Epilogue
LYRIC
One Year Later
Petey bolts through the living room like a rocket with no destination, his nails skidding across the hardwood as he zigzags between legs and heels, yipping with wild-eyed excitement.
He’s completely overwhelmed, tail wagging so fast it’s a blur, caught somewhere between defending his territory and welcoming everyone with manic glee.
A group of Chase’s industry friends cluster near the bar cart, suits crisp and conversation dull. At the same time, my circle occupies the oversized sectional, wine glasses in hand, already laughing about something I can’t quite hear over the chaos.
It’s a strange blend of worlds colliding.
Music royalty brushing shoulders with polished executives.
Tattoos and tension mix with tailored blazers and old money manners.
The room hums with a kind of unease, low and crackling beneath the small talk and clinks of glass.
I hover between both sides of the room, pretending I’m relaxed, but inside I’m wound tighter than a pipe band’s snare drum.
Rory stands beside me at the kitchen island, rhythmically slicing chives with the kind of precision that makes me wonder if she’s using the chopping as therapy.
I’m arranging the hors d’oeuvres, though really I’m just moving things around to keep my hands busy, too aware of the way the conversations twist and curl in different tones depending on who’s speaking.
Then he walks in.
I don’t know his name, but I’ve heard Chase mention him once or twice in passing—a producer or engineer, possibly both.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t simply enter a room, he claims it without trying.
Hair dark and slightly tousled, jaw shadowed with rough stubble, eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow.
Everything about him says danger and disinterest. His jeans are faded, the knees creased from real wear, and his black tee clings to a frame built for hard work, not desk jobs.
A weathered leather jacket hangs off his shoulders, worn at the seams in a way that feels earned.
I notice him heading toward the back of the kitchen, right where Polly’s extravagant new cage takes up half the wall space. The parrot lets out a soft squawk, flapping his wings once in acknowledgment as the man draws closer, tilting his head in curiosity.
There’s no greeting. No polite smile. Just a slow step forward, measured and quiet, like the bird is some enigma he’s trying to solve.
I glance at Rory without turning my head fully, just enough to see her pause mid-chop. Her gaze sharpens, knife still hovering over the cutting board.
“Well…” she murmurs, her voice low with amusement, “… this should be interesting.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, but I keep my focus on the man.
He leans in a little, arms crossed now, studying Polly as if he’s expecting the bird to crack a code.
Polly responds by cocking his head and letting out a throaty “Rawrr,” which earns the tiniest smirk from the stranger, barely there, but enough to know he’s interested in what my bird can do.
The hum of the party fades into the background for a moment. All I can hear is Polly’s claws clicking against the perch, Rory’s slow, deliberate chopping, and my own breath as I try not to stare too hard.
He hasn’t even said a word, and already I know this guy’s going to shake something loose in this house before the night’s over.
And honestly?
I look forward to seeing how it unfolds.
“And what’s your name, little guy?” the man asks, voice gravel-thick with a teasing edge.
Here it comes.
Polly fluffs his feathers dramatically, swaying like he’s warming up for a performance. “Rawrr… fuck off, fuck off!”
I whip around, gripping the knife mid-chop and waving it toward the bird with zero effect. “Polly, for the love of God, behave.”
The guy doesn’t flinch. He simply smirks, a slow, knowing tilt of his mouth that makes him look like he’s seen worse, and probably been worse. “He’s got quite the vocabulary.”
My eyes widen, part mortified, part impressed that he’s still standing there. “Oh, you have no idea.”
“Rawrr… asshole, asshole,” Polly shrieks loud enough to echo off the glass backsplash.
The surrounding conversation screeches to a halt, heads swivel toward us, and I can already hear Chase mutter an apology across the room to this mystery guy.
Rory doubles over in laughter, wiping her eyes as she turns toward the stranger, clearly not bothered by the attention. Her gaze slides down his chest with zero shame. He is attractive. Too attractive. And Rory? She’s taking inventory like she’s shopping for trouble.
“Looks like Polly’s got your number,” Rory quips, lifting one perfectly arched brow.
Polly, clearly not done with his commentary, leans forward again. “Rawrr… love her, love her.”
The guy’s eyes flick to Rory, slow and deliberate, and the room seems to hold its breath.
“Every woman needs an asshole at least once in her life,” he says, his voice rough silk. “You game?”
