Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kit
When I enter my father’s office, Bernice is already there—arms crossed, foot tapping as if she’s scoring the soundtrack of my downfall.
Fuck.
So, what if I skipped coming to the office for the past couple of days? I’m on top of things. Does she seriously have to look at me like I broke curfew, and this is the walk of shame?
Believe me, there’s no shame here. I haven’t had sex since .
. . well, several Fridays. My devoted boyfriend is in Japan.
If I didn’t know how uptight he is, I would think he’s found a pretty Japanese girl to replace me.
He wouldn’t, though, it’d disrupt his schedule, and we certainly can’t have that.
See, he’s safe. I don’t have to worry about him cheating because that would be inconvenient.
“What happened?” I ask, bracing myself. I haven’t even closed the door, and I’m already regretting walking in.
This is worse than being greeted by Dad’s nurse with her usual cheerful laundry list of my father’s charming behavior:
“He’s not cooperating.”
“We could use a second male nurse.”
“He’s spitting out his food again.”
It’s like dealing with a five-year-old who just discovered conspiracy theories and has decided to stage a full-blown revolution against adult diapers and flavored gelatin.
Only this one used to run a music empire and now spends most of his lucid moments ranting about his agency like it’s Watergate.
His left side might be paralyzed, but that mouth?
He’s the same sarcastic asshole, gifted in weaponizing words, particularly at the expense of the people actually trying to help him.
And yet, here I am. Again. Playing the devoted daughter, head nurse, crisis manager, and—if Bernice’s scowl is anything to go by—likely punching bag.
Maybe she’s about to tell me I’m not doing enough.
That I’ve failed at the whole saintly caregiver routine.
That I don’t care enough. Which is rich, considering Dad has a team of people tending to him day and night.
Before she suggests again that I should’ve stuck him in a facility, let me remind her that she’s the one who refused it when the doctor and social worker proposed it.
I can’t do everything. I can’t sit beside his bed twenty-four-seven, run this business, and also keep my emotionally constipated cat from trying to smother me in my sleep out of protest. Allegra is taking this pretty hard.
Has anyone asked if my girl will be okay with my absence?
Nope. Everyone is just pulling me in all different directions.
“You didn’t call Roderick Wilder,” she announces, as if she’s been waiting to drop that particular bomb.
“Oh, that . . .” The one thing I’ve been artfully avoiding while juggling flaming knives.
In my defense, I talk to Cleo. She’s not only my best friend but also his sister. I didn’t ask her directly about Roderick returning. Nope. She was bitching about it. How their father wants him back on stage. I asked what she thought about it.
Her response? A flat-out, “He has to get his shit together before thinking about trying to get back to singing. Rod just finished treatment a few weeks ago. He’ll slip before he takes his first steps to the stage.”
Cleo isn’t wrong. But try explaining that to Bernice, who sees Roderick as a line item on a profit sheet, not a man moments away from a relapse. She only cares about Dad’s business—what he’ll want, because she knows him better.
I offer her my most polite smile, the one I reserve for clients who ask if exposure counts as compensation. “I’ve been working with our current roster and managing my father’s care team.” I even add a smile. “We have to focus on what matters, Bernice.”
Hopefully, that’s enough to keep her happy. I’m not in the fucking mood to explain why Roderick Wilder is a grenade I’m not ready to pull the pin on. And let’s be honest, he’s not even part of Dad’s current clients. There’s no contract—no commitment.
Roderick is just a floating name, part of Dad’s Wishlist. A pretty big list of people who might not even know Connor still owns a talent agency. You know what he should do first? Move to L.A.
Plus, who wants to work with Roderick Wilder?
Apparently, my father, who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences. But I do. And guess what? I’m in charge now.
So why should I call Wilder? Why should I open that door when we have plenty to deal with?
I refuse to do so.
That should’ve ended the conversation.
“I see,” a voice says behind me. Low. Rough. The gravelly tone rumbles across my spine, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
“So, what you’re saying is that I’m not important?”
My blood thuds once—hard—before draining from my limbs, leaving everything flushed and humming.
I turn slowly, already knowing who it is but praying I’m wrong.
And . . . I’m not.
