Exposed by Kristen Callihan

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Brenna

I flyinto Heathrow on my own. Everyone else had coupled up and gone on earlier flights. Not me. That would mean either being a third wheel or sitting with Whip. And Rye.

I haven’t seen him in five weeks. Five freaking weeks.

The first two weeks are on me. Then, right before I returned to New York, Rye went back to Chicago with Whip, and they worked with ShawnE, producing an album for a new artist he’s backing.

I could have called or texted, even gone to see Rye. It isn’t as though I didn’t know where he was staying. But I felt too raw—uncertain. I needed to tell the guys about my decision; Marshall was good with giving me six weeks to settle things on my end. But the words stayed locked in my throat. A bad sign all around.

I took the time to think. Really think.

It wasn’t comforting to realize that part of my reaction to his offer stemmed from the fact that I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t expect him to want something real. I didn’t expect him to want it with me.

Truth?

I don’t think I’m good enough for anyone.

And here’s the real horror: this is the complete opposite of what I project to the world. On the outside, I am a confident woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. I don’t let anyone fuck with me. As Jules pointed out, I hold my own with the most powerful people in the industry without flinching.

I believe in myself. When it comes to my profession.

When it comes to me?

Apparently, I don’t. It took Rye Peterson asking for more to make me see my weakness.

When he returned from Chicago, I made myself scarce. Like a damn chicken. I chastised myself about it every day, but I couldn’t find the courage to face him.

Even though we only spent two full nights together, I reach for him in my sleep, my body aches for him when I wake. The ghost of his scent haunts me, because I swear I catch a whiff of it at odd times. And it doesn’t matter how many times I wash my sheets, he’s still there.

I miss the sound of his voice. I miss his joking manner, the way he forces me to see the world in a different way—not so dire, not so serious. I miss talking to him.

I would have talked to him on Thanksgiving, but he spent it with his mom. Given that my mom sent me a message saying they were going to Florida for Thanksgiving and would see me in England, I spent the day with Scottie, Sophie, Killian, Libby, Jax, Stella, and Whip. And little Felix, who amused himself with flinging whipped sweet potatoes around the table. He managed to ping Scottie’s ice-blue silk tie dead center. Fun times, but the absence of Rye was glaring.

It occurs to me that I’ve always noticed his absence. Anytime he’s not with the rest of us, the group feels smaller, dimmer. At least for me. And the crazy thing is that this has been true the whole time, even when I convinced myself that he drove me up the wall. Oh, the games we play.

Sighing, I collect my things and disembark the plane. It’s the middle of the day, and I’ve arranged for a car to pick me up at the airport and drive me to Varg Hall in the Cotswolds. It’s about an hour and a half of driving, not ideal given that I’ve been on a plane for seven hours. But it’s either get it over with now or rest a day or two in London first. I’d rather get on with it.

Besides, he’s there.

I shove the thought away and head out to baggage claim. It’s a surprise to see Whip waiting for me. Oh, he has a beanie shoved on his head and is wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses in an attempt to be incognito, but I spot him immediately and head his way.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He smiles wide and adopts an affected English accent. “I’m your driver, Lady Brenna. Varg Hall awaits. Let us away posthaste so we may indulge in decadent revelries.”

I roll my eyes but smile. “I hired a car. You didn’t have to come all this way.” I ignore the small—tiny—pang that Whip is the one here and not…No. Nope. I’m not thinking about him.

“A hired car?” Whip makes a noise of disdain. “So you can be stuck with a stranger and spend the entire drive with your nose in your phone?”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“It is.” He points to a set of pale pink bags coming around the carousel. “Those are yours, right?”

“I am horrified that you know my luggage.”

Whip gives me a sidelong glance. “Custom-made Gucci luggage has a way of making a lasting impression, Bren.”

My cheeks warm. “Yeah, well, blame Scottie. They were a gift from him for my twenty-first birthday.” The guys took me out drinking, and I got a killer hangover in return. Scottie gave me luggage. Is there any wonder why he’s my secret favorite?

