2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
T he next morning, the alarm on Hayley Fox’s phone chirped like a deranged bird, sending her bolting upright with a gasp. 6:30 a.m.
She slapped at the screen until the noise stopped, then flopped back against her pillows with a dramatic groan. She was so tired.
She slowly opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling, the events of the night before slowly trickling back in. The show. The crowd. The music humming through her bones even now.
And then…
A flicker of something. A pair of familiar golden curls in the crowd. A set of amber eyes catching the stage lights.
Her stomach did an annoying little flip.
No.
She was not going to spiral over something she probably imagined.
She sat up, shaking the thought away, and stretched, feeling the good kind of sore that came from throwing herself into a set with everything she had.
Then she swung her legs out of bed and got moving. Because punk rock energy didn’t pay rent, and she had work to do.
Coffee first. Always.
She shuffled into her tiny kitchenette, pushing her waist-length hair into a messy bun while she poured oat milk into her cold brew.
Then she flipped open her laptop, scanning through emails as she leaned against the counter, sipping caffeine like her life depended on it.
A reminder from her songwriting agency—a couple of her tracks were in final negotiations for placement with indie artists.
A notification about her studio session at noon—she was recording vocals for an EDM producer’s track, a paid feature gig that would keep her financially afloat for another couple of weeks.
And a text from one of her vocal coaching clients—she had a session that afternoon with a teenage girl who wanted to audition for a music school.
Hayley smiled at that. She loved teaching.
Honestly, if she weren’t so obsessed with performing, she might have just stuck to coaching full-time. It was steady work, good money, and she actually enjoyed helping people find their voices.
But music was her dream. And dreams required a lot of side gigs and caffeine.
Until her band, Dead Run Riot, landed a real headlining tour, she was going to have to hustle like hell.
She glanced at her to-do list for the day and sighed.
Yep. No time for weird emotional distractions today.
Which meant no time to wonder if she’d really seen Jesse last night.
Hayley pressed her lips together, trying really, really hard not to let her brain go there.
Because that was stupid.
Jesse wasn’t in her life anymore. He hadn’t been for over a year.
They’d kept in touch for a while after she left—a few texts here and there, surface-level check-ins that meant nothing.
Then he stopped. Or maybe she stopped first. Either way, it ended.
Which was for the best.
Because Jesse Navarro might have been the best she’d ever had in bed (and, oh boy, was that a dangerous thought this early in the morning), but out of bed?
He was a disaster.
A noncommittal, frustrating, emotionally unavailable disaster.
The kind of guy who made you feel like the center of his world for one second and then forgot you existed the next.
And the worst part?
She had actually fallen for him.
Like an idiot.
Hayley sighed, setting her coffee down with a little thunk.
She was not doing this. She had work. Bills. A studio lesson in less than an hour.
And maybe—just maybe—a music career about to take off.
Jesse Navarro was the past.
And she had a future to fight for.
* * * * *
The scent of coffee and sheet music filled the small, window-lit room as Hayley adjusted the piano bench, nudging it forward with her knee.
7:29 AM. Right on time.
She took a deep breath, rolling out her shoulders, warming up her own voice as she waited for her first student to arrive. Mornings were her thing. Not because she loved waking up early (she absolutely didn’t) but because the hustle didn’t wait for anyone.
And she had rent to pay.
Her job at Pure Sound Studios was freelance, flexible, but steady. She made her own hours—morning lessons from 7:30 to 9:30, afternoon sessions from 3:00 to 7:00.
In between?
She worked.
Writing, recording, planning shows, rehearsing, trying to turn Dead Run Riot’s growing buzz into something real.
Friday and Saturday nights were for gigs.
Sunday was laundry day.
And five times a week, she carved out an hour for hot yoga, because some things from childhood just stick with you.
You can leave the vegan farm commune, but the yoga follows you forever.
The last student of the morning left the studio at exactly 9:32 AM, and Hayley let out a deep breath, rolling the tension out of her shoulders.
She loved teaching—seeing someone light up when they nailed a note, watching their confidence grow—but three straight lessons before coffee No. 2 was a lot.
Still, money was money.
She grabbed her iced oat milk latte from the side table, took a long, blissful sip, and leaned back against the piano, letting herself breathe.
For exactly one minute.
Because right on cue, the studio door swung open, and Caiden Galway strode in like he owned the place.
“Morning, sunshine,” Caiden grinned, his unmistakable Sheffield accent stretching out the words. “You look absolutely knackered.”
Hayley gave him a look over the rim of her cup. “Wow. Hello to you too.”
Caiden just laughed, flashing that ridiculous, crooked smile that had charmed the hell out of half the West Coast. He dropped his guitar case by the couch, ran a hand through his already-messy dark curls, and collapsed into the seat like he’d been up for three days straight.
Which… knowing him, was a possibility.
“Busy morning?” he asked, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.
“You know,” Hayley sighed dramatically, flopping next to him, “just shaping the future of music, one terrified teenager at a time.”
Caiden grinned, head tipping toward her. “And how’s that working out for you?”
She groaned. “Well, one of them spent the entire lesson refusing to sing above a whisper, another is convinced that high notes are a personal attack, and the last one refuses to enunciate anything.”
Caiden chuckled. “So, a normal day, then?”
“Pretty much.”
Caiden nudged her knee with his. “You’re too nice to these kids, Foxy.”
“Excuse me,” Hayley gasped, hand to chest, feigning offense. “I am an incredibly tough coach. A ruthless vocal tyrant.”
Caiden’s eyebrow lifted, all mischief and challenge.
“Oh yeah?” he mused. “Say that again, but without the Disney princess voice.”
Hayley huffed and smacked his arm. “Shut up.”
Caiden chuckled, but there was something behind it—something softer, something fond. He had this way of looking at her like she was his favorite part of the day, and Hayley?
She was not dealing with that.
Not now. Not ever.
Caiden had been in her life for two years, but Dead Run Riot was one year old. A band made up of former almost-successes, misfits who’d been in and out of different projects but had never quite landed where they needed to be—until now.
Caiden on lead guitar and backing vocals.
Billy on bass, the solid, reliable one.
Kilgor on drums, a literal maniac with drumsticks.
And Hayley?
She was front and center, leading the chaos.
And it was working.
They were getting buzz. Growing fast. The kind of energy you couldn’t fake—the kind that meant something.
They just needed that one big break.
She was about to run through some new song ideas when her phone buzzed.
She grabbed it, expecting a message from her songwriting agency or a reminder about her afternoon students.
Instead—
Jesse Navarro.
Her stomach did a completely stupid, entirely unnecessary flip.
Because of course it did.
She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.
She shouldn’t care.
She shouldn’t even be curious.
But she opened the message anyway.
Hey Hayley.
I’ve been meaning to say this for a long time.
I know I can’t change the past, but I need to own it. So here’s the truth.
Then—bullet points.
Jesse made a list.
1. I was selfish with your time.
2. I was inconsistent, and I made you feel like you weren’t a priority.
3. I didn’t communicate, and I left you guessing instead of giving you real answers.
4. I acted like what we had didn’t mean as much as it did.
5. You deserved better than the version of me you got.
At the bottom, one final line:
I’ve been in therapy. AA. I see it now. I’m sorry, Hayley.
She stared at it.
Felt too much and nothing all at once.
Then—
“Who’s that?” Caiden asked casually, reaching for his guitar.
Hayley locked her phone instantly.
“No one.”
Caiden’s eyebrow twitched, but he let it go.
For now.
But she could feel it—the weight of Jesse’s words sitting heavy in her hands.
The first real apology he’d ever given her.
And she had no idea what to do with it.