Chapter 1

You know you’re fucked up when the best thing to happen to you in years is falling asleep while leaning on a stranger’s shoulder. I know what you’re probably thinking, “That’s fucking sad, bro”. And you would be right. It is sad. Pitiful, probably. Stupid? Maybe. Rude, absolutely .

I mean, who does that?

Just fucking commandeers another dude’s bicep?

Me, motherfucker, that’s who.

In my defense, it was a very nice bicep.

And we were on a long flight—economy—across the whole country.

And if you understood just how tired I truly was, you’d get why the second that sandalwood and blossom scent hit I was motherfuckin’ done for, motherfucker.

For context, you have to understand that I’m the kind of guy who travels often. I’m always on planes. Always crossing time zones, oceans, and over countries so quickly they blur together in a liquid smear of farms, cities, and mountains. I’ve been to so many places that half the time I can’t tell which city is which. It’s only the fucking teleprompter that keeps me straight, and Nancy’s painful—but well-meaning—tongue-lashing in my dressing room to hype me up before each show.

Touring is brutal, I’ll be honest.

It’s go-go-go till you drop-drop-drop.

That’s all my life’s been for longer than I can remember. At least—until this last year. When the go-go-go stopped drop-drop-dropping. And instead, after the adrenaline had settled, and my sweat had dried, I found myself staring blankly at the nondescript wall of whatever hotel we’d booked that night. Or the floral—because they’re always fucking floral for some ungodly reason—comforters of B&Bs, or the sloped, claustrophobic ceiling of the tour bus.

Covered in glitter, with eyeliner old enough it should have its own driver’s license, I’d just kinda…die. Shut down.

Staring, staring, staring.

And that staring never stopped.

Didn’t stop till the world woke up around me, and my eyes were grainy, but the stress remained. I could feel eyes on me, even when no one else was around. Could feel the weight of expectations, heavy on my shoulders.

For a while, I got used to pretending. Pretending that all was well, popping sleep pills when the grittiness became too much. Listening to the audiobooks from my favorite author, and hating the fact that even those couldn’t lull me into blissful slumber anymore.

I tried everything.

And when trying everything didn’t work, I kept pretending, until the moment I couldn’t anymore.

Till my body chose for me, the lights went out, and I woke up one day—lying flat on my back on the stage at one of my performances, with Nancy—my assistant—fucking staring down at me like I was the goddamn antichrist.

“That’s fucking it, Robin,” she said like I’d shat in her cereal.

She was so far up my ass after that I hadn’t needed to get laid. Not that I could, considering the state my dick and body were in. Apparently, you needed proper blood flow to get hard—and sleep was…kinda fucking important?

Not that I’d tried to get laid, or even wanted to. I mean—you ever try to drive when you’re operating on two to three days with no rest? The world’s a fucking mess , you can’t see straight, your body’s full of pins and needles, and left isn’t left anymore.

Imagine trying to fuck like that.

No fucking thanks, man.

And that’s without adding in the extra drama of the paparazzi, the press, or the assholes that treated me like a trophy fuck to shine and display on their mantle. Robin “Trashmouth” Johnson, a motherfuckin’ ace in the hole.

I was always an ace in the hole.

Even when I wasn’t.

But that was better than being one of those famous dudes that simply sneezes and pisses people off, so it’s not like I could complain. Even though, after a certain point, I started to wonder if one day I’d stop being a real person at all. I’d wake up shiny and plastic like they thought I was, and not even realize I’d changed.

So yeah.

The bicep-stealing, sleep-falling incident was pretty monumental for me.

Especially because I happened to be nervous as hell.

This was my first time going to visit Miles—my baby brother—for longer than a few days. At least…since I’d left him in my early twenties, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, certain I was gonna fucking change his goddamn life. And now, I was returning with my tail between my legs, years of neglected text messages between us and frown lines around the corners of my lips.

My publicist said they made me look rugged . But I caught her telling the media dudes to photoshop them out, so I wasn’t all that optimistic about them. Not that I could be assed to care about that right now. Not when I was sleepy, well-rested, and had a face full of man meat.

Bicep smelled good .

Because that’s what he was, in my sleep-addled state. Not a fully grown, mountain of a man with dark auburn hair and a frankly sexy-as-hell stank face—he’d stared at me with a constipated expression when we’d taken our seats on the plane. No. He was simply a lovely, tight bicep—soft now because he’d finally relaxed.

He smelled like the cologne booths that populated the closest mall to where I’d grown up in North Carolina. Booths where the salespeople would accost you on your way to the food court and convince you to let them show you whatever fancy-ass-manufactured-money-in-a-bottle they had on hand.

Expensive.

Cultured.

Like he was important, not because he’d fought tooth and nail for it—like a rabid raccoon like I had—but because he was simply the kind of man who’d always mattered.

He didn’t make me move.

Maybe because he could feel the way I sunk into him. And see the way my phone fell to the carpet where it remained abandoned because I was too damn tired to pick it up. I didn’t even pause the latest raunchy werewolf book I was listening to. Just let the narrators croon in my ears as I drooled on man-muscle, and thanked whatever god that had goddamn listened, that I was here—on this flight—with the best fucking pillow I’d ever had.