Whip chuckles and retrieves the luggage. “I know. You know what he gave me for my twenty-first? Mutual funds for my retirement years.”

I stumble a step. “He did not!”

“Yep,” he says cheerfully. “Those fuckers have already made me a ton of money too.”

We both laugh and head for the parking lot. Whip leads me to his car, and I halt. “You thought this would be preferable to lounging in the back of a Range Rover?”

“Hey.” Whip smooths a hand over the hood of the car. “This baby is a blast to drive.”

The “baby” in question is a vintage ruby-red ‘70s Austin Mini with white racing stripes. It’s been lovingly restored. But it’s tiny. “I don’t think my luggage will even fit.”

“It’ll fit. My kit fits, so…” He shrugs.

“You brought your drum kit?” I shake my head. “Uncle Xander will love that.”

“Not to Varg Hall,” he says as if I’m daft. “I dropped it off at my place in London. I’m going to spend some time there after the party.”

“Ah.” With that, I get into the tiny car. And somehow, Whip manages to fit my bags in the back. The Mini isn’t what I expected. It’s not just restored but a custom job, with modern cream leather seats, a stereo, and probably dozens of other upgrades under the hood.

Whip confirms this when he gets in and gives the glossy wood grain dashboard a loving pat. “This little sweetie has been soundproofed, given an upgraded suspension and drive train.” He starts in on engine specs, and I hold up a hand.

“You’re speaking gibberish at this point. Can you simply assure me that you won’t drive like a complete maniac?”

He’s too quick to grin. “I promise I won’t be a complete maniac.”

I’m in trouble.

Twenty minutes later, we’re flying down the M40, and I’m clutching my seat. “When you’re no longer driving, remind me to thank you again for picking me up.”

He chuckles. “What, so you can kick my ass? No way. I’m running for it as soon as we park.”

“Good idea.” I try to relax against the seat and take in the few glimpses of the countryside that we streak past.

Whip turns on the radio, and Ella Fitzgerald croons Christmas songs with her smooth-honey voice.

“God, I love Ella,” Whip says wistfully. “If I lived back in her day, I’d have begged for a date.”

Chuckling, I turn my body a little in the cramped space to face him. He’s almost too tall for the car. While he’s not huge like Rye, he’s six feet tall, and his seat is pushed all the way back. But he doesn’t seem to mind and handles the car with efficiency.

“I have a weakness for women with beautiful voices.” Whip flashes a quick, secretive smile. “Don’t tell Killian, but the first time I heard Libby sing, I got a mini crush on her.”

“No!” Killian would have flipped. Like me, he’s a bit of a hothead, though well-intentioned.

“Yep. But she was Killian’s girl, so I ignored it.”

“Good idea.”

Whip nods, his eyes on the road. “Once had a crush on you too.”

“What?” I sit up straight, shocked. And a little unnerved.

He huffs a sound of amusement. “Don’t freak. It was back when you were eighteen and I was twenty. Lasted about a week, if that.”

“Well…that’s…Okay, it’s a shock but kind of funny too.”

Whip shrugs. “You’re smart, pretty, and fun. And we hung out all the time. Seems inevitable that feelings might build. I might have tried something, but I knew you were Rye’s girl.”

He sucker-punched me. Right here in this tiny car. I breathe in sharply, and Whip glances over. “It’s true, and you know it.”

“Whip.” It’s a warning.

He ignores it with a stubborn tilt to his chin. “I told him to take the risk.”

My skin prickles with heat. “What?” It sounds woolen to my ears. Can’t be helped; they’ve started to ring. It’s fairly clear why Whip offered to pick me up today, and I don’t know if I can handle talking about Rye with him—or anyone.

