“It’s not a long tour,” he continues. “It’s like six weeks. Just a few shows.”

“Aren’t you going to Europe?”

“A little.” He squeezes his thumb and index finger together, leaving a tiny continent-sized space between.

“You’re going to Europe a little?”

“It’s just six weeks.” He hesitates, pulling my fingers between his, not looking at me until he has to. “If you come, maybe we could do some songs together.”

I know any other girl in my position would be thrilled, but all I can think about is what I would assume if some unknown took the stage with Rhyson. Some girl I’d never heard of. Some girl he’s sleeping with.

“Are you bribing me to come on tour with you?

“What? No. You’d be great. I’m doing stuff with Marlon to build buzz for his new solo album.”

“Grip has platinum collaborations with other artists. He’s already proven himself. I keep saying this, but it’s like you don’t hear me. All I want is the chance to do the same. To prove myself.”

“I do hear you, baby, and this is an excellent chance to prove yourself to a worldwide audience.” He grabs my hand, his fingers playing some melody I don’t hear on my arm. “Pep, if I’m on this tour and you’re here, we’re apart for six weeks.”

“We’re both in the business. There will be times when our commitments separate us.”

He frowns, dropping my arm. I give him a hopeful smile.

“Let’s see what happens with my audition and then talk about it later.”

His face steel traps as soon as I mention the audition. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, biting down on whatever he would say.

“Is that hummus?” Rhyson conveniently turns his attention to the bowl of hummus I left on top of the piano.

“Yeah.” I hold my breath while he scoops up some of it on a cucumber. “Taste.”

“Shit.” He screws his handsome face into a grimace. “What the hell? Sarita made that?”

My face falls and my shoulders slump.

“I made it.”

“You . . . you made it?” He laughs, dropping the half-eaten cucumber back to the plate. “It tastes like butt.”

“Rhyson, it does not. It’s made with fresh chick peas.”

“Tastes like it’s made with fresh butt.”

“I wanted to make one of your favorites. Something healthy, and this is what I get?” I can barely hold on to my offended face because he always does this to me. Makes me laugh when I should be mad at him.

He grabs me, squatting and snatching me close, arms under my butt until my heels leave the floor and I’m on my toes.

“I don’t care if you can make hummus, babe.” He sucks my earlobe into his mouth, and my fingers cling to his shoulders because it feels so good I might fall if I don’t hold on. “You do everything else well. Especially that magic trick you’ve been working on.”

I pull back, looking at him suspiciously. Because it’s Rhyson and there’s always a catch.

“What magic trick?”

“You know.” He grins and bends to whisper in my ear. “That one where you make my dick disappear in your mouth.”

“Rhyson!” I drop my forehead to his chest, face on fire.

“I’ll never get tired of making you blush.” A deep laugh from his chest reverberates between us. My favorite sound, next to him singing. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“For what?” I ask, frowning.

We haven’t had much to apologize for since our big argument last week. Things have been unbelievable. I’m almost scared to leave the house because it’s all the outside forces that tear at us.

“I’m sorry I haven’t told you I love you today.” He shakes his head from side to side, eyes locked with mine. “So remiss. Bad boyfriend.”

I’m convinced half my laugh lines will be because of him. After Mama died, I thought the closest I would come to joy would be the absence of pain. I was ready to settle for that. To just not feel that black hurt that hovered over every part of my life and seemed to occupy my very soul. Rhyson has taught me that joy has its own space. It is not the absence of anything, but its own presence. Its own entity. It fully inhabits us if we let it, and I have it with him.

“Does it feel weird to be somebody’s boyfriend?” I caress the hair not shoved haphazardly under the beanie.

“Not yours.” He leans down, licking into my mouth. Pulling my lips between his. Scrolling down to suck at the underside of my jaw. “I could eat on you all day. Just nibbles here and there until you’re all gone. All mine.”

“I’d like that,” I say, voice husky with passion and emotion because the two are inseparable when it comes to Rhyson. I’ve had sex before, but I’ve never had this. This melding of the deepest love I can fathom and passion I never imagined. They twine around each other so tightly that every time he’s inside of me, I hand over more of my heart. More of my soul. I always think he has it all, and he always finds more. Takes more. Gives me more.

Rhyson walks us backward to the piano bench, sitting down and settling me on his lap, his erection poking between my legs. I know where this leads. It’s led there on this very bench several times.

“Rhyson, we don’t have time.” I still press my breasts into him, just because I want him to regret it as much as I do. “Grip’s waiting.”

“I know. Ignore the wood. That’s my constant state when you’re around.” He pushes my hair over my shoulder, his eyes unexpectedly serious when they meet mine. “I want to talk to you about something. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Is everything okay?” I pull back. “Your dad?”

His face changes, hardens like it always does when we talk about his family.

“Dad’s recovering. Grady still wants us to try family counseling when he’s well enough.” His eyebrows shoot up and he rolls his eyes. “Oh. I forgot to tell you this—my mother wants to move here.”

“What? Wow.”

I don’t know how to feel about that. She wasn’t exactly a welcoming presence the first time we met.

“Yeah, she says she wants the family to heal, and nothing is holding them in New York since all of their family is here.” He shakes his head and seems to want to shake off the subject. “Save all that for later. That isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh. Then why so serious?”

“Was that a Dark Knight movie quote? Or were you actually asking why I was being so serious?”

“Little bit of both.”

We smile at each other because even with the sex we can’t get enough of, even with the cameras that seem to follow us if we step outside this house, even with the tension over my next career steps, we’re still great friends. I hope that never changes.

“I want you to move in with me.”

Whoa. Didn’t see that coming. I go from an easy smile in a tender moment to the breath ragged in my chest and sweat popping out on my forehead. Even though I thought I was ready for this, thought I wanted it, now that he’s actually asking me, I’m not sure I can.

“What? Rhyson, I . . . that’s a huge step.” I slide off his lap, pacing back and forth in front of the piano, running my hands through my hair. “And we haven’t been together long at all.”

“We may have only been officially dating for a few weeks, but we’ve been together for months.” He persuades me with the charisma of those eyes and that smile. “Come on, Pep. It makes sense. You’re here all the time anyway.”

“I know, but—”

“And I know San’s your best friend, but you living with a Spotted reporter isn’t a good look. I know he’d never expose anything on purpose. He’d never hurt you on purpose.” Rhyson’s mouth flattens into a hard line. “But if he ever hurt you just by being who he is and working where he works, it would be very bad for him.”

“Rhyson, that look scares me.”

I see it in Bristol. I saw it in his mother at the hospital. There is a ruthlessness inextricably tangled into their DNA. I’d never want to be on the other end of it, and I don’t want San to be either.