A sharp snort bursts from me before I can stop it. I turn back to the cutting board to hide my grin, letting the blade thunk softly against the wood.
Rory, hand on her hip, doesn’t miss a beat. “I think I’ll pass. And maybe leave the bird alone before I find your asshole. And I swear, you won’t like what happens to it.” She turns back to me, mouthing Oh my God so theatrically that I almost choke on my own laughter.
He starts to move past us, but not before throwing a parting shot over his shoulder. “Offer stands if you change your mind, gorgeous. Name’s Soren. I’m in town for a while…” He takes a breath. “And I’ll let you do anything you want to my asshole.”
Rory snorts out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I bet you would.”
Soren.
The name clangs in my head. Chase mentioned him once, briefly, something about a guy with his own private investigation business.
The same fake job he used as a cover while lying to me.
I blink, trying to process it, but Soren is already pulling a sleek black business card from his jacket and handing it to Rory.
Her cheeks go pink as she accepts it, brushing her fingers over the embossed logo.
“Don’t wait too long to call me.”
“Rawrr… watch out, watch out.”
I slap my hand on the counter. “Polly! Zip it!”
But Soren is already walking off, boots heavy against the floor, his woodsy aftershave lingering in the air like the tail end of a storm. Once he disappears into the crowd, Rory and I both burst out laughing like teenagers at a sleepover.
“He was hot, Rores. Sounds like a kinky bastard, but hot,” I whisper.
She scoffs, though a little too hard to be convincing. “Was he? Didn’t notice.”
I turn to face her fully, grinning. “Oh, come on. He was totally into you. You should put yourself out there.”
Rory shakes her head with mock horror. “No. Thank. You.” But she slips the card into her purse anyway, her fingers lingering for a second too long.
Before I can tease her further, Dax strolls by, as casual as ever, plucking a cube of cheese off a tray. A tall brunette hanging off his arm, boobs leading the way into the room like they’ve got their own spotlight.
Rory’s eyes widen, and I brace myself. This night is far from over. I swat at his hand, making him wink at me.
“Dax, stop! These are for the guests.”
He scoffs. “Am I not a guest in your home, Lyri?”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “More like a piece of the furniture, you’re here that often.”
“Yes, a piece of furniture you love and adore, but anyway, Miss Hostess, don’t be so rude. Andy here is your guest.” He gestures to the bimbo on his arm, whom I’ve never met before.
She grimaces. “Ahh, it’s Candy,” the bimbo corrects.
Rory narrows her eyes at me as Dax leads her over to the drinks station. “I don’t know what women see in Dax Malone.”
“Dax is freaking gorgeous. He’s got the body of a god, and he’s charming when he wants to be,” I defend him, somehow the little weasel has gotten under my skin, and I feel like I have to protect the asshole. Because he’s Chase’s best friend, and now he’s also become one of mine.
“I hope you’re talking about me.” Chase walks in from behind me and wraps his arms around my bigger-than-normal waist. His hands smooth up and down my bump as he rests his head on my shoulder. “I was explaining to Rory the appeal in Dax… she doesn’t get it.”
Chase smirks. “You sure about that?” he whispers in my ear.
I turn to her, staring at Dax, gnawing on her bottom lip longingly.
Maybe that’s why she’s not interested in Soren?
I choose to ignore that situation and deal with my own. I turn in Chase’s grip and face him, my small bump coming between us as he holds me to him. “Most of the people here are douchebags, Chase.”
He dips his head closer to me. “I know, babe, but Dad wanted to have people from the company here for tonight’s dinner.”
I groan in mock disgust. “I don’t even know them. And how are they going to react when my family starts getting… lively?”
He rubs his hands on either side of my waist. “Well, that’s when the night really starts getting fun, now, doesn’t it, Starlight?
” He leans in, pressing his lips to my temple, then runs his hand across my tummy one more time.
I’m only four and a half months along, and the baby’s about the length of a cucumber, but I have seen all different sizes of cucumbers.
There are some of those monstrous long ones, and then some tiny miniature ones, so when they told me, I was really none the wiser.
Damn them and their fruit and vegetable analogies.
“How’s my Moonbeam?” Chase asks, bending down, his face in line with my stomach.
I run my hands through his hair. “She’s fine. But I think she’s going to be a placekicker for the LA Rams.”
“Fuck yeah, she is!” He kisses my loose-fitting kaftan top. “She can be anything she wants to be.” He slides up against me. “Just like her mom.”