The conversation shifts to technical details until Daisy declares that she’s informed the execs waiting outside the room, like vultures, that we would like to postpone the meeting until the new year.
“How about a celebration dinner?” she asks, standing, which for her means she’s barely taller than us sitting down.
“To family,” Stone proposes, raising his water glass in a toast that feels more significant than any champagne celebration. “Both blood and chosen.”
“To independence,” Fox adds.
“To new beginnings,” Daisy finishes.
Outside the building, Manhattan continues its endless dance of commerce and ambition. But in here, we’ve found a different rhythm. One measured in heartbeats and hope rather than market projections and profit margins.
“Now,” Daisy says, reaching for her phone, “who’s ready to make dinner reservations that will give the label’s accounting department absolute fits?”
Stone grins. “I know just the place,” he announces, already dialing. “Time to remind them exactly who they’re dealing with.”
Hours later, after a celebratory dinner that will indeed give accounting heart problems, we find ourselves at Stone’s recommended nightclub, his idea of continuing the celebration into the early morning hours.
After the relative peace of dinner, this assault of sound and motion feels like a punishment.
Stone and Nikko disappear almost immediately, their practiced scanning of the crowd suggesting tonight won’t end in solitary hotel rooms. I follow Mik and Fox to a corner table, grateful for the relative shelter of the shadows and distance from the dancefloor’s chaotic energy.
I don’t miss the not-quite-hidden attempts at photos from strangers. The attention is different here than in Vermont, where people know us as neighbors first, musicians second. Here we’re commodities, content for social media feeds and gossip channels.
Thank fuck for VIP areas. If we can’t stop them from taking photos, at least we can have a conversation without being interrupted for multiple selfies. The server brings our drinksover, and as soon as he’s gone, Mik leans back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer.
“So,” he drawls, “how’s it going?”
I shake my head, unable to hide the frustration that’s been building since the first time we gave in and kissed. Every encounter follows a pattern of heat and retreat, Taylen’s body speaking truth while his words maintain a distance.
Fox leans forward slightly, his amber eyes sharp despite the club’s dim lighting. “I’m clearly missing something here,” he says
Mik glances between us, giving me an apologetic look. We don’t keep secrets between band brothers, but Taylen is close to all of us, and the last thing I want is for him to feel like he’s the focus of my brothers’ well-intentioned gossip and cupid-aspirations.
I run a hand through my hair, buying time to organize my thoughts. “It’s complicated,” I start, but Fox’s raised eyebrow tells me that won’t be enough. “Taylen and I…we keep…connecting. Physically. But every time we get close to something real, he pulls away.”
“And you let him,” Fox observes, not unkindly.
The truth of it stings. “Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”
The bass pounds through my chest while I consider how much to reveal. These men are my brothers in everything but blood. They know me better than family in some ways. But admitting the depth of what I feel for Taylen means acknowledging the complications I’ve been avoiding.
“I think I’m in love with him,” I say, finally uttering the words that have been playing in my head for weeks, maybe even years. Before they can respond, I add a quieter confession. “Not sure it can go anywhere. There are too many walls between us.”
“What’s the biggest obstacle?” Mik asks.
The truth rises like a tide I can’t fight anymore. “Taylen is Jackson’s younger brother. Seven years ago, we kissed in a club. I’m not sure either of us was in the right place then, emotionally. It was the fifth anniversary of Jackson’s death, and I was a wreck. After that, I started avoiding Taylen whenever I went home. Jackson was very protective of his baby brother, and the last thing I want is to end up hurting him and feel like I’ve let my best friend down.”
Mik’s face transforms with understanding, while Fox maintains his usual stillness when he’s taking in important information.
“Have you tried being in the same place at the same time?” Mik asks pointedly. “Actually talking instead of whatever dance you’ve been doing?”
My expression must answer for me because he continues without waiting for a response. “Physical connection is easy,” he says, gentler now. “Emotional honesty? That’s the hard part.”
Fox remains unusually quiet, his focus fixed on the drink he’s barely touched. Something about his silence feels weighted, like he’s holding something back. But before I can question it, Mik continues, “Love is worth fighting for,” he says simply, words carrying the authority of someone who’s fought his own battles and won. “Show him you’re ready for battle.”
“He’s definitely worth fighting for,” I say finally. “Worth whatever it takes to prove this isn’t just a convenient release or temporary comfort.”
It’s time to show Taylen exactly how important he is to me, what we could be if we both stop running.
