CHAPTER TWO
SKYLAR
I HAVE A THING FOR HANDS. I WON’T EVEN DENY IT.
Men’s hands, specifically. The way the tendons on top flex and ripple when they strum at a guitar. The way they use up the entire length of a microphone handle. The way they can be warm and gentle on my skin.
I’ve dated famous people. Artists and musicians. Handsome men, influential men. And yet, I’ve never found myself as obsessed with a man’s hands as I am with the ones wrapped around the steering wheel of the truck ahead of me.
The steel grip on my bicep as he threw us to the ground.
The scratch of his callouses against my skin as he told me it would all be okay.
The tattoos on his knuckles that I stared at every time he scrubbed his beard.
I can hear my dad in my head, clear as day, warning me away from a man like Weston. He’d be overly concerned about the person I’m dating tarnishing my pristine America’s sweetheart reputation.
Respectable men don’t get tattoos a shirt can’t hide.
But what about heroic ones? Ones with dusty blond hair and muscles that make their shirt look just a little too tight through the shoulders.
Weston Belmont saved me from a grizzly bear. Saved me from myself, really. From my own naiveté.
A smarter girl would be captivated by his bravery, or his deep voice, or his quippy one-liners.
Not me. I’m following him down a backcountry road in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, daydreaming about his big fucking hands. I make a
mental note to follow up with my therapist about this too. I have to be diagnosable. It has to be a coping mechanism of some sort.
Do daddy issues give you a hand kink?
I scoff at myself before muttering, “God, Skylar. You really need a
people detox.”
And it’s true.
Or at least that’s what I told everyone when I packed up and left. Some might say that fleeing Los Angeles is running from my problems. Others might think it’s rude to show up unannounced for an unconfirmed job.
Me? I’m calling it fleeing the world’s most humiliating breakup.
I’m calling it desperation.
But I also have a plan. One I have kept secret from my parents, who work as my managers, as well as my agent, who is mostly just their paid puppet.
I’m going to record my own album. And I’m not going to tell a single soul about it. I don’t want their input. I don’t want their opinions. This project will be by me, for me.
I am desperate for a fresh start. Desperate for a change of scenery.
Desperate to escape the chokehold my life has on me.
And I mean a literal chokehold.
One where my throat goes so tight that every word fails me. Put a mic in my face, turn a camera on me, or trot me out in front of an audience, and your girl goes blank. All I can do is blink and giggle. My mouth goes dry, and I do my absolute best “bimbo impression,” as a recent headline called it.
I’m not even sure if they’re wrong anymore.
My most recent speechless moment came as I tearfully left a restaurant after enduring the aforementioned breakup. I walked out into a sea of
questions.
“Skylar, what’s wrong?”
“Skylar, did something happen with you and Andrew?”
Something.
I scoff again in the quiet car. It was something all right.
Something I can’t confess out loud.
I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person, but what if everything about me is fake? The world thinks they know me, but they’ve
been spoon-fed a lie.
I’ve been spoon-fed a lie.
My life has been turned upside down, and I don’t have a single soul to
talk to about it. The truth is just too humiliating to acknowledge.
I definitely can’t go public with it. Not yet anyway. The press would eat me alive. The fans would either pity me or mock me—neither of which I want.
It’s funny how I can be surrounded by so many people who profess to love me and still feel so utterly alone.
So my new move is staring into a camera blankly, feeling like my lungs are full of concrete and my throat is swollen shut. The only thing more difficult than finding the right words to say is catching my breath.
Yes, a girl who has performed in front of millions of people, who sings and dances and says all the right things, now shuts down in front of cameras.
My jaw clenches as I physically brace to endure the mental beating I’m about to give myself, but the pickup carrying the man with the nice hands signals, prompting me to do the same. He turns at a weather-stained wooden gate that opens onto a freshly paved driveway, and I follow his lead.
A thick frame of emerald pine trees entirely blocks the property beyond, and without even thinking about it, I press the button to roll down my window, letting the fresh country air into my car—into my system.
“Too slow!” Cherry squawks from her cage on the backseat. This bird loves car rides.
“It’s a driveway, Cherry. I have to go slow, you rebel.”
“Too slow!”
I chuckle and crane my neck to see where we’re headed, pushing away the anxiety cropping up. Where would Cherry have ended up if a grizzly had eaten me on the side of a backroad? Another humane society? A zoo? One of my parents, who would have marched her out before the press like a commemorative spectacle?
