Everything in his life had led him to this—
This truth.
This moment.
This woman.
She was it. There was no denying it.
His pulse quickened, certainty blooming deep in his bones.
But could she handle his life—the madness, the glare, the weight of it all?
CHAPTER 21
TYLER
Over Christmas break, Tyler and Cary spent their days watching the World Juniors at her dad’s house and their nights tangled in hotel sheets. It had been the best week of her life—maybe ever—which made saying goodbye that much harder. When he left for the US leg of his tour, it felt like he took a piece of her heart with him.
The time zonesshouldhave made things easier, but somehow they made everything worse. The US leg was packed: press appearances, interviews, concerts—more than anywhere else in the world. His schedule was insane, and she only managed to talk to him in stolen moments between flights or after his sets. Meanwhile, she was glued to her phone like a lovesick teenager, afraid to miss a call or text.
It was pathetic.
But she couldn’t help how she felt. She missed his touch, his lips, the way his scent lingered on her skin. And the sex. They went from having it every day—sometimes several times—to nothing, like quitting something addictive overnight. But the lack of sex was nothing compared tosleeping alone, dreaming of him, only to wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
The distance left a permanent ache in her chest, dull and relentless. She could hardly eat, couldn’t sleep, and started second-guessing everything—especially herself. Was their relationship even sustainable? How could she trust her judgment after Dave?
The upcoming trip to Los Angeles was barely two days— hardly enough time to cram in everything they needed to do, let alone figure out where they stood. Five months had passed since their first coffee date and he still hadn’t said the L-word. She’d considered telling him first, but what if he didn’t say it back? Talk about being humiliated.
Yes, she was an independent woman and all that, but come the fuck on. She deserved love just like everyone else.
Tyler landed at the Los Angeles International Airport at noon. She’d taken the first flight out of Vancouver to spend the day with Cary before Yestown’s showcase at the Troubadour that night. He’d asked her to come out to Malibu, but she’d insisted on staying at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel with her band. Plus, she’d lined up meetings for tomorrow with record labels and music publishers—all the experts in town.
The hotel was rock-and-roll friendly, sure—but what did it actually have in common with its namesake, Teddy Roosevelt? From what she remembered, he was a well-read, morally upright outdoorsman. Meanwhile, the hotel’s guests were mostly drunk, half-dressed, and allergic to ethics.
“Tyler Robertson,” she announced to the front-desk employee, placing Rory’s carrier by her feet. He’d been as good as gold on the flight, and the crew had adored him.
The employee’s name tag readclifford. But they—she wasn’t sure of the correct pronoun—weren’t a big red dog; quite the opposite. Clifford wore their blue-black hair in a tight, low ponytail, and their makeup had been fashioned out of a MAC cosmetics ad.
They were exquisite.
“Tyler Robertson . . . here for two nights?” they asked. She nodded and handed them a credit card, but Clifford waved her off. “Everything’s been taken care of.” Their voice trailed off, scanning the computer screen. “You’re in the Marilyn Suite.”
“I booked a single room.” Tyler showed them her phone. “I have an email confirmation.”
Clifford moved the computer mouse in figure eights. “Your reservation was upgraded by a . . .” They squinted. “Kim Tanaka.”
Cary. I should’ve known.
“May I have a single room, please?” She was not about to start living Cary’s life and the fancy things that came with it.
“Sorry,” they said flatly. “We’re completely sold out. How many keys?”
“One, please.” She leaned on the counter and smiled. “I’ll leave the other one here for my guest, if that’s okay.”
They nodded, typing away. “Guest’s name?”
“James Kirk.” She’d booked enough hotel rooms for Cary Kingston to know his pseudonym was Captain Kirk, or “CK.”