He glances at me again. “He didn’t rat you out. I guessed. Wasn’t hard, considering the way you two have been acting, trying too hard not to look at each other, and failing each time. I figured something was up. Rye freaked, told me to mind my own business. But he was…confused. So we talked.”

I turn my head, unable to look at Whip. I can’t truly be upset. Whip is Rye’s best friend. And hadn’t I spilled everything to Jules? Because some things needed to be sorted out with a sympathetic ear. Still, the idea that Rye and Whip had talked about the arrangement…I squirm.

Whip clearly sees that I’m embarrassed, and his voice softens. “I told him some things were worth the risk of losing them. He thought you were worth it.”

Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut for a quick, painful second. The absence of Rye doesn’t just hurt; it’s a void of loneliness opening up in my chest.

“He caught me off guard,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Whip says sadly. “He doesn’t know how to be subtle.”

A broken laugh escapes. “Oh, and you do?”

Whip shakes his head, smiling slightly. “No. That’s the point. None of us guys do. We never had to work for anything other than our music. And that was so long ago, we tend to forget. We live in this weirdly insulated world where everything we want is handed to us. It makes us…stupid.”

I laugh again, but it’s a pained sound.

“Doesn’t mean that we don’t care,” Whip says. “Or that we don’t hurt when we fail.”

With a sigh, I tilt my head back and stare out of the window. “You’re killing me here.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, I swear. I just…” He exhales loudly. “Shit, I don’t know. I feel responsible for pushing him. Maybe if I didn’t, he would have taken it slowly and…” He trails off with a helpless shrug.

“It’s not your fault. Rye’s a big boy, capable of making up his own mind.” I fight a smile. Damn it, I miss him. My smile fades. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I know. And I probably should have kept my mouth shut with you, but he’s…Just handle him with care, Bren.”

Whip says it kindly, but I’m thoroughly chastised all the same. I also love him with my whole heart in this moment, because he’s protecting Rye in a way few people would. Overwhelmed, I lean across the seat and kiss his cheek.

“You’re a good guy, William.”

He blushes, his pretty face scrunching up. “Okay, okay. But don’t go kissing me when we get there. I don’t want to deal with Rye trying to kick my ass.”

We ride in companionable silence for a while, then chat about our favorite Marvel movies. Whip turns onto a small one-lane road and arrives at a pair of open gates. The drive up to Varg Hall is long and flanked by stately elm trees that have lost their leaves for the winter.

The estate comes into view, and we both let out an appreciative sound.

“Hello, Downton Abbey,” I murmur. Though really, it’s more of a Pemberley estate.

Varg Hall sits on the crest of a gentle rise. Surrounded by meticulously kept parkland and formal gardens, it’s the type of great old English mansion that, aside from national trusts and peers offering up house tours to foot the bills, only extremely wealthy men like my uncle can afford to own and maintain.

Built in the fifteenth century, the original house was remodeled and added onto in the Georgian era and now has graceful neoclassical lines. The old limestone facade gleams golden in the low, slanting winter light, the mullioned windows glimmering like gemstones. It’s utterly beautiful.

My parents hate the place.

I bore the brunt of my parents’ complaints every time we visited—they never turn down an invitation; they enjoy their misery and like to spread it. And even though they often spend a week here at Varg Hall or one of my uncle’s other houses, I’m the one they treat as a traitor for having fun here, for spending summers with Killian instead of staying in Long Island with them.

They arrive tomorrow. I plan to relax while I can—and avoid them as much as possible the rest of the time.

We pull up in front of the wide front stairs, and Paul, my uncle’s butler—yes, he has a butler—comes out to greet us.

“Miss Brenna. Lovely to see you again.”

“Hello, Paul. How are Louise and the children?”

We exchange pleasantries, and the whole time I try to acclimate myself to the grandeur and wealth surrounding me. I’ve been coming here since I was a baby, and yet it never truly feels real. Which is saying something, considering I live in a world of pampered and protected rock stars.

