CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SKYLAR
BREAKING NEWS: Weston Belmont eats entire lasagna and ruins his metabolism. Sources say it’s all Skylar Stone’s fault.
I SIT ACROSS FROM FORD ON MONDAY MORNING, STILL CHUCKLING OVER THE fake headline West sent me this morning. We’re on the leather couches that frame the open living space in the office. This corner of the office is lined with shelves that are full to the brim with a variety of vinyl records.
“Let’s talk about the album.”
I nod eagerly, leaning forward just a little. “Put me to work. I want to make this happen. And I want it to be fucking incredible.”
Ford grins from where he lounges like a king in his castle. “Is this album payback?”
“Would it be off-putting for you if I said it was?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. Because my parents have fucked me around my entire life, taken advantage of my work for financial gain. And I want them nowhere near this.”
He rakes a hand through his mussed hair. “I will get you an ironclad contract.”
“My dad and agent might try to contact you. To weasel their way in.
They’re going to want answers.”
Ford just shrugs, looking suave and unaffected. “There’s a pretty famous song about not always getting what you want.”
I chuckle at that. “They are relentless.”
The man across from me leans forward, eyes flashing. “Skylar, they are irrelevant to me. I don’t owe them answers. I don’t care about being liked.
They can contact me all they want. I will happily delete their messages.”
A relieved sigh rushes from me. It’s like I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Ford steeples his hands. “Now let’s talk vibe. What are you after?”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I prepare to talk about my music. And it strikes me that I haven’t felt this way about creating in a very long time.
“Something stripped down. Something simple. Something…imperfect. Do
you think that would be possible?”
“Definitely.”
“I…” I grimace and press my lips into a flat line. “I have to be honest.
My voice is good, but I’m no generational talent. Technology has been a huge help.”
He just shrugs. “Plenty of excellent musicians haven’t been the very best at their craft. I think it’s more about what’s in here.” He taps at his chest, a chain with a small key is dangling there. “Have you got the heart to create
something special, Skylar?”
My teeth gnash. “Yes.”
And something about saying it out loud makes me believe myself.
“Good—”
“The only thing is…I don’t write my own music. Or, well, I haven’t.”
His lips twitch as he mulls that over. “Okay. We can buy songs. But I’m going to need some time to get the right ones for us to look at. Then we can workshop them and see what fits with your vision. I’ll call in some favors, see what I can do about musicians and hammering out recording timelines.
How’s the voice? Do you feel like you need coaching?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll practice this week. I’ll be good.” The truth is, I feel too raw to sing in front of anyone right now. I think if I sing, I’ll cry.
“Okay.” His hands slap his thighs. “We’ll reconvene next Monday. And I’ll bring my daughter, Cora. I promised her we’d work on this together. In fact, you were her pick. Is that all right?”
A watery smile touches my lips. How utterly, painfully sweet of him to do this with her. It makes my heart squeeze painfully to think of my own dad and our fucked-up relationship. I push past those feelings and tell him in the brightest voice I can muster, “Looking forward to meeting her. And I could use a breather. A week off will be wonderful.”
My week off is miserable.
My plans to fill it with work and people and business goes up in smoke before my eyes. Instead, it’s dark and sad and somehow deeply necessary. It makes me realize I’ve spent almost no time alone in my life. Just me, with my thoughts and feelings as my only company.
Okay, Cherry pipes up and calls me boring from time to time.
Still, there’s something profound about those few days I spend on my own. They’re fucking depressing because rather than sweeping away every uncomfortable thought that pops into my mind, I sit with it. Dig my fingers into all the tender spots and let myself feel the pain.
I practice singing in the shower. And it makes me cry.
In fact, a lot of innocuous things seem to make me cry. I cry, and no one comes to rub my back or tell me to pull it together.
And I like that.
I don’t rush to do my hair and makeup in the morning “to look presentable,” as my mom would say—as if I’m apparently repulsive when I haven’t spent hours primping. And I don’t rush past the mirror either. I stop and stare at myself. My eyes. My nose. The light lines on my skin. The pores that I can never get quite small enough.
Each time, I’m less alarmed by the sight of myself. Each time, I like what I see just a little bit more.
I nap. At night, I sleep like the dead. I don’t even hear West leave in the morning, and when I wake up late, I don’t beat myself up about it. I never realized the extent of my exhaustion.
When the anger hits, I throw rocks into the lake and watch them crash down onto the silken surface.
After a couple of days, I don’t even miss my phone. Instead, I read an old bodice-ripper romance I find on a shelf in West’s living room within one day.
When it’s over, I feel happy and optimistic. Something about that guaranteed happy ending cheers me up. And I realize scrolling my phone never made me feel that way.
After four days of almost constant silence and nothing but my own company, I feel ready to face other humans.
