Exposed (VIP 4)

“Thank you,” she says finally, like she’s only accepting so as not to offend me.

“It’s my pleasure.” If it will get her off the phone it is.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your day then.” And like that, she’s in a rush to go. I hang up and clutch the phone in the silence of the morning. The sky is light gray now. I should get dressed and start my day, but I’m so tired now I can barely hold my head up.

I let him go. Over a job that no longer holds any excitement for me. Because it means the loss of him.

The dam I’ve built around my heart creaks, straining to open. I let out a shuddering breath. The dam breaks. I curl over myself and cry.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Brenna

I fly into 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.