Page 8 of California Wild

Writing, recording, planning shows, rehearsing, trying to turn Dead Run Riot’s growing buzz into something real.

Friday and Saturday nights were for gigs.

Sunday was laundry day.

And five times a week, she carved out an hour for hot yoga, because some things from childhood just stick with you.

You can leave the vegan farm commune, but the yoga follows you forever.

The last student of the morning left the studio at exactly 9:32 AM, and Hayley let out a deep breath, rolling the tension out of her shoulders.

She loved teaching—seeing someone light up when they nailed a note, watching their confidence grow—but three straight lessons before coffee No. 2 was a lot.

Still, money was money.

She grabbed her iced oat milk latte from the side table, took a long, blissful sip, and leaned back against the piano, letting herself breathe.

For exactly one minute.

Because right on cue, the studio door swung open, and Caiden Galway strode in like he owned the place.

“Morning, sunshine,” Caiden grinned, his unmistakable Sheffield accent stretching out the words. “You look absolutely knackered.”

Hayley gave him a look over the rim of her cup. “Wow. Hello to you too.”

Caiden just laughed, flashing that ridiculous, crooked smile that had charmed the hell out of half the West Coast. He dropped his guitar case by the couch, ran a hand through his already-messy dark curls, and collapsed into the seat like he’d been up for three days straight.

Which… knowing him, was a possibility.

“Busy morning?” he asked, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.

“You know,” Hayley sighed dramatically, flopping next to him, “just shaping the future of music, one terrified teenager at a time.”

Caiden grinned, head tipping toward her. “And how’s that working out for you?”

She groaned. “Well, one of them spent the entire lesson refusing to sing above a whisper, another is convinced that high notes are a personal attack, and the last one refuses to enunciate anything.”

Caiden chuckled. “So, a normal day, then?”

“Pretty much.”

Caiden nudged her knee with his. “You’re too nice to these kids, Foxy.”

“Excuse me,” Hayley gasped, hand to chest, feigning offense. “I am an incredibly tough coach. A ruthless vocal tyrant.”

Caiden’s eyebrow lifted, all mischief and challenge.

“Oh yeah?” he mused. “Say that again, but without the Disney princess voice.”

Hayley huffed and smacked his arm. “Shut up.”

Caiden chuckled, but there was something behind it—something softer, something fond. He had this way of looking at her like she was his favorite part of the day, and Hayley?

She was not dealing with that.

Not now. Not ever.

Caiden had been in her life for two years, but Dead Run Riot was one year old. A band made up of former almost-successes, misfits who’d been in and out of different projects but had never quite landed where they needed to be—until now.

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