All the options are truly too awful to contemplate, though I already know they’ll keep me up when I’m lying in bed tonight. As sad as it sounds, Cherry, the sassy African grey parrot with a penchant for swearing, might be my only friend in the whole damn world.
The driveway weaves and turns, and there’s something cozy about the press of trees and the scent of soil and crushed pine needles wafting through the window. I suck in a deep breath and feel incrementally better.
So I keep doing it.
Three seconds in.
Three seconds out.
An image—clear as day—of Weston’s sky-blue eyes boring into mine as we breathed together on the asphalt flashes through my head. I wanted to clamp my eyes shut and hide until that moment of terror was over, but I couldn’t look away.
He’d trapped me. But being trapped in his gaze soothed me in a completely unfamiliar way.
“Too slow!” Cherry bitches some more, drawing me out of my head just as the trees dissipate.
I gasp as the landscape filters in before me.
Ford’s emails prepared me for a picturesque setting, but this is surreal.
The property is set on a gentle slope. Straight ahead is the main building with its wraparound deck and freestanding copper mailbox that matches the copper roof. Although the siding looks like old barn wood that’s been preserved, there’s something grand about the place. It’s rugged but elevated.
Above that, it’s trees, rocks, and deadly cliffs, all topped off by the bluest sky. No haze, no pollution—just pure, unfiltered blue. Like Weston’s eyes.
But it’s the view of the lake beyond that truly enchants me. It’s downright breathtaking. So still that it makes me feel like I could walk across it. Or skate—if I knew how. The water appears navy, transitioning to a teal hue where the sun sparkles against the surface.
Next to the big truck, I jam my car into park and flop back against my seat to soak in the surroundings.
It feels totally unique. There’s no sterile polish or obnoxious white pillars.
No fountains or valets. In fact, there are no people as far as the eye can see.
My body relaxes as that realization hits.
Until Weston Belmont pops up out of nowhere and startles the shit out of me.
I must have zoned out and missed him rounding my vehicle, because his big, manly hands are here, propped above my window as he peers down at me. “You gonna just sit here all day?” he asks, right as Cherry squawks, “Go away!”
His head swivels sharply to eye her up—black beak and bluish-gray feathers with a splash of red at her tail. “What is that?”
“You mean, who is that? She’s my parrot. Cherry.”
He blinks twice before blurting, “She’s rude.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You have no idea.”
“She’s rude,” Cherry adds in a mocking voice that has me pressing my
lips together and wincing.
“Sorry. She has an extensive vocabulary, and her shit-talk is legendary.”
All the man does is stare at my bird with a furrowed brow before shaking his head. Then his hand taps on the roof of my car as he draws away. “Right.
Well, the office is in there.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I can introduce you if you’d like. Otherwise, I’ll be on my way.”
“Go away!” Cherry says. Again.
I grimace as I open my door and step out. Weston doesn’t move back. He stays exactly where he is, towering over me. Filling out his T-shirt in a way that artsy city boys just…don’t. My eyes catch on the hole in the fabric on his left pectoral again and the glow of golden skin beneath. The golden skin of a man who spends his time outdoors with no shirt on.
I come from the land of pale skin and spray tans, so there’s something mesmerizing about what might be beneath the cotton material. I sweep away the urge to wiggle a finger through the opening to find out for sure.
But men—especially men who catch my eye like this one—are the last thing I need in my life right now. I swallow and take a new vow of celibacy because dick will not help my predicament.
Then I peek up into his bright blue irises. They’re so electric that if he weren’t standing before me, I’d scoff and make a dismissive comment about how anyone can have eyes that color with Photoshop. Everything can be altered to look a certain way. Nothing is real.
But his eyes are.
He is.
I clear my throat, realizing I’ve been gawking for too long. “Well, I wouldn’t put it like Cherry. But truth be told, you’ve done more than enough for me today.” I smile softly, watching him regard me with a level of intensity that makes me squirm. “And this is something I need to do on my own,” I add quickly, nodding, more for my benefit than for his.
The man’s gaze drops to my mouth, and I roll my lips together.
“I—”
“Go away!” My fucking bird cuts me off. I love Cherry, but goddamn.
Some days… Some days, she is a possessive little hag.
And I’m not so sure I want him to go away.
Weston smiles, eyes still on my mouth, as he makes a light clucking noise. “All right, Cherry. I hear ya. I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” He steps back,
hands held up in surrender.