It was a long flight.

L.A. to Vermont.

Eight hours, give or take a storm or two.

And I slept the whole fucking time.

At the end of the flight, I stirred, too groggy to care that I was drooling, but more than a little pleased to find my phone in the pocket in front of me, and the stranger’s quiet snores rumbling beside me. He’d fallen asleep too, and his warm breath ruffled my hair in a weirdly soothing way.

Kinda like a metronome.

Puff, suck, exhale.

Puff, suck, exhale.

Puff, suck ? —

“Welcome to Vermont,” a woman’s voice echoed through the cabin, and both of us startled awake. Stranger made this loud snorting sound that should not have been cute, but totally fucking was.

He straightened, on high alert, his toffee-colored eyes blazing.

His irises were too light to truly be called brown. They were the color of melted caramel, or the toffee Nancy always bought me for my birthday. I’d call them hazel, but there wasn’t an echo of green inside them. Could eyes be hazel without green? I wasn’t sure. Either way, they were... seriously pretty. I’d been too tired earlier to really appreciate him, but I certainly did now for a few brief, sleepy moments.

I tried not to stare, I really did. But he was impossible not to stare at.

All broad shoulders, lean frame, and a resting bitch face that was as hot as it was intimidating. A dark dusting of stubble coated his cheeks—like he’d shaved earlier and it was already growing back. It clung to what had to be the sharpest cheekbones I’d ever seen, and an upper lip that was maybe too thin, but somehow perfect anyway.

There was something…calming about him, grumpiness aside. A soothing energy that when paired with his devastatingly sharp jawline and the gray at his temples was like fucking catnip to a starved man like me.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this attracted to another person. Maybe never? And that thought was sobering as it was intimidating.

I peeled my head from his arm, embarrassed once again to find that I’d left a drool spot there.

Godammit, Robin.

I didn’t look at him again. Couldn’t . My cheeks were way too hot, and the humiliation was finally settling in. Especially after I realized just how goddamn hot he was.

Now that I was no longer exhausted to the point of incoherency I could admit how fucking weird what I’d just done was.

Even weirder though? The fact he hadn’t pushed me off.

He could’ve been sneaky about it too. Could’ve told me he needed to use the bathroom and then made sure his armrest was down when he came back so I couldn’t snuggle into him a second time. It would’ve been easy to turn me down.

But he hadn’t.

Why hadn’t he?

I got the impression that he wasn’t the kind of guy who voluntarily let strangers cuddle him.

Maybe it was the way he wore his black turtleneck sweater, all prim and tight and proper. Or maybe it was the way he held his head high, back ramrod straight—staring around the plane like he expected the worst to happen and was prepared to face it the moment it did.

I booked it off the plane the moment I could, head down, heart in my throat.

The airport was a small one. It was as close to Belleville as I could get, though I knew from experience there was still a decent drive ahead of me to reach the quaint mountain town where my brother had settled.

Autumn in Vermont was gorgeous. I’d visited a few times since Miles had moved here, and it always hit me like a punch to the face every time I saw it. Passing by the large open windows that faced the tarmac, with my heart in my throat, even the fall leaves couldn’t fully distract me from the man I knew would be exiting the plane after I did.

Silently, I willed the handsome stranger to walk by me.

A myriad of colorful red and orange leaves spread out like paint strokes across the skyline at the edge of the airport. It looked like a Bob Ross painting. Like someone had taken a brush and artfully crafted each tree, one swipe at a time. Our plane sat sentinel in front of the wall of the forest as the rest of the passengers filed off and the crew prepped for the next flight.

My pulse thrummed.

He’s not going to follow you.

He’s not going to get mad at you.

It was just a nap.

Not the end of the world.

Thud, thud went the footsteps behind me, and I prayed that the stranger wouldn’t stop. That the one awkward glance we’d shared would be it. That I’d never have to acknowledge just how weird I’d acted again.

My cheeks were hot enough to boil eggs on.

A throat cleared behind me and my shoulders rose even higher, my shame obvious as I took in a steadying breath and swiveled to?—

“Are you “Trashmouth”?” It wasn’t him. My stranger.

Thank god.

“Ah—yeah. That’s me.” I cleared my throat, offering the woman—because it was a woman speaking, not a sexy silver fox—a friendly smile. Beside her, a little boy stood, his dark hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes wide as he stared at me like he wasn’t sure he wasn’t imagining things.

“Oh my gosh !” the woman gushed, her eyes bright. “We were at your concert last fall.”

I nodded along like I remembered where that concert had been. “Ah. Thanks for coming!” That was a good thing to say, right?

Personable?

Mom had raised us to have manners, but situations like this always made me uneasy. It’d been years, but I still wasn’t used to being recognized out in public like this. At least the paparazzi hadn’t found me here. This was uncomfortable, but not in a bad way.

I’d always loved talking to fans.

It was my favorite part of my job, even if I sucked at it.

Felt like I had to play a game. Like they saw me as something other than a dude who wore too much eyeliner. And because of that, whatever I said was important and needed to be perfect .

