my ear and moved aside so I was no longer blocking the door. Two men brushed past me and entered the pub, and squaring my shoulders, I followed them inside.

Despite the limited interior space, there was a large crowd surrounding the raised stage that immediately drew my attention. My gaze slid past the bleached-blond lead singer who was growling into the mic, to the drummer, a wide grin on his face as he tapped out a rhythm with his drumsticks. Dressed in a tight T-shirt, the muscles in his tattooed arms flexing with hismovements, and his hair tousled and damp with sweat, he was gorgeous. Sexy. Mesmerizing.

Tearing my gaze away from him was difficult, but I needed to blend in. Making my way to the bar, I ordered a pint of IPA, keeping my voice low and talking to a minimum. Although I was almost certain I was incognito here, my accent would stand out in a room full of patrons with various London dialects. While I waited for my pint to be poured, I glanced around me, taking in the tired, faded decor of the nondescript British pub. Over in the corner of the pub, away from the band and the crowds, two guys were seated close together in a high-backed booth with a battered wooden tabletop. They were holding hands under the table as they talked quietly, staring into one another’s eyes, too caught up in each other to notice their surroundings.

That was what I wanted.Maybe if I was lucky, I’d get a taste of it.

I edged through the crowd until I was close to the stage and made my way to the side of the room, leaning back against the wall. From my vantage point, I had a great view of the 2Bit Princes, away from the crush of people. I tapped my feet along with the music as the band went through their set list, playing songs that were vaguely familiar, and others I’d never heard before.

They weregood. There was something about them—a magnetism that was impossible to authentically replicate. You either had it, or you didn’t.

A cheer went up from the crowd as the band launched into what was clearly an old favorite, and one I recognized from my dad’s playlists.Half the World Awayby Oasis. I found myself singing the lyrics, swept up in the music along with everyone else. This was on a miniature scale compared to the sold-out arenas where we used to do our shows, but watching Morningside must have felt something like this. Thecamaraderie of being surrounded by people all experiencing this shared moment, feeling the music deep in our souls. It was an incomparable high, and I was so glad I’d come tonight. Even if nothing happened with the hot British guy, I’d have this.

The lead guitarist was busy winding up a long cable at the side of the stage when I approached. “Hi. Is, uh—” Fuck. I didn’t know his name. “—your drummer around?”

He glanced down at me, his brows lifting. “Curtis?”

Curtis.

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