I almost want to hug him before he walks away, and I’ve never considered myself a hugger. Physical affection isn’t something I grew up with, at least not behind closed doors. In public, my parents never hesitated to throw an arm over my shoulder or offer me a hug when the cameras were rolling. Affection was for show.
“Should we shake hands or something? What’s the protocol when someone uses his body as a shield for you in an almost bear attack?”
“Nah, you already said thank you. You don’t owe me anything. I did it
because I wanted to.”
I blink a few times at that.
You don’t owe me anything.
It’s a basic sentiment, yet it catches me off guard. I’ve lived a life of constantly owing someone something. Tit for tat. My attention in exchange for a favor. Constantly caught in the middle of warring sides and having to
smile my way to the top.
I’m so sick of smiling.
“I’ll see you ‘round!” He waves and offers me a wink before turning away and gifting me with a view of his firm ass.
Maybe I should have offered ass-grabs as a thank-you.
As I brush the thought away with a chiding shake of my head, I hear him mutter to himself from the other side of his truck, “Fuckin’ Tesla and a talking bird.”
It makes me smile. A genuine smile. But only for a beat because I turn away and suck in a deep breath, preparing myself to face Ford Grant.
The man is in for a bit of a surprise.
Yes, we have spoken about working together.
No, I did not tell him I was coming.
“Guard the car, Cherry.” I check to make sure the air conditioning is on before slamming the door and steeling my spine as I make my way up the front walkway. There’s no doorbell, which makes perfect sense for the place.
Instead, there’s an ornate door knocker shaped like a bear with a ring held in its mouth. I chuckle—bears are my theme for the day—and knock.
Within seconds, a feminine voice calls, “Coming!” from inside.
The door swings open and I’m face-to-face with a blue-eyed woman. She takes one look at me and her jaw slowly falls open.
“Oh my god. Hi.”
“Hi,” I say back, my voice low as I glance at the ground, feeling a blush
rise to my cheeks.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice asks.
The blond woman ignores the question and sticks her hand out to me.
“I’m Rosalie, the business manager here at Wild Rose Records. It’s so nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand, a little taken aback by her firm grip. “Hi, Rosalie. I’m Skylar.”
She grins, pumping my hand with vigor. “Hell yeah you are.”
“Rosie,” the man’s voice calls, closer now than before. “I know you get off on annoying me, but—” Ford Grant rounds the corner and draws up short when he sees me. His dad is a famous rockstar, the guitarist from Full Stop, and the resemblance is clear as day.
His copper-brown hair is artfully mussed, and he’s tall and fit-looking— he could easily pass for a model. Ford would blend in well where I come from. But I hate where I come from, so I find myself noting that he lacks the heavy muscle of the man who brought me here.
He’s dressed casually, but it’s an expensive sort of casual. There are no holes in his shirt, no scuffs on his boots. He has polish, and for the first time in my life, I find myself indifferent to it.
“Skylar?” His voice is absolutely brimming with confusion.
I hold my hands up beside my head with a shrug and deliver a simple, “Surprise?”
“I’ll say!” Rosalie adds, clearly amused by the entire situation.
Ford strides closer and lays a possessive hand on her lower back as he steps in beside her. She peeks up at him, her lips quirk to one side, and the interaction is so chock-full of genuine affection and respect that I feel like a voyeur.
I glance away, twisting my hands together. “I’m sorry. I know this was unexpected. I just…I needed to get away. Needed to work on something fresh. Any chance we could start early?” I pour all the positivity and enthusiasm I can muster into that last sentence and hope it will be enough.
I’m definitely feeling short on positivity and enthusiasm lately.
Ford’s thick brows furrow as he peers down at me. I don’t think he’s mad, but there’s an imposing aura about him.
Rosalie shoves an elbow into his ribs. “You’re doing the resting prick face. Stop it.”
He slices her an annoyed glare before turning his attention back on me.
“Sorry, I was thinking. The reason I haven’t gotten you out here yet is that the cottages aren’t ready to go, and neither is the recording studio. They’re being framed in, and I don’t have —”
“I’ll wait. I’ll stay anywhere. Pitch me a tent. I don’t care.” What I’m not short on is determination.
He looks me up and down now, and a flicker of compassion appears on his handsome face. No doubt he heard the desperation in my voice. And he’s probably pitying me after all the brutal headlines lately. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll see what we can work out? There are only a couple of hotels in town, and I doubt they have availability for a longer stay in the middle of the tourist season.”
