The slam echoes behind me like a gunshot.
And just like that, the girl I was with them is gone.
The memory fades, but the ache it leaves behind doesn’t. It clings to me like smoke—burnt edges and everything I never got to say. I blink, forcing myself back into the now, even as my chest tightens, breath caught somewhere between then and now.
Shelley’s already in full swing, talking about creative ideas and timelines, but I don’t hear her anymore. I’m too busy trying to breathe, trying to steady myself in a room full of ghosts.
Their presence presses in around me—too close, too familiar. I can feel the weight of Todd’s stare, even before I let myself look at him. The air feels thinner. My skin prickles.
When Shelley finally winds down—introducing me with an unnecessary flourish—I step forward. On autopilot, my hand extends toward Todd while a polite smile stretches across my face like a mask, as if I don’t really know him. The brief touch of his palm sends a jolt through me; my heart races before I can pull away. My fingers tingle, and I tell myself it’s nothing.
Just nerves.
Just history.
Just everything I’ve spent years pretending doesn’t still live inside me.
He doesn’t hold my hand the way he used to—no warmth, no lingering softness. Just cold, impersonal contact. Business.
“Good to see you, Ashlyn,” Todd says flatly, his voice stripped of the heat and affection it once carried.
“Good to see you, too,” I manage, my voice tight and carefully controlled. The words taste strange, hollow, yet they’re all I can get out.
Good to see you? Inside, I’m screaming. How can those be the first words I offer to my rejected scent match? It feels like breaking all over again. My heart aches, but I cling to that polite smile.
Shelley’s gaze narrows, swinging between us like she’s caught a scent of something intriguing. “Wait, you two know each other?”
We nod in unison. Todd’s jaw tightens, that telltale muscle jumping as he answers first. “Yeah.”
“Well, that’ll make this collaboration so much easier!” Shelley chirps, clapping her hands like she’s solved world peace.
She launches into more details, oblivious to the tension thickening around us, the way the air feels heavier with each passing second. She doesn’t notice the way the guys shut down, their walls slamming into place, or the way I feel rooted to the spot, my breath uneven.
Jake shifts, dropping his feet from the coffee table and leaning forward. The motion is casual, but the way his shirt falls open is anything but accidental, revealing more of his toned chest and the cutting definition of his abs. His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, taking me in from head to toe like he’s sizing me up—or trying to make me squirm.
He grabs a pack of cigarettes from the table, sliding one out with deliberate ease. The metallic click of his lighter echoes in the room as he lights it, the tip glowing. He inhales deeply, holding my gaze the entire time.
Then, with maddening slowness, he exhales, the smoke curling lazily from his lips and nose. It’s practiced, deliberate—crafted to provoke a reaction.
And damn it, it works.
I hate that it’s attractive. Hate that he looks like temptation personified, sin in a lazy sprawl.
A low throat-clearing sound snaps me out of it. West shifts against the wall, kicking one booted foot up behind him, his expression smug. An insolent smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, and I know what’s coming before he even speaks.
“You want us to work with her?” he asks, his voice soft and taunting, cutting through Shelley’s excited rambling like a knife.
My back stiffens, heat rising in my chest. The urge to snap at him, to demand exactly what his problem is with me, claws at my throat. But I swallow it down, clamping my teeth together before I say something I’ll regret.
Shelley glances at West, a smile playing on her lips. “Of course, she is the brains of the show. You did say you wanted exposure, right?”
CHAPTER 3
Todd
I’m still adjustingto the fact that Ashlyn Robinson, the girl who shattered my heart and is the bane of my existence, just strolled into our studio like it’s the red carpet for one of her movie premieres. And damn it, all I can do is stare, like a man dying of thirst who just spotted an oasis. I can barely hear everything Shelley’s saying.
She glances around, her expression distant, unaffected, while Shelley—the producer of Epic Records and the model show Ashlyn judges on—rambles on beside her. Not that I’ve watched it. That would be pathetic. The guys would crucify me.
