My skin prickles with heat. “What?” It sounds woolen to my ears. Can’t be helped; they’ve started to ring. It’s fairly clear why Whip offered to pick me up today, and I don’t know if I can handle talking about Rye with him—or anyone.
He glances at me again. “He didn’t rat you out. I guessed. Wasn’t hard, considering the way you two have been acting, trying too hard not to look at each other, and failing each time. I figured something was up. Rye freaked, told me to mind my own business. But he was…confused. So we talked.”
I turn my head, unable to look at Whip. I can’t truly be upset. Whip is Rye’s best friend. And hadn’t I spilled everything to Jules? Because some things needed to be sorted out with a sympathetic ear. Still, the idea that Rye and Whip had talked about the arrangement…I squirm.
Whip clearly sees that I’m embarrassed, and his voice softens. “I told him some things were worth the risk of losing them. He thought you were worth it.”
Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut for a quick, painful second. The absence of Rye doesn’t just hurt; it’s a void of loneliness opening up in my chest.
“He caught me off guard,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Whip says sadly. “He doesn’t know how to be subtle.”
A broken laugh escapes. “Oh, and you do?”
Whip shakes his head, smiling slightly. “No. That’s the point. None of us guys do. We never had to work for anything other than our music. And that was so long ago, we tend to forget. We live in this weirdly insulated world where everything we want is handed to us. It makes us…stupid.”
I laugh again, but it’s a pained sound.
“Doesn’t mean that we don’t care,” Whip says. “Or that we don’t hurt when we fail.”
With a sigh, I tilt my head back and stare out of the window. “You’re killing me here.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, I swear. I just…” He exhales loudly. “Shit, I don’t know. I feel responsible for pushing him. Maybe if I didn’t, he would have taken it slowly and…” He trails off with a helpless shrug.
“It’s not your fault. Rye’s a big boy, capable of making up his own mind.” I fight a smile. Damn it, I miss him. My smile fades. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“I know. And I probably should have kept my mouth shut with you, but he’s…Just handle him with care, Bren.”
Whip says it kindly, but I’m thoroughly chastised all the same. I also love him with my whole heart in this moment, because he’s protecting Rye in a way few people would. Overwhelmed, I lean across the seat and kiss his cheek.
“You’re a good guy, William.”
He blushes, his pretty face scrunching up. “Okay, okay. But don’t go kissing me when we get there. I don’t want to deal with Rye trying to kick my ass.”
We ride in companionable silence for a while, then chat about our favorite Marvel movies. Whip turns onto a small one-lane road and arrives at a pair of open gates. The drive up to Varg Hall is long and flanked by stately elm trees that have lost their leaves for the winter.
The estate comes into view, and we both let out an appreciative sound.
“Hello, Downton Abbey,” I murmur. Though really, it’s more of a Pemberley estate.
Varg Hall sits on the crest of a gentle rise. Surrounded by meticulously kept parkland and formal gardens, it’s the type of great old English mansion that, aside from national trusts and peers offering up house tours to foot the bills, only extremely wealthy men like my uncle can afford to own and maintain.
Built in the fifteenth century, the original house was remodeled and added onto in the Georgian era and now has graceful neoclassical lines. The old limestone facade gleams golden in the low, slanting winter light, the mullioned windows glimmering like gemstones. It’s utterly beautiful.
My parents hate the place.
I bore the brunt of my parents’ complaints every time we visited—they never turn down an invitation; they enjoy their misery and like to spread it. And even though they often spend a week here at Varg Hall or one of my uncle’s other houses, I’m the one they treat as a traitor for having fun here, for spending summers with Killian instead of staying in Long Island with them.
They arrive tomorrow. I plan to relax while I can—and avoid them as much as possible the rest of the time.
We pull up in front of the wide front stairs, and Paul, my uncle’s butler—yes, he has a butler—comes out to greet us.
“Miss Brenna. Lovely to see you again.”
“Hello, Paul. How are Louise and the children?”
We exchange pleasantries, and the whole time I try to acclimate myself to the grandeur and wealth surrounding me. I’ve been coming here since I was a baby, and yet it never truly feels real. Which is saying something, considering I live in a world of pampered and protected rock stars.