23. Hungry Eyes
Hungry Eyes
Kylie’s thrilled about the story that broke, redirecting the narrative from Alex’s constant posting to something else.
Still, I hadn’t expected my impromptu volunteer session—post–Montgomery Thanksgiving meltdown—to be twisted into some kind of PR fanfare.
I thought being tucked away in a soup kitchen in Harlem would keep me safe from prying eyes—but not anymore. I’m under a constant microscope.
I stare at the obscured photo—me, smiling as I dish out food, and Broderick, cropped out. Just his arm left.
Great.
If he’s not being roped into it, he’s safe.
The last thing I want is to be caught up in another social media love triangle. I’ve had enough of that shit.
But I can’t help thinking about the other night with Broderick.
Not wanting to come on too strong, I haven’t seen him for a few days. I thought maybe the distance might help quiet the mess of thoughts I’m not ready to dissect.
It doesn’t really help—if anything, his silence feels loaded. Maybe he’s done with the arrangement.
I sigh, trying to think about anything else. My mind drifts to the tour—only one more stop left before the holiday break. Then the studio. Then quiet.
I need it. I need to pour all this mess into a song. My kind of therapy.
I sit by the piano, working on the same three chords.
You make me feel like heaven
I think about you twenty-four seven
Got me playing your touch on repeat
The way you move without missing a beat
Just as I lose myself in the lyrics and the melody, the buzzer interrupts my thoughts.
I’m home alone—Riley is out with some new fling. Could it be Broderick?
I press the intercom. “Hello.”
Silence.
That’s…strange.
I walk over to the entrance and peek through the peephole before opening the door. No one’s there. I glance down the hall—completely empty.
My foot brushes against something, I look down to see a book placed on the doormat.
Weird.
I pick it up, taking it inside, the cover’s worn from age.
I flip it over and my stomach drops.
A first edition of Letters to a Young Poet.
Something from Alex’s personal collection, a gift from his sister Ingrid—an avid collector of poetry—to him.
My heart stops. Noticing a part in the pages, my fingers tremble as I open it.
I gasp.
Wedged inside is a photo of me I haven’t seen before, black and white, one of the more intimate shots he took of me from our time in Sweden. I’m sprawled on the bed, wearing lace panties, my arms barely covering my breasts.
The photo stuffed between pages 22 and 23. A line underlined in ink—not pencil.
“My soul longs for you, it knows you deep in my bones. My heart beats to only a rhythm our souls dance to. Times may test us, seasons may part us, but we my love are endless.”
The ink bleeds through the paper slightly.
Running my thumb over the quote, feeling the words. My mouth goes dry.
Alex.
Why is he doing this? The social media posts are distant and bothersome, but this—this is intentional and tangible.
What is he trying to tell me? And why would he just drop and run without so much as a conversation? Something about it feels off, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I open my messages. His name’s still there, buried under all of his rejected phone calls. My fingers hover.
Why would you send this? Please stop it.
Delete.
What is this supposed to mean?
Delete.
I miss you too.
I typed it without even meaning to, my thumb pauses over send. My chest tightens.
I lock the phone and toss it onto the couch. I don’t want him to think he still has that kind of power over me.
I glare at the book again before tucking it behind a cushion.
Just for now.
Writing momentum lost, I spend the rest of the afternoon packing for Atlanta. Though my mind doesn’t seem to get the memo, trawling through everything,
Alex. Broderick. Alex. Broderick.
A carousel of self-inflicted torture I can’t get off.
But none of it changes anything. No matter how many ways Alex keeps reaching for me—little gestures, books, memories stitched into paper—it doesn’t undo it.
I zip the suitcase shut just as my phone rings.
Kylie.
“Hey,” I answer, staring out the window.
“I’ll be quick,” she says. “Given your recent success in the charity space—Mark’s landed you an invite to the Children’s Hospital Holiday Gala. To attend and perform.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow night.”
She doesn’t give me a beat. “Mark’s already arranged for Rio and the team to be at your place by three.”
“Okay.” I sigh.
I probably won’t see Broderick before I leave. The thought lands heavy.
After he dodged me—twice—on Thanksgiving, maybe he didn’t want to.
“This is another great PR opportunity—so have a good time. Sing your butt off. Kylie out.”
“Did you really just say—”
Too late. She’s hung up. I laugh, shaking my head.
The gala would be a good distraction and lord knows I need it right now. With little time to prepare I head to my music room and start practicing for tomorrow night.
The limo glides down Fifth Avenue, the city lit with Christmas lights.
