Chapter 8

Drew’s P.O.V

I don’t know what I was thinking... or if I was thinking at all. I fucking kissed her. And I shocked the hell out of both of us.

Audrey gasped, frozen for a heartbeat—then shoved me, hard, straight in the chest. It knocked the air right out of me. A second later, her palm connected with my cheek so sharply I almost lost my balance on the damn balcony.

“Don’t.”

Just that one word. Sharp. Final.

Her eyes were blazing with anger—shining, but not from tears. From fury.

Shit. I’d ruined it. I fucking ruined it.

“Audrey...” I fumbled for words, something, anything that could explain. But she cut me off.

“Not a fucking chance, Andrew!” she snapped. The sound of my full name in that tone hit harder than the slap. “You don’t get to do this.”

She pointed at me, frustration pouring off her like heat.

“I can understand there’s shit going on in your life. You clearly have issues with your wife. But you are not—” she jabbed a finger toward her own chest, “—using me like some goddamn lightning rod. Solve your shit. Whatever it is, fix it from within your own house. Because I... I’m not in your reach, Drew. So stop trying to make me part of it.”

She turned to go, but I caught her hand, desperate to stop her. “Please,” I whispered, “just listen to me.”

“What?” she snapped, eyes blazing.

“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care if you meant to or not, Andrew,” she cut me off again. “How many times have you said sorry to me in just one month?”

I stayed silent. Because she was right. And I hated that she was right.

“Last chance,” she said, voice calmer now but colder. “I do care what you’re going through. But as a friend. Don’t waste energy on anything else. Whatever was in the past stays there. Your crush, your songs, the ring you sent me... it’s done.”

“I respect that,” I murmured, because anything else would be a lie.

“No, you don’t,” she said flatly. “You wouldn’t have kissed me if you did. You’re blurring lines, Drew. And we’re not kids anymore. I’m not sixteen and you’re not eighteen. We’ve both lived lives. We’re strangers now.”

“I’d like to know you again,” I said before I could stop myself. Quiet. Honest.

________________________________________

Audrey’s P.O.V

I’d like to know him again, too. But the way he acted tonight? It made it almost impossible to admit that.

I’m not a homewrecker. And yeah, maybe his home is already wrecked—but that’s not my job to fix. I came to LA with a plan. I wasn’t going to derail my life for a fan-girl fantasy of an almost-love story that never got off the ground.

Still... those eyes.

Those baby-blue, puppy-dog eyes.

They got me every time. Damn him.

I studied him for a beat. His sincerity wasn’t fake. He meant it, even if he was a mess. And in my heart, he was still Drew. My friend.

“I’d like that too,” I said softly. “But only as friends. The kind we used to be.”

He exhaled like I’d just handed him air. “Thank you,” he whispered.

I just nodded and stepped inside, leaving him out there—between memory and mayhem.

________________________________________

The next morning, I woke up with a skull-splitting migraine. Headache of the year. Probably brought on by emotional whiplash, balcony drama, and four glasses of wine with the boys last night, while they engaged in a very serious conversation about blue balls.

I took a painkiller, showered, and pulled myself together. There was no time to dwell on Drew and his confusing ass—I had an interview today.

A big one.

I pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail and buttoned up my favorite dark-gray blazer. Crisp white shirt. Black stilettos. Professional armor.

I needed to look sharp—and more importantly, I needed to feel sharp. I’d spent the last few weeks cleaning up a mess left behind by my predecessor. Barely any audience insights, vague goals, and worse—no cohesive action plan. I had work to do, and I could do it. But only if I kept my focus intact.

That meant:

No romance.

No distractions.

And definitely no rockstars with haunted eyes and beautiful lies.

________________________________________

Drew’s P.O.V

“I’m going to meet the attorney today,” Jen announced while I was still half-asleep on the damn couch.

I cracked an eye open and sat up groggily. “How long is this gonna take?”

“Hopefully not long. Separation’s an option. You can move your ass out if you want.”

I blinked at her. “It’s my apartment.”

“It’s rented,” she shrugged, applying lipstick in the mirror.

I eyed the outfit. Leather pants, a leopard-print corset. Was this a court meeting or a strip club interview?

“You’re the one who cheated,” I muttered, dragging myself to my feet.

“Correction,” she said calmly. “First I accused you of cheating. Then I actually cheated. That’s called balance.”

Fucking hell.

“I haven’t slept with anyone since before the Wrapped Tour! I’m the walking definition of sexual abstinence.” I snapped, storming toward the bathroom irritated. “You wanna play games, fine—but don’t rewrite the damn story.”

The shower didn’t do shit. I was still a mess. Still exhausted. Still too fucked-up to think straight.

The door slammed behind her as she left, and I finally pulled my phone out, instinctively scrolling for someone who’d understand. My mom was the only one I could talk to about this. My dad too, sometimes. But not the guys. Not even Audrey.

Not yet.

God, I wanted to talk to her. Tell her everything. But I’d blown it last night. Maybe she was right—maybe she was just the one that got away. Maybe I was addicted to the version of her that lived in my head more than the woman standing in front of me.

Still. That didn’t stop the lyrics from forming in my brain. Lyrics from years ago, that had never made it to an album cut:

You are the best romance I never had...

A thunderstorm tearing apart the bad...

Your shadow's inked beneath and on my skin...like sin!

I grabbed my notebook and started scribbling. I needed to talk to the guys about this.

Music never lied.

Even when I did.