I didn’t want to let the people who supported me down.

“Bobbie’s a big fan,” the woman shoved her son forward. He looked…miserable. Totally fucking embarrassed that his mom was doing this to him. And that killed me.

“ Moooom ,” Bobbie grumbled, cheeks about as red as mine were two seconds ago.

“He’s got the biggest crush on you!” She continued to chatter, way too fucking friendly, throwing her kid under the bus without realizing it . Poor kid, oh my god. Was this lady oblivious or what?

I grinned, ducking my head, catching his gaze with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m flattered.”

He relaxed a little, relieved when he realized I wasn’t offended. “You’re old but you—” he fidgeted, “I really like the way you play guitar.”

You’re old.

Damn kid, goin’ right for the kidneys.

“He wants to be a musician when he grows up,” she gushed again. “Do you have any advice?”

People did this all the time, treated me like I was fucking Jesus of music or some shit. Like I knew the secret to success in the music industry. Unfortunately, the truth was that I wasn’t even sure how I’d made it as far as I had. I’d simply been in the right place at the right time.

Knew the right person.

Got lucky.

But you couldn’t say that to a fucking kid. Even if it was true.

“Don’t give up, even when things get hard,” I said instead, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Find out…what inspires you.” I scratched my temple, embarrassed this was happening, a sick pit in my stomach because I felt like a fucking hypocrite. “And cling to that. No matter how hard it gets—or who tells you that you can’t. Don’t let anyone tell you that you need to change to achieve your dreams.”

Projecting much?

“That’s a good point,” Mom grinned. Her expression softened.

“And practice ,” I added, making eye contact with the kid again—because I was trying to be uplifting. “Because one day someone might come knocking on your door, and if you’re not ready, that’s on you.”

Well, that was dark.

Jesus.

Bobbie, to his credit, nodded along. His eyes lit up, a little grin spreading across his lips, like what I’d just told him was pure gold. “Okay,” he said, cheeks still pink. “ Okay ,” he repeated, more determined this time.

“You’re already ahead of me, kid,” I shrugged, my smile softening. “Seriously. When I was your age I had no idea what I wanted to do. So keep trying and just…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Hold on to the parts of music that make you happy.”

I wish I could say I’d done that.

“Could we get your autograph?” Bobbie’s mom asked, and I nodded, already reaching for the pen I kept in my backpack for moments just like this.

I signed the kid’s baseball cap and made sure to make eye contact. He smiled shyly at me, ducking his head, his chubby little hands shaking. I hated that I made him nervous, but I didn’t know how to fix it.

So I just let his mom take a pic of us together, and then watched them walk away, feeling like somehow…I’d fucked that up.

Like I could’ve been more profound or motivational or some shit.

But that had never been my strong suit.

Slumping a little, I turned back around—only to see that apparently, I’d had an audience. Immediately, my pulse skittered to life, and my hands grew sweaty.

He’s not going to yell at you, I tried to convince myself.

But I wasn’t so sure I believed it.

Because the sexy stranger from the plane was behind me. And judging by the fact I hadn’t heard footsteps for quite some time, he’d been behind me the whole fucking time. He looked pissed off still, his brow twitching as he stared at me. I wasn’t sure what to make of his face. It was the same face he’d given me when I’d boarded the plane and taken the seat next to him.

Unfortunately for me, if he hadn’t recognized me—which I was kinda doubting was the case—that meant he was waiting for me because of the arm thing.

Fuck my life.

“Look,” I started, cheeks hot. “I’m sorry for molesting your bicep, man.” Fuck. Now that he’d seen me interact with the kid he was bound to assume I had money—maybe he’d want compensation?

Nancy would be pissed if I ended up on the news again.

She was still beating reporters away with baseball bats. Fucking assholes wanted to know all the nitty-gritty details about my medical condition. About why I’d collapsed on stage. Like I wasn’t a fucking person who was struggling, but a piece of entertainment.

Not that I thought sleeping on someone’s arm was newsworthy, per say.

But fuck if I knew what made money nowadays. The press was full of vultures.

“That was nice of you,” the man said simply, watching me with those oddly warm eyes as he jerked his head toward the mom and son who were now out of earshot.

Mr. Sexy had a deep voice, slow and sweet and even, like he said every word with purpose. Like he was ten steps ahead already. Like he knew exactly what to say and how to say it. Except that his eyes widened after the words popped out, like he was surprised.

I was so distracted by how hot he sounded that I nearly forgot what he’d said. And when I remembered, it took me a second to even process. Because that had not been what I was expecting.

At all.

I blinked.

Huh.

My mouth clicked shut, my ire and anxiety fading away and replaced by confusion. “Wh?—”

“Goodbye.”

Before I could respond, tall, gorgeous, and apparently awkward-as-hell, turned on his heel and strode as fast as he could, as far from me as he could possibly get. His long muscular legs ate up the distance quickly. I tried not to watch his ass as he moved, and failed.

What the fuck just happened?

Somehow, I thought, I must’ve fucked that up too. Probably by ogling him. Fuck.

At least I’d never have to see or talk to him ever again, right?

Which should be relieving.

So why was there a pit in my stomach?