Page 11 of When the Storm Breaks
I didn’t give a shit if he got an A or a D. What mattered was that he didn’t take the easy way out and have someone do his work for him. Because guess what? That ain’t how life works. Nobody can carry your load except for you. And sometimes that shit got heavy.
While he wrote his essay, I Googled Shiloh Leroux and justified the intrusion on her privacy by telling myself it was because she was staying on my property. Bullshit.
I read about the Louisiana girl’s meteoric rise to fame with the indie rock band, Acadian Storm. It was your typical rock and roll story—sex, drugs, stints in rehab, lawsuits settled out of court. One year ago, Shiloh left Acadian Storm to pursue a solo career. She won a Grammy for “Damage”, the lead track on her self-titled debut album featuring Bastian Cox, the British rock star.
My eye caught on a photo of Shiloh with Dean Bouchon, her ex-boyfriend and lead guitarist for Acadian Storm, coming out of a club in L.A. Her hair was silver, eyes smoky, lips red. She was wearing a black leather mini dress and ankle boots with sky-high heels and looked nothing like the girl who had fallen asleep in my truck. Dean Bouchon looked like a douche, wearing sunglasses at night.
The headline read: The TRUTH About Dean & Shiloh’s Breakup
I didn’t read the story. I didn’t read the one about how Shiloh broke up the band or the rumors that she left Dean for Bastian Cox either.
Shiloh was currently in the midst of a world tour. It had started in Singapore at the end of January, with dates still being added well into next year, the tickets selling out as soon as they were released.
All of which begged the question: Why are you here, Shiloh? And why should I even care?
I pocketed my phone. Never should have looked her up in the first place. None of my damn business.
“Done,” Ridge said, closing his notebook, a satisfied smile on his face. “Turns out I had a lot to say.”
In retrospect, I should have questioned that or at the very least, read the damn thing. Instead, I took the easy way out and went to bed.
Chapter Four
Shiloh
A knockon the front door woke me. I pushed the black cashmere eye mask on top of my head and squinted at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Where was I? Not in a hotel. The sheets were soft and smelled like lavender. Outside my open windows, the sky was glaringly blue, and the air smelled fresh and sweet.
I was in Cypress Springs, Texas and someone was still banging on the door. Dragging myself out of bed, I ran my fingers through my tangled hair as I walked down the stairs. Padding across the braided rug covering the hardwood floor, I stopped in front of the locked door.
“Who is it?” I’d had too many groupies and creepers showing up outside my door to open it to just anyone and there was no peephole to tell me who my caller was.
“Brody.”
Brody. My lips curved into a small smile as I opened the door. He wore faded denim, dusty work boots, and a sweat-stained gray T-shirt tight enough to show the ripples and dips of his chiseled abs. I was mesmerized by his broad shoulders, bulging biceps and the sheen of sweat on his suntanned skin. He was so deliciously masculine.
“Hey Cowboy.”
“Viv.”
Viv. He’d already shortened my alias.
His gaze roamed from my face and down, slow as you like, taking in my silky pearl-gray camisole and matching short set trimmed in black lace. When his whiskey browns finally returned to my face, it felt like he’d branded every inch of my skin and left a trail of heat in its wake.
“Enjoying the view?”
“It’ll do.” He chuckled at my raised brows.It’ll do?What a charmer. “Didn’t mean to wake you ...” There was no hint of an apology in his voice. “But it is two in the afternoon.”
“I didn’t fall asleep until six this morning.”
He tilted his head, studying my face like I was a riddle he wanted to solve. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“Jet lag.”
“California is only two hours behind Texas.”
“Guess I’m sensitive to time changes.” Four days ago, I’d flown back from Australia and had gone directly into meetings with the record label followed by interviews, a feature story in Vanity Fair, and an appearance onJimmy Kimmel Live. Before I hopped my flight from L.A., I’d made the mistake of answering my phone and had yet another argument with Landry. When I’d stopped to take a breath, the stress and exhaustion had caught up to me. I leaned my hip against the doorframe and crossed my arms over my chest. “Did you need something, Brody?”
“No. But you did. Got you that pickup you asked for.”
