Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Adrianna
Of course, the red spray paint Mom needs is on the highest dang shelf in the whole dang hardware store.
Because why wouldn’t it be?
I stretch onto my tiptoes—because that’s as far as God blessed me in the height department—and reach. And reach. And reach.
Nothing.
I am so focused on not falling over and embarrassing myself that I don’t notice him behind me.
Not until he’s close.
Too close.
Close enough that his body heat brushes my back and raises goosebumps along my arms.
Close enough that something deep inside my chest recognizes him before my brain catches up.
Then he speaks.
“Need a hand?”
His voice.
Deep. Smooth. Familiar in a way that hits like a punch to the sternum.
My whole body goes still.
Frozen.
Panic-sparked.
Memory-soaked—and I mean that exactly how you think I mean that.
Before I can make a sound, he reaches up—effortlessly—and pulls down the spray paint. He places it gently into my outstretched hand, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest, traitorous moment.
The metal can is freezing.
I am not.
I wrap my fingers around it and dip my chin, waiting—praying—for him to step back so I can breathe again.
He waits a beat.
One heartbeat too long.
Then he steps away.
And God help me, I feel cold now.
Cold and aware and utterly disbelieving as I slowly turn around.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen freaking years is a long time.
I’m not in high school anymore. I’m not the girl with big eyes and bigger dreams who thought music could save the world.
I’m a woman now. A baker. A guardian. A niece’s mother in all but name.
And suddenly, all I can think is—is he going to notice the twenty pounds I’ve gained?
That my hair is duller?
My eyes crinkle at the corners?
My thighs could crush a watermelon?
God, I hate that I feel this way.
I hate that he can still make me feel this way.
I force myself to look up.
To meet his gaze.
And what I find there nearly buckles my knees.
Nathan Thorn is staring at me with blue eyes I’ve seen in magazines, on billboards, in music videos—but not like this.
Not in years.
So full of heat. So full of something I can’t even let myself name.
“It’s good to see you, Ad,” he says.
Just like that. Soft. Too soft.
It’s the same way he used to say my name when it meant something.
Nathan Thorn—rockstar, heartbreaker, demigod—stands in front of me looking like the universe decided to be especially rude today.
Jesus.
I clear my throat, searching for a smartass reply. But I’ve got nothing.
The years have been kind to him. Too kind.
Motherfucker.
“Thanks,” is all I manage to get out before I sidestep him and walk to the counter on wooden legs.
He files in right behind me.
“Doing a little art project?” he asks.
I want to ignore him, but I was raised to have good manners, and when someone asks me something, I answer.
It’s just how I’m wired.
“It’s for Mom.”
He smiles then, and fuck, that strikes a chord within me. I shut it down fast.
Emotions are not wanted here. Not now. Not in front of him.
“Ah, I get it. How is your mother, Ad? I’d love to see her and your dad—”
The hurt that slams into me is quick and hard. I lift my gaze to his.
“Dad passed away two years ago,” I whisper.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, Ad. I didn’t know—”
“Why would you?”
“Ad, come on, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say and shake my head, unprepared for the wave of hurt that rocks me to my core.
Tears prick my eyes, and it’s hard, but I force myself not to cry. I mean, I thought I was used to Dad being gone, but I guess I was wrong.
I tap my phone to the screen to pay for the spray paint, and I don’t bother turning around when I say for what I hope is going to be the last time, “Goodbye, Nathan.”
The automatic doors whoosh open, and cold January air slaps me in the face—thank God.
I need the shock of it. I need the sting. Anything to drown out the hurricane inside me.
I keep walking. Fast. Determined. Eyes on my car like it’s the finish line of some miserable emotional marathon.
My keys jingle in my shaking hand.
I hear him behind me before I see him.
“Adrianna—wait.”
No.
No, no, no.
I do not want this conversation. I do not want this man unearthing the past I buried with a shovel and two decades of stubbornness.
But he catches up easily—damn long legs—and steps in front of me, blocking my path with a look so sincere it makes my throat tighten.
“I’m so sorry I missed your father’s funeral,” he says urgently. “If I’d known—”
“What?” I snap, the word leaving my mouth like a whip. “If you’d known what, Nathan? You’d have flown in for a photo op? Written a song about grief? Posted a tribute between world tours?”
His jaw clenches, pain flickering across his face. But I’m not done—not remotely.
“Bonnie’s gone too,” I say, the words landing harder than I expect. “She died of ovarian cancer. Left her daughter without a mother. That was just before Dad. In fact, I think it broke his heart.”
Nathan’s breath catches.
“Shit,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Ad, I—what can I say? I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” I say bitterly. “But you had your life to live, and we all had ours. Don’t worry about it, Nathan. I’m fine. I’ve been fine a long time without you.”
His eyes flare—hurt, regret, something raw and pleading.
“Adrianna, I never meant for so much time to pass before coming home—”
“Is this your home?” I throw back, stepping around him, but he moves with me. “Really? Or is it just a stop before you hop on some world tour or sign another record deal?”
“That’s not—”
“Whatever.” My laugh is sharp, humorless. “It’s not my business. Never was.”
He reaches for my arm but stops himself at the last second, fingers curling into a fist instead.
“Ad—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly, shaking my head. “You just, just go. Have a nice life, Nathan.”
I unlock my car, yank the door open, and slide inside before my resolve cracks.
Because if I stay one second longer—if I look into those blue eyes again or let myself remember what love used to feel like—I might not walk away at all.
But I’ll be damned if I let Nathan Thorn break me again.