I’m offered the opportunity to go up to my room and relax, but if I do that, I’ll fall on the bed and sleep for hours. Besides, it would only put off the inevitable. So I follow Whip around the terrace and toward the rear gardens where everyone is having cocktails.

I spot Rye immediately. Mainly because he’s lying prone on the lawn, his big body sprawled at an awkward angle, his eyes wide open and unblinking. I’d be alarmed, but everyone is looking on with a smile as a gaggle of small children approach him with caution. I recognize some of them as the kids of Xander and Isabella’s various friends.

“Is he dead, then?” one boy asks.

“Poke him,” a girl of about six offers.

From his seat on Sophie’s lap, little Felix squawks and waves his fist, as if to say, Do it, mates!

The brave pair of kids tiptoe closer to Rye, and the girl nudges his ribs with her toe. Rye remains limp.

“He’s faking,” she says, but she doesn’t look certain.

She tries it again.

With a roar, Rye explodes upward, jumping to his feet with impressive speed. The kids squeal and scatter like a flock of birds. Screaming and laughing, they run for it as Rye goes after them, snarling like a bear. That is until he somehow catches sight of me. He halts, spinning more fully around to face me, and stands straight. Our gazes snare and, oh sweet sin, he smiles.

That smile, it’s the sun rising over a dark hill. It spreads over his face and lights his eyes.

A warm wave of sparkling happiness fills me, and I am helpless in its wake. All I can do is smile back, my entire body humming with want and anticipation.

We grin at each other like proper fools. That is until the children regroup and swarm Rye. He goes down in a tumble of tiny limbs and children’s happy screams. And all I can think is that resistance is futile.

* * *

Rye

She’s here.It’s the only coherent thought I have. She’s here. The absence of her was a cold fist in my chest all these weeks. Weeks I spent pretending everything was fine, just the same as ever. Weeks lying to myself. Because the whole time, that cold, hard fist in my chest was there, hurting, aching, reminding me that she wasn’t around.

In the quiet, still hours of the night, I’d lie in my bed and wonder if it was for the best, ending things early, telling myself how bad it would have truly hurt if I’d stayed longer, pretending that I was okay with keeping things how they were. My insides were shredded. They’d be completely liquidated if I’d grown even more attached.

Still, I can’t regret having her for those brief moments in time. She made me realize I can have something more out of life, that it’s okay to want more.

But what I truly want is Brenna. And she wants a clean break. How the hell do I act around her now?

The question runs through my head as I extract myself from the pile of small children I’d been playing with in an attempt to distract myself from her inevitable arrival. I sic them on Jax and Killian and make my way to where she’s accepting a pink, fizzy gin drink from a passing waiter.

It’s cold on the terrace, but they have large braziers set up around the spot and the outdoor fireplace is crackling away. Brenna huddles near it and sips her drink while some guy named Ned that I’d been introduced to an hour ago chats her up. He’s an investment banker from London and is wearing the kind of tightly tailored suit those guys seem to favor. I don’t like him. Mainly because I’ve become a jealous fool when it comes to Brenna. Not proud of that, but I can’t seem to shake it off.

It’s a strange, uncomfortably weakening relief when Bren turns my way and gives me a small smile.

“Hey,” we both say at the same time. With the same, awkward hesitation.

Ned must be as smart as he looks because he fucks off fairly quickly. I don’t acknowledge him but keep my eyes on Brenna. God, but she’s sharp-edged beautiful in this faded watercolor world of mine. She makes my knees weak and my heart ache. And all I can do is stare at her, afraid to blink and find she’s gone.

My palms start to sweat, my breath coming in short. This is what she does to me. And, fuck me, but I like it. Well, except for the fact that I seem to have become tongue-tied. I swallow thickly and force my voice to work.

“You cut your hair.” It’s all I can get out. And it’s probably the worst way to start, because she flushes deep pink and touches her hair.

Her nose wrinkles as she lets out a self-deprecating sound. “I spent over an hour in the car with Whip, and he never noticed.”

