Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Mara
The moment the front door closes behind Alec, the whole apartment shifts—like someone let out a breath and forgot to pull the air back in.
Mila wanders down the hallway with her stuffed puppy tucked under her arm, humming some tune she probably invented on the spot. And suddenly, it’s just me.
Standing alone in a space that somehow feels too much and not enough, heart hammering with information I have absolutely no idea how to hold.
I live next door to Alec fucking Hovarth.
One of the best drummers of the ’90s. Probably of all grunge history. His rhythms shaped a generation and—no big deal—he drinks coffee in a comfortable sweater and scowls at me when I mention his misaligned chakras.
He’s grumpy, but he’s talented.
And still hot.
So hot I’m fighting the attraction like it’s the battle of a lifetime. Which is hard, because after that look he gave me. The one where he was trying to decide whether to argue or drag me against the kitchen counter and kiss me until I forgot my own name.
God. The way his eyes dropped to my lips for just a second too long. I wanted him to lean in.
I wanted it, and not just in a passing, casual, harmless way.
No.
I wanted to feel that mouth on mine—wanted to know what it would be like to grab a fistful of that thick sweater and pull him close, just once.
But nope, that’s not going to happen.
Absolutely not.
That’s not what I do.
I am not the woman who flirts with a neighbor she barely knows, even if that neighbor looks like a kintsugi-scarred sex-god with trauma in his eyes and hands made for sin.
I’m a single mother. With a full-time job. And an eight-year-old who asks too many questions I’m already dodging with avoidance and sarcasm—it’s an art.
Though, this is too big not to tell someone.
Of course, I grab my phone and dial right away.
It rings once.
“Look at you calling me almost daily,” Ariadne says by way of greeting. “I might get used to this.”
“Alec Horvath,” I blurt, skipping hello entirely.
“Dead Moth Parade?” she says slowly. “Are we playing trivia? Should I answer in the form of a question? ‘Who is the drummer from Dead Moth Parade, Alex?’”
“My neighbor,” I say.
A beat.
Then another.
“Your neighbor?”
“My neighbor is Alec—”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Papers shuffle on her end. A door slams. “Sorry—I’m, uh—this is an emergency. I have to take it in my office.”
“You’re not in your office?”
“No. I was in a painfully boring meeting, and I told them I had to step out because my cousin is having a crisis after a family loss. I’m using your tragedy for professional escape. You’re welcome.”
“Wow. My best friend moonlights as a . . . counselor?”
“Mara, focus. You said your neighbor is Alec Horvath.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sweetheart, I think the letters and grief and whatever else you’ve been digging through have scrambled your brain. You’re hallucinating. The bad boy from Dead Moth Parade is not living close to you.”
“Try right next door,” I say.
A strangled sound leaves her. “It can’t be. Last I checked, he was in rehab with Dexter—after Dexter’s big public proclamation about not being part of his late father’s legal mess.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been off the grid,” she says. “I have to send you a recap on our favorite dysfunctional band.”
“I could just knock on his door and ask.”
“Oh, okay sweetie.” She sighs loudly. “The guy next door is not my Alec. Accept that.”
I laugh because she sounds ridiculous. “You still claim ownership over them?”
“Full ownership. As long as you keep Jon.”
I can’t believe she talks about Jon Bon Jovi as if he’s just my best friend. Sure, I said I liked him when we were in high school but now . . . I have to remind her that this is the real world. “Jon is married.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not giving you any of them.” She curses under her breath. “Damn it, I can’t go.”
“What?”
“I have a deposition coming up and two clients breathing down my neck,” she groans. “If this is actually the Alec, as you claim. I need photographic proof. Immediate. Show me those arms and tattoos.”
“We live in Seattle,” I remind her. “He’s always wearing sleeves.”
“Good job avoiding the assignment.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Photographic. Proof.”
I rub my forehead. “I need to tend to my child and—damn it.”
“What happened?”
“I have to go to the lawyer’s office today to sign paperwork, and I can’t take Mila with me.”
Ari exhales dramatically. “Have you considered this exotic concept called ‘school?’”
“Not until the next school year,” I remind her. “I need a babysitter or . . . I could ask Alec to come with me and wait with her in the lobby.”
“The imaginary drummer?” she deadpans.
“Exactly that one.”
There’s a pause. “Mara.”
“What?”
“Please tell me you’re not about to ask a man you barely know—a man who might be a retired rock legend—to babysit your daughter in a lawyer’s office.”
“I wouldn’t use the word babysit,” I mutter. “More like . . . supervised coexisting.”
“Mara.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “He’s survived Mila’s interrogation a few times. He can do it again.”
“You’re going to ruin my sanity,” she says. “And maybe your own.”
“Already ruined,” I reply, glancing toward the balcony where he’d earlier today, staring at me as if he didn’t know whether to run or stay.
Maybe I feel the same.
Maybe it’s worse now that I know who he is—that he’s famous. And I’m . . . me. A single mother trying to stay afloat. Maybe that’s why this neighbor-friendship thing feels oddly safe. We’re from two completely different worlds, and worlds like that don’t collide.
I tell Mila we need to be at the lawyer’s office by nine, then walk the hallway, already rehearsing the polite request I’m about to make to Alec. I barely make it a few steps before someone steps out of the elevator—tall, impeccably dressed, and wearing a smile that knows more than it should.
I almost crash into him.
He steadies me and his gaze sweeps over me with an amused familiarity, like he was expecting me to be exactly here, exactly now.
“Mara Cavanagh-O’Shea,” he says, smiling like he’s greeting someone he’s known for years. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I blink. “Who are you?”
Before he can answer, Alec’s voice comes from inside, flat as ever: “Edgar, don’t be . . . you.”
