PROLOGUE
SASHA
The six-foot Christmas tree glints from the corner of the double-height living room. Twinkling multicoloured lights glow, then darken on a calming, repetitive cycle. Admiring the dazzling scarlet and gleaming gold baubles, a grin twitches at my lips as I recall precious memories from only a few hours earlier.
Ryan and I started something I’m determined to finish tonight – and I’m not referring to the decorations.
Nothing prepared me for falling in love. Everything I’ve ever read or heard failed to convey the dizzying, all-consuming, exhilarating sensations. Every lust-fuelled glance sends electricity pulsing through my veins, surging through every cell. Every fleeting touch. Every shared kiss.
Ryan Cooper is resplendent. We might only be eighteen, but I know I’ve found the man I’m going to marry.
We both agree we’re meant to be.
Tall, dark and handsome, he’s the epitome of the fairy tale prince, except he emits a delicious bad-boy vibe with his leather jacket and shadowy stubble.
Our relationship is obsessive. Addictive. When I’m not with him, thoughts of him devour me.
As I wait for him to return to the luxury cabin his family rents from mine, my skin pricks with an incessant longing for his touch.
Six cabins flank my family’s estate, Huxley Castle. Each similarly decorated by my slightly bohemian mother. Opulent, yet understated.
The entrance boasts full-length windows, making it spacious and bright. The living area’s open plan, impressively minimalistic and tastefully decorated in varying shades of cream, with a large open fire. The only touch of colour and sign of the season is the tree.
I glance at the clock impatiently. Ryan had to meet his band, Imagination. They haven’t secured many gigs yet, but last week, their social media blew up after a video of them covering a Paul Weller song went viral. It’s only a matter of time before the offers start rolling in. As the lead singer, he has a bright future ahead.
I should be in my four-poster bed half a kilometre away. If my parents catch me, I’ll be confined to the four walls of my stately bedroom for years. They’re aware of our relationship. They actually like Ryan, approving of his musical creativity and ambition. But if they catch me here, in this low-cut black dress, at this hour of the night, that will quickly change.
The bang of the front door startles me. The familiar thud of boots approaching makes my heart rate triple.
‘I missed you.’ Ryan enters the living room, striding purposefully towards me. Confidence radiates from his every movement. Strong hands yank me towards his lithe torso as if I’m weightless. He’s bigger than most guys I know. Inky black hair cascades over thick, neat eyebrows framing a face that wrenches my insides.
He’s my catnip. My perfect match. As if he’s been created specifically for my appreciation. Not only was he gifted a voice fit for the radio, he’s blessed with a face for television too. Even without the viral video, he’s going to go far in this life.
He’s adamant he’s bringing me with him.
He flicks stray strands of hair from his face, his huge lash-framed eyes boring into mine, so dark it’s difficult to distinguish his pupils from his irises, two swirling pools of molten beauty.
He practically steals the breath from my chest simply by looking at me, yet I manage to utter, ‘How was practice?’
‘It was torturous, knowing you were here waiting for me. Billy’s a good guitarist, but I’m not sure he has what it takes to make it to the big time.’ His fingers sweep my unruly hair from my face, tucking it tenderly behind my ear.
For a big guy, he’s so gentle.
‘And youareheading for the big time. There’s no doubt about it.’
His head tilts to the side, a flicker crossing his chiselled face. ‘Weare heading for the big time, Sasha. I’m not going anywhere without you.’
I trace a finger across the curve of his jaw, revelling in the roughness of his five o’clock shadow. Masculinity radiates from him, igniting a blazing fire in the pit of my stomach and lower.
‘Hmm. I’ll remind you of that when you have a hundred thousand groupies in a stadium, screaming your name and throwing their underwear at you.’
‘If only you’d get over your stage fright, you could be up there alongside me. Think about it.’
‘I have thought about it. It’s all I ever think about. I will come to the States with you, but as your secret songwriter, and your girlfriend – not your guitarist.’
My parents expect me to at least get a college degree, if not some sort of doctorate. Bohemian or not, they’ll hit the roof when they realise I’m leaving with him next year, but we’ve spent the last year of our lives planning this. Scheming how we’ll break free straight after our final exams, before we get bogged down and caught up with mortgages and adult stuff. Before the dream is forever confined to just that.
The plan is to escape the castle under the ruse of taking a year out. Hopefully when the year passes, we’ll be so successful my parents won’t even question my failure to return for college.