Nothing prepares me for seeing Roderick Wilder in the flesh. Right here. Right now. Breathing the same air as me. And looking—fuck me—exactly like the problem I never wanted to solve.
His jaw is outlined by days of stubble. His mouth—still the same sinful curve I used to kiss—is set in something smug and bitter. His eyes? Goddamn dangerous. That green hasn’t dulled one bit. He looks like the last mistake I’d make again just for the high.
There’s no buffer. No warning. Just him, here, occupying space in a way that causes my body to remember every time he pressed me against a wall, a mattress, a piano.
Heat flashes through me so fast I almost stumble. My thighs clench. My breath comes fast. My nipples tighten beneath my blouse like they’ve been waiting for this moment longer than I have. My body doesn’t care about closure. My body remembers everything.
The way he touched me—like he’d memorized every inch, every nerve ending, and knew exactly where to press to make me break apart. Like I was his favorite song and he couldn’t stop playing the parts that made me moan.
The way his hands explored me—like he was charting territory he already owned but still craved to rediscover, just to feel the tremble beneath his fingertips.
Every brush of his palm down my spine was a prelude.
Every kiss behind my ear, a promise wrapped in heat.
He made me unravel like a melody he refused to play the same way twice—familiar, yet entirely new each time, as if he was addicted to the way I came undone for him.
And now he’s standing here. Looking at me like I’m both unfinished business and a dare.
“Of course you’re important,” Bernice jumps in like she’s trying to patch a sinking ship with a paper towel.
“She’s just—”
Roderick cuts her off with a quick glance. Two taps to his ear. “I heard her right. She’s focusing on what matters, which is obviously not me.”
That smug asshole smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth like it belongs there.
Like he’s been waiting to use it on me. I want to slap it off—or kiss it until he forgets why he’s wearing it.
Maybe both. Maybe I want him pinned against the nearest wall, mouth bruised and breathless, forgetting every woman who’s ever made him feel more than I ever did.
His voice slices through the room—velvet and smoke, addictive in that way that makes people do stupid things. It settles in my chest like a slow burn that wants to detonate.
He doesn’t even blink. His gaze stays locked on mine, like he’s trying to crawl inside my head and stake claim over a space that should’ve been condemned years ago. He holds me there—trapping me with nothing more than the curl of his lip and the heat behind those stupidly beautiful eyes.
He’s still the arrogant bastard who believes he can walk back into my life and pull my strings with just a glance and a sarcastic smile.
And the worst part?
He might be able to do it.
“Roderick.” I nod like it’s just a name. As if my pulse isn’t thrumming in places I swore were dead. As if my entire body isn’t leaning forward, desperate for something I swore I didn’t want anymore.
I nod like I’m fine. Like I haven’t spent years pretending I didn’t feel his absence like a phantom limb.
Everything is flooding back. I remember the way we used to sit for hours.
He’d play guitar. I’d be at the piano. He’d bang the drums while I wept through my cello.
We traded melodies, letting music speak because nothing else felt safe.
Then I started to realize that his music shifted just like his mood. He chased trends, trying to placate his father, trying to find a sound that would make him special without understanding he already had it. Young Kit loved him too much to realize he was an entitled asshole.
That poor girl . . . she felt too much and everyone just disregarded her, taking her for granted. I want to build a time machine and have a good talk with her. If Mom hadn’t died, she would probably have been there to explain to me what love is—and what it wasn’t.
Roderick was . . . not love.
He was . . . that’s when it all comes back to me. That night. That fucking night. The one that broke me and made me into who I am today.
He was playing a dive bar in Seattle, trying to look bigger than the room and smaller than the damage.
Dad always said that was the best way to reach people—to start from nothing and build into the kind of band everyone swears they discovered first because they felt like yours.
The point is—I went to surprise him. Naively hopeful. Stupid in love. I planned to slip into the crowd, wait for his set to end, then wrap my arms around him and remind him exactly who the hell he was.
Only I was the one who got surprised.
He was out back. Shirtless. Eyes glassy. A bottle dangled from his fingers. A woman knelt between his legs, her hand curled possessively around his thigh, her mouth on his cock like she’d done it a hundred times. Maybe she had.
A roadie leaned over and said, “Wait your turn, sweetheart. He always has some for everyone.”
I should’ve turned and walked away. I should’ve saved myself.