It chafes that Whip picked her up. I wanted to. And yet when I saw him heading for the car, announcing what he was going to do, I hadn’t protested, fearing that the last person she’d want to see at the gate was me.

“It looks good.” It does. But different. I’ve only ever seen Brenna’s hair in a sleek ponytail or running down her back. But it’s now cropped to the tops of her shoulders, the deep-red mass swinging around her face with the slightest movement. It makes her look softer, drawing attention straight to her amber eyes and petal-pink lips.

I want to kiss her so badly that I find myself leaning in but freeze the second I realize what I’m doing. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice the slip because she’s staring off into the distance. Hell, this is awkward. I hate it. Hate that I’ve done this to us. A lump settles in the base of my throat.

A waiter comes by with a tray of drinks, and Brenna sets her half-empty glass on the tray then turns to me. “I’m tired as hell.”

I guess that’s my cue to fuck off like Ned did earlier. It hurts. Shit, it hurts. But I can’t force my company on her. But then she takes a small breath. “But if I sleep, I’ll be a mess for days.” Her gaze, filled with hesitation I’ve never seen from her, clashes with mine. “You want to go on a walk with me?”

“Yes.” Fuck yes.

“All right. Let me change first.” She’s wearing her trademark heels—these are pale pink—and one of her sexy, tight skirt suits in dark green that reaches her knees. Sleek and gorgeous as always. Every time I see Brenna James, I want to unwrap her like the gift that she is.

But she’s not mine anymore.

Fists clenched, I follow her into the house—not that you can really call a place like Varg Hall a house. The main entrance is an enormous double-height space with a black-and-white marble checkerboard floor. Classical statuaries flank the various doorways, and massive portraits of stern Englishmen and women from centuries past hang from the walls. Soaring overhead is a ceiling mural of frolicking angels that is probably the work of some master artist. But I zoned out when we were given the tour years ago.

I wait by the wide staircase, which has been draped in pine garland. The stuff hangs over doorways and snakes around the blood-red marble mantle in the hall fireplace. There’s a twelve-foot Christmas tree at either end of the hall: one is decorated in gold and red, the other in silver and blue. It’s so festive, I feel like I’ve fallen into a Christmas card.

I’m humming “Deck the Halls” when Brenna soon returns, dressed in jeans and a thick Irish sweater. She’s traded her heels for sturdy walking boots and is in the process of putting a white knit cap on her head. She’s so damn adorable, I get a pang in my chest.

A freaking pang.

I’m in so much trouble.

I tuck my hands into my jean pockets and fall into step beside her. We keep silent until we’re away from the house and on a path that leads to a Greek revival folly set by an idyllic lake. I swear this place is insane. I can’t imagine growing up surrounded by this, but it hits me that Brenna spent many summers here.

I try to imagine her as a kid. Did she dream of this life we have now? Had she pictured herself growing old with someone? Melancholy floods me, and my chest aches.

“You were really good with those kids,” she says, breaking the silence. Her lips quirk. “Cute, even.”

“Cute. What every man wants to hear: he’s cute.”

Frankly, I’ll take the compliment with pleasure, but a guy has to at least pretend he doesn’t want to preen with pleasure over being called cute by the girl he’s gone for.

She clearly knows I’m faking my disgruntlement. “Adorable? Is that better?”

“Let’s stick with cute.” I move to the side to let her pass a close pair of boxwood hedges. “I like kids. They’re fun. Uncomplicated.”

We fall into step together as the path widens once more.

“You obviously relate to them,” she says.

A smile pulls at my cheeks. “Is that your way of saying I’m immature? Or simplistic?”

She huffs a sound of dry amusement. “I would never call you simplistic, Rye.”

“So immature is still on the table.”

We’re not teasing each other with the ease we once had. There’s a stilted element that strikes an off-key note. But damn if it doesn’t still feel good to my battered soul, all the same.