Snow flurries blur the windows, softening the edges of everything outside.
I smooth my dress over my thighs for what feels like the seventh time—deep emerald silk, long sleeves, low back.
Riley insisted on the color, said it made my eyes look alluring.
My fingers twitch in my lap. The gala is supposed to be a distraction.
Smile, sing, pose for a few photos. Easy.
Except nothing feels easy tonight. I’ve been playing emotional ping-pong in my head for days, and now I’m here, in full glam, sweating under a fur-lined coat, wondering if Broderick’s just… done.
I didn’t want to reach out first my pride still a little bruised.
Chris pulls up to the curb, and the flashes start before Tony can even open the door. I straighten, breathe, and step out, heels crunching against the pavement as the camera shutters follow me like insects.
The air is cold, hitting my back, sending a shiver down my spine.
When I get inside, I check my coat. The ballroom is warm, filled with chandeliers and garlands, Christmas carols drifting through the space, laughter, and waiters carrying champagne-laden trays.
The buzz of money, glittered over with seasonal cheer.
I move through it on autopilot until I hear his voice.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
I freeze. Then turn.
Broderick leans against a marble column, watching me with that slow, easy grin that coils low in my stomach. His eyes rake over the dip of my dress before landing on my face. He looks good. No, dangerous. A tux stretched over that absurd torso.
“Damn,” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I tease.
“Ouch, gone for a few days and you’ve already forgotten me.”
I pout and he cocks his head stepping forward, hands in his pocket, he leans down against my ear, his breath tickling my neck. “Did you miss me?”
I swallow, the sound of his voice reverberating through my bones, melting all the pent-up frustration in a heartbeat. But my pride wins out, I take a step back and turn but his hand finds my wrist.
“Are you mad at me, baby?
I turn back looking up at him. Even in heels he still towers over me. “You couldn’t text?”
“You’re so needy,” he teases. “So you are mad.” He smiles, and there’s something about the way he does—it’s contagious.
I scrunch my face, fighting a grin. “Raging.”
He reaches out, cupping my face. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
I shove him, but there’s no power behind it, he just chuckles, like a mouse trying to take on a bull.
“I’m not entirely sure what I did, but I’m sorry.”
“You denied me sex, which goes against our agreement, and you didn’t check in. I started to think…” That you didn’t want this anymore. But I can’t bring myself to say it. I don’t want to know the truth, what if he is pulling away?
The fear spreads quick and sharp. I drop my gaze.
And he sees it.
“Ah, I see, so you got yourself big mad because I didn’t fulfil your needs?”
“Big mad? You make me sound like I’m having a tantrum over orgasms.”
Broderick barks out a laugh. “El—come here.” He pulls me into a bear hug, my head nestled against his chest, the warmth of him wrapping around me. Steadying those fears.
I breathe him in, woodsy and warm, like the forest after a summer storm.
“It wasn’t anything you did, I had a lot on my mind that night too and I didn’t exactly want to take advantage of you after you had a shitty day.
Then I woke up the next day feeling like trash, I had every intention of reaching out.
” He rubs the bare skin on my back, sending a different kind of shiver down my spine.
Relief settles into my bones, sudden and stupid. But it doesn’t erase the ache completely.
I try to play it off. “Oh, so you were on your period?”
He chuckles, my head bobbing on his chest. “You’re so insensitive. I was PMSing and everything.”
God, I miss this—the way he so easily pulls a laugh out of me, even when I’m being petulant or bratty.
“Are you sure you were sick, and it wasn’t...something else?”
“I promise you, there’s no other reason. I didn’t want to infect you. Especially with you performing in Atlanta soon.”
“Cooties?”
“Yeah I jinxed myself with that one. Felt like death for a couple days. Left my phone alone, otherwise, I would’ve worked the whole time.”
“Well that makes me happy—that you took a break from work.”
“Oh you’ll be ecstatic then—I slept. Ate soup. Watched The Princess Bride twice.”
I roll my eyes, but the ache inside starts to unravel. Slowly.
“I could’ve taken care of you,” I say softly, looking up at him my chin resting on his chest.
He arches a brow. “Would you have now?”
“Yes, brought you food, rubbed Vicks on your chest,” I whisper tracing my finger over his shirt.
“Now why would you do that?”
“Because you’re kind of special to me.” The confession slips out before I can catch it.
“Am I?”
“You’re one of my best friends.”
“Friendzoned. Ouch.”
“Hey.” I giggle. “We’re best friends who fuck. That should mean something, right?”
“Don’t tell Riley,” he says. “I got the upgraded package.”