Just maybe not West.
The two of us seem unable to quit bumping into each other. It’s funny at this point. What makes it less funny is the way my body reacts to the mere sight of him, like it doesn’t realize my brain is a fucking mess. Not to mention West has made it clear, he’s not in a place for anything serious.
And I don’t think I can do anything casual. Not with him. With him, I feel downright possessive.
Plus, my time here in Rose Hill is but a blip on the radar of my life, and I’ll eventually have to leave.
I peer at myself in the mirror, popping my lips together to press my freshly applied lipstick evenly across them.
It’s red. Bright red.
My parents would hate it and tell me it’s not my brand. But with so many miles between us and all the shit I found out, my brand feels less important
than ever.
As do they.
Sure, I see their emails when I check my inbox, but I feel no inclination to answer them beyond saying my phone was misplaced and I can only be reached via email. I told them I was taking a breather, and I am.
Their very own walking, talking paycheck has pulled her head out of the clouds, and I think they’re a little scared of the view I’ve got now. A little worried about what I might find with my feet firmly planted on the ground.
I think what I’m finding is myself. And the knowledge that I won’t let what they’ve done to me stand.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I should make my way to the main house. Rosie is picking me up at seven, and I’ve got five minutes to wander up there.
One last glance in the mirror brings a smile to my face. I’m wearing a
black tank bodysuit to match the dainty black stiletto sandals that are wrapped around my ankles. They peek out from the frayed hemline of my skinny blue jeans that are so tight they look painted on.
I’ve flat-ironed my freshly washed hair into a silky curtain that falls midway down my back once I take all the curls out. The bruising on my face is all but gone, leaving a pale-yellow tone that was easily covered with makeup.
A few pieces of simple gold jewelry complete the outfit, and I reach for my leather jacket as I turn to leave.
I’m most likely overdone for a small mountain town, but I look sexy. Not cute and not sweet. And that feels new and somehow intrinsically me. Or at least the version of me I’m getting to know.
I walk gingerly to the main house, trying to keep the narrow heels from sinking into the porous ground beneath me, and breathe out a sigh of relief when I make it to the driveway. Rosie hasn’t arrived yet, so I take a moment to gaze up at the farmhouse.
All the stray toys that were out when I first arrived have been tidied up or put away. I find myself missing that lived-in first impression. I’m barely acquainted with Emmy and Oliver, but the absence of their chaos saddens me. It makes me think of West asking me over for dinner.
A pang of guilt about turning him down hits me. It was an attempt at self- preservation, but now I’m wondering if I misunderstood. I wonder if the weeks they’re gone are too quiet for a man so vivacious and bursting with energy.
As though I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, he strides out the front door, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he locks up.
The shirt he’s wearing fits snugly around his broad shoulders. It’s like a polo with buttons all the way down the front. On the back are the words “The Ball Busters,” along with a logo displaying a bowling ball and pins.
I knew he was on a bowling team but seeing him all decked out makes me giggle.
He spins at the sound, eyes zeroing in on me.
“Yeah, be there in five,” he says before hanging up. Then he looks me up
and down.
Twice.
His teeth strum across his full bottom lip and a low groan rumbles in his chest.
My skin hums, my cheeks heat, and my stomach flips.
“You look at all your friends like that, Belmont?” I hike my purse up higher on my shoulder and cling to the strap to keep myself from walking up to him and petting him.
I’ve been attracted to men before. Or at least I thought I had been. I may have been wrong. Because even in a team shirt, color-blocked bowling shoes wedged between his arm and ribs, he’s hotter than any man I’ve ever seen.
And I know it’s his steady sweetness that has me down bad.
“Only you, fancy face.”
Butterflies erupt in my chest as his eyes peruse my body. Again.
“Look. At. You.” He smirks, softly shaking his head as he saunters
toward me.
“Fan of the outfit?”
He’s close enough now for me to catch his scent. He smells fresh. Like biting into a ripe pear. Like bergamot bodywash.
It makes me want to bite into him.
“Who wouldn’t be?” His hand lifts, and his pointer finger shifts between my eyes. “But it’s these eyes I’m the biggest fan of. You look good. Rested.”
His tongue makes a clucking noise. “You look ready to bring Rose Hill to its knees tonight.”
Even though my makeup is perfect and my tits are pushed up, this man is going on about my eyes?
Suddenly, he’s the only one I want to bring to their knees.
The crunching of tires on the driveway behind me shrivels that idea as quickly as it takes form.
I step up to West, watching his pupils dilate as I do. When he makes no attempt to move away, I flatten my palm on his chest. His heartbeat accelerates, and I can’t help but lean in closer. Then I press a kiss to his cheek and murmur, “Good luck tonight,” before turning and darting into Rosie’s vehicle.