That small, coy smile lingers on her lips. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“If I was, I’d be reeling up a boot right about now.”

When she actually giggles, I feel it like effervescent bubbles of light within my chest.

Brenna clears her throat. “Fine. How about this? Despite having the body of Ares,”—I stumble a step at her words—“and the musical talent of Apollo, you retain the childlike wonder of…shit, my knowledge of Greek mythology has run dry.”

“That’s still a lot of Greek,” I croak, my cheeks warm.

Her nose wrinkles. “I read a mythology book on the plane. Clearly, the gods stuck in my mind.”

“I have no problem being compared to two gods, Berry.”

Brenna’s head jerks upward at the sound of her nickname. Our gazes collide. And there it is—as strong and hot and insistent as ever—the pull, the need to touch, taste, and hold her.

A fine sweat breaks out along my lower back, and I draw in a steadying breath. She turns away, concentrating on the path, our easy truce falling back to uncomfortable uncertainty. Fisting my hands, I follow her, not knowing how to fix it.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” she asks as we reach the folly.

“All right.” Miserable. I missed you. So much. “Yours?”

“The usual.” Her shrug is almost bored, but her tone is hesitant, as though she’s not sure how to start talking to me again. She stops and leans against one of the stone columns to face me. “I had wondered if you were avoiding me all these weeks.”

The words punch my core, and I let out a strangled breath. But I can’t deny the truth; she’ll see right through me. “I was.”

She bites her bottom lip and glances away. “I was too.”

Yeah, I figured as much.

“I didn’t avoid you because I didn’t want to see you. I just wanted to give you space and try to make things less awkward.” A humorless laugh escapes me. “It still feels awkward, though, doesn’t it?”

Her smile is tight. “That’s probably unavoidable.”

We’re silent for a minute, both of us looking at the small lake that’s gone silver under a pale winter sky. A light but icy breeze drifts over the water, and Brenna hugs her arms to her chest. I step closer, blocking the wind with my body. I want to wrap my arms around her, but it’s not my place to hold her anymore. Maybe it never was.

The thought depresses me.

She hasn’t told the guys she’s leaving. I’ve been waiting for it, keeping my mouth shut until she makes the announcement. But nothing. I don’t know what to make of it but can’t find the courage to ask either.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and my head snaps up. Brenna grimaces. “For avoiding you too.”

My chest hurts. It fucking hurts. I hate this.

“We both did the same thing. Let’s just…Hell, I don’t know. Not be sorry anymore?”

She smiles a little wider. I miss her smiles.

“All right.”

Brenna takes a breath, like she’s gearing up to say something important. I know that look. I’ve seen her wear it when she’s about to give the band bad news and doesn’t want to be the one to tell it.

Panic swells within me. She’s going to apologize for picking her career over me. I can’t handle her pity. I can’t. I am a fucking coward, but I can’t hear the words coming from her lips. I’ll hear them forever.

“I shouldn’t have pressed for more,” I blurt. “It was a mistake.”

She blinks as though surprised by my outburst. I wasn’t exactly smooth with it. Hell, I practically yelled.

“I shouldn’t have pressed,” I say again, trying to gentle my tone. “I’ve got too many things going on in my life for a real relationship anyway.”

The words are heavy in my mouth, but necessary if I want to keep any shred of pride.

She nods, still a little stiff. But her shoulders spread like there’s a weight lifting—which just sucks for me. I don’t want to be relegated back to the sidelines of her life. Doesn’t matter anyway. She wants a clean break. So it’s inevitable.

“Despite everything,” I say past the lump in my throat, “I don’t regret what we did.”

It isn’t technically a lie. If I had to do it all over again, I would still have gone after Brenna. Except, I’d be upfront with what I really wanted: all of her. But life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you only get one chance, and I missed mine.

She turns back to face the lake, and her voice becomes so low, I have to strain to hear it. “I don’t regret it either.”