Edgar—apparently—glances at Alec, then at me, then back at Alec with way too much interest. “Ah. I see why you’re so . . . concerned.”
I glare at Alec. “You’re concerned about me? Really? I’m not the one redecorating hotel rooms with my fists—or breaking noses.”
Edgar’s eyebrow lifts. “She knows who you are.”
“She guessed,” Alec mutters.
Edgar crosses his arms, smirking. “Is this why you nine-nine-one’d me?”
I blink. “Is he going to be here long?” I ask Alec, because I do not have time for whatever this man’s energy is.
“Excuse me?” Alec looks confused. Or offended. Or both.
“Listen,” I say quickly, “I have to be at the lawyer’s office at nine, and I was wondering if you could come with me and keep Mila company while I sign some documents?”
Edgar frowns at Alec. “You want to leave this poor man with a child?”
“He survived my child already,” I say without hesitation.
“Barely,” Alec mutters.
Edgar laughs. Laughs. Out loud. “Why do you have to go to an office? Have them come to you.”
“They’re working,” I remind him.
“You’re a single mom who just moved to a new city,” he counters, already pulling out a cellphone. “They should come to you. We’ll fix this.”
“They’re doing me a favor—”
“No, you are,” Edgar says. “There’re a lot of assets and money involved. You could walk away and hire someone else. They’re lucky you’re even considering showing up.”
I cross my arms. “How do you know all this?”
Edgar gives a careless shrug. “I had to learn about you. I make it my business to know what’s happening around my family.” He points at Alec. Then extends his hand to me. “Edgar Reznor. You can call me Eddie.”
Before I can respond, Mila pops out of my penthouse holding her stuffed unicorn like she’s about to swear it into Congress. “Can I call you Eddie too?”
Eddie’s grin is immediate. “You must be the little umbrella demon.”
“I’m not a demon and I don’t turn into an umbrella,” Mila says flatly. “Are you part of the Dead Moths too? My Aunt Ari says she owns all of them like collectibles.”
Eddie chuckles. “Does she now? I’ll have to look into that ownership.”
“He’s the former manager of the band,” Alec tells her. “Best friend. Probably the only one with functioning brain cells. Why are you here, Eddie?”
“Because you sent a nine-one-one alert and I need to talk to you,” Eddie says. “But first, I think these two need proper guidance. Do you mind if we go inside your place?”
“I—”
“Eddie is nosy,” Alec says, stepping aside, “but harmless. Let’s go in and see what he can do about your legal issues. It’ll also save me from answering more questions. He can talk to Mila about EchoZone.”
Mila gasps, eyes huge. “You know EchoZone? Mom says I’m too young for it, but is it true you can talk to people anywhere in the world?”
“Not yet, but we’re expanding,” Eddie says proudly. “You—”
“She’s too young,” Alec cuts in.
“I was going to say she can talk to people anywhere in the world when she’s eighteen and we finally have that feature implemented,” Eddie says. “Or you can hand-write letters.”
Mila groans dramatically. “That’s ten years from now. I’ll be ancient. Practically twenty.”
“I like her,” Eddie declares. “We should bring them to Santa Barbara the next time we fly down.”
“Where’s Santa Barbara?” Mila fires back—and then unleashes another barrage of questions I can’t even track. Eddie takes them like a man entering battle, nodding and answering and already regretting every life choice that led him here.
They drift into my apartment, Mila dragging him along with wide-eyed fascination like he’s her next interview subject.
Alec stops me with a soft tug at my sleeve.
“We could run away,” he murmurs. “Be free from them for a few hours.”
I glance at him. He looks . . . lighter. More amused than I’ve ever seen him. “I’ve never seen you so happy about something. You really think my child is that bad?”
He shakes his head. “She’s not bad. She just has more energy than any human I’ve ever met. Eddie could use the challenge.”
“I don’t need help with a lawyer,” I say, crossing my arms even though I can already feel my stance weakening.
“You need someone on your side,” he counters quietly, “not someone dragging you to places where Mila isn’t allowed inside.” His eyes flick toward my door. “You should look into activities she can do in the evenings. Somewhere she can meet other kids.”
“You’re not suggesting school, are you?”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s too close to the end of the year and it sucks to be the new kid.”
My breath stills. “How many times were you the new kid?”
He hesitates, then shrugs, eyes dropping in that familiar way he does when the truth scrapes at old bruises. “Too many to remember. That’s what happens when you’re in the foster system. You jump from place to place.”
Something inside me shifts. This man who hides behind sarcasm and scowls says it like he’s talking about the weather, but I can feel the hurt threaded through the edges of the words.
Before I can think better of it, I touch his forearm—light, brief, almost hesitant. Just enough to let him know I heard him.
His eyes lift to mine.
For a second, everything slows. The hallway, the noise.
The questions spilling from Mila as she enters the apartment with Eddie.
All of it fades.
It’s just him and me, standing close enough that I can see the guarded surprise in his expression—like he’s not used to anyone reaching toward him without wanting something back.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” I say softly. “But for what it’s worth . . . you don’t seem like someone who got lost along the way.”
“I got too fucking lost.” He shrugs. “I’m just finally finding myself slowly.”
His gaze holds mine for one long second and I see a thread connecting us and it’s scary and familiar and Alec clears his throat first, stepping back like the moment startled him. “You should . . . uh . . . go make sure Mila hasn’t recruited Eddie into a cult.”
I smile, even as something warm lingers beneath my ribs. “You coming in?”
He hesitates.
Just long enough to tell me he’s thinking about it.
Just long enough to show me he doesn’t want to.
Just long enough to show me he does.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he murmurs.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”