Rosalie wrinkles her nose and says “tourists” like it’s a dirty word. “Good news is they only flock here for July and August. Come on.” She ushers me inside. “Let’s get you sorted.”
“Thank you.” I practically sigh the words as I hit her with a grateful smile and follow Ford into the office space.
The building is just as beautiful on the inside—fresh and rustic all at once. Wood beams line the vaulted ceiling, complemented by wide wooden floorboards with a strange mess of paint on them that matches the muted blue on the walls. There are two desks, set apart but facing each other, as well as a cozy sitting area with massive couches and a vinyl library that resembles a record store.
But the sliding glass doors facing the lake steal the show, adding a modern touch to the barnlike space. They open onto a sprawling deck surrounded by lush gardens and topped with wicker furniture.
“I’ll buy a bed and just stay here,” I blurt to a chorus of chuckles. “This place is incredible.”
“Glad you like it,” Ford says as he leans back against a desk and crosses his arms.
I glance at him, and it’s like I can see his brain working behind those green eyes. He bleeds intelligence—and it’s the intimidating kind.
Rosalie bumps her shoulder against mine. “Sorry,” she whispers, like she’s read my mind. “He’s not really the warm and fuzzy type.”
I shoot her a smile. “That’s okay, I’ll take not warm and fuzzy over fake any day.”
She claps her hands once like she’s amused. “Well, the two of you should
get along famously.”
As she stands, hands on her hips, looking back and forth between Ford and me, I find myself extra thankful for her presence. Without her, this might have been even more awkward.
“Ford, what’s going on upstairs?” she asks.
“I’m just weighing options.”
“You look like you’re plotting a murder.”
His eyes narrow at Rosalie, and I don’t know what they are to each other, but it’s abundantly clear they’re more than just coworkers. Their tension is off the charts. I feel like I’m intruding just by standing in their presence.
He waves her off. “No, I’ll save that for when Skylar wants to tell me who she’s running from.”
I start, but Rosalie just snorts at his observation. “He’s extremely protective of the people around him,” she whispers to me. “Borderline vengeful, really.”
“You could stay at our house until one of the cottages is ready,” he muses, scrubbing at his stubble and staring at the floor. “Do you need time to work on songs? We could start hammering out some details. Maybe we can meet on Monday and work on a timeline. Work out out a bit of a plan?”
Stay at their house?
“Oh, I would never impose like that,” I say. Inside, I’m floored that this person I barely know would offer me a room in his house. I don’t want to be indebted to him beyond allowing me to crash here early. “But a meeting on Monday sounds perfect.”
“I don’t think the office would work since Rosie and I…”
Is he for real? What’s next? Is he going to give me the shirt off his back?
“That part about living in the office was a joke,” I say. “A compliment.”
I’m suddenly feeling the weight of my imposition, realizing what a tremendous burden it must be for them to have me show up here unannounced. I should have thought before I jumped.
My actions were self-centered. Self-serving. Everyone has bad breakups.
“You know what? I’ll head back. I’m so sorry. This was…beyond desperate.” I start to spiral. My breathing quickens as the walls tilt closer, and I press a hand to my chest and cover with a nervous laugh. “Just plain rude.”
It’s the gentle way the woman beside me cups my elbow and steps in front of me that takes some of the weight away. “Hey, don’t stress about it.
We’re laid-back out here.” She peeks over her shoulder at Ford before
adding, “And I know a place you can stay. My brother has a bunkhouse.”
“Rosie, that place is a dump.”
She doesn’t bother looking back at Ford this time, choosing to roll her eyes at me instead.
“I know you just rolled your eyes,” he bites out, but he’s smirking.
She clamps her lips together to cover a giggle, then forges ahead. “He’s right. It’s not fancy. But it’s only one property over, and it’s private. And my brother won’t mind. He’s busy with his work and his kids and his stupid bowling team. You’ll hardly see him—unless you want to. Then he’d happily be your friend. Making friends is his special talent.”
Ford snorts at that statement, shaking his head with an amused twist to his mouth.
“Private sounds wonderful. I’m a little sick of people right now. And I don’t need fancy,” I say with forced enthusiasm.
But the truth is, I know nothing other than fancy.
I’ve been famous my entire life. Have lived lavishly my entire life. Have been performing my entire life.
It’s time I take a break from performing.
Not fancy may be exactly what I need.