Page 9 of Heartbreaker

Royal: Dash—or any of the guys—would have my ass if I wasn’t.

Briar: *scowly face emoji*

Briar: Try to at least have some fun tonight.

I don’t bother to reply to that because fun and Royal Ewing don’t go together.

Not any longer, anyway.

My life is brooding, hiding from gossipy assholes, and teaching a three-year-old to play Old MacDonald Has a Farm on a tiny guitar.

If the world could see me now…

The car door opens, and I blink against the flashes of light, shoving my body back into the leather seat, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Sorry,” Jade says a moment later as the door slams closed. “I just needed to let Rosie out so she can head home for the night.”

I nod.

The limo moves forward again, inching up and stopping and then repeating the process many times over as we navigate away from the venue and out onto the city streets.

But it’s not until we’ve hit a good clip on the highway that I realize I should say something.

She’s shifting on her seat, gaze pointed out the window as she fusses with that ridiculously large skirt.

“When did you decide you wanted to be a musician?” I ask.

Her eyes—deep gray like thunderstorms—come to mine. “My mom used to say I started singing and dancing in the womb.” Her mouth kicks up, and she shifts again. “She teased that I never let her sleep before I was born. Or after,” she adds, smile widening, “because I was always learning some instrument or humming a melody or practicing a dance number.”

“What did you like to sing?”

Her brows flick up, as though surprised by the question, but then she softens. “Anything, really.”

I snort.

She shifts in her seat, one hand on the leather, the other fussing with her skirt. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“No, seriously.” She shifts again. “What?”

There’s a thread of steel in her tone, of annoyance, and I find that intriguing. Definitely intriguing enough to needle at it, just a little bit. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You were obsessed with boy bands.”

Her eyes flick up but she doesn’t back down, and I know in an instant that she’ll make it, that she’ll survive the sharks in this industry, that she’ll keep that special brand of magical lightningbottled up inside her instead of allowing it to fade away like so many others have.

“I liked boy bands—orlike,” she corrects. “But I also love The Beatles and the Stones and Nirvana and Dolly and Lady Gaga and Loretta. I’m obsessed with all things Taylor and P!nk and can belt out a Journey or Bon Jovi rock anthem. Maren Morris is incredible and I couldn’t have survived my teenage years without Reba or Faith or LeAnn or Alanis. But I’m just as likely to blast Sabrina or Chappell or Beyoncé as I am to sing along with Bonnie Raitt or Janis Joplin or Joan Jett or Stevie Nicks.” She smiles and I see the sparks of joy in her eyes, hear the passion in her words. “And don’t even get me started on Tina or Prince or Janet or Lauren Hill or—” Her cheeks color as her gaze catches mine, and she wriggles in her seat again. “I just love music,” she whispers. “Beethoven to whatever’s hot on the charts to—” A shrug. “I’m blabbering.”

“You’rebeautiful,” I murmur back.

Wide gray eyes, those cheeks turning bright pink. “It’s all makeup and tailoring.” Her mouth curves, and her smile is rueful. “And a metric ton of shapewear. I meant to change before I left the theater, but I got distracted and—” She winces now, pulling at her skirt.

“That’s why you’re squirming like you’ve got ants in your pants?”

Pink turns to red. “I?—”

I lean over and touch her cheek, running my fingertips over the flush. “Like I said, you’re beautiful, ants in your pants or not. And it’s not makeup or shapewear or tailoring.”

Her lips part, protest welling up in those storm gray eyes.

---