Chapter 108
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Kit
“You ready for lunch?”
Roderick steps into the shop like he owns the air.
Lola straightens so fast she nearly topples a vase. Her fingers fly to her hair, fluffing it like she’s on set for a music video. Then she leans in and whispers through a breathy sigh, “Do you know who he is?”
I nod once, slowly. No need to fan the flames.
“Please tell me he’s gonna sign records for the store.”
“I could if you need me to,” Roderick answers before I can, his voice right in my ear.
I hadn’t even realized he’d closed the distance.
That’s the thing with him—he moves like sound.
Suddenly he’s there, close enough to stir the air around me, close enough that if I turned my head just slightly, my mouth would graze the rough edge of his jaw.
“Roderick Wilder.” He extends his hand toward Lola, but his eyes are on me. “You must be Lola. Cleo talks a lot about you.”
Lola frowns, caught between starstruck and confused. “You know Cleo?”
I try to shut this down before it snowballs. “They’re acquainted.”
“She’s my little sister,” Roderick says, correcting me gently, but there’s amusement in the corner of his mouth.
He thinks he’s funny but doesn’t understand that Lola gets starstruck easily.
“What? She’s your—” Lola gasps. Her hands go to her chest, and I brace myself. This is precisely why we don’t tell Lola anything classified. She’s a professional fangirl, a one-woman PR crisis waiting to happen.
“You mean she’s like the sister of the Wilder brothers?”
“We’re not a band,” Roderick deadpans, like she’s insulted his soul.
“Of course not, but . . . is it true Alfie is going to marry Duchess?” Lola fans herself. “Oh my god, it’ll be the wedding of the century, and they might invite you.”
Those are . . . I hope that’s not what happens because Cleo will be heartbroken if her brother gets married without even telling his family. That’s not the point right now.
“Lola,” I say firmly.
She blinks at me, still stuck on the fantasy guest list.
“I need you to take a deep breath. This”—I gesture between Roderick and the swirling cloud of confusion around him—“the fact that you met him? It has to stay between us. You understand?”
“But—”
“I really need you to keep it quiet,” I press, voice low but clear. “He doesn’t do well with crowds.”
“Okay,” she relents with a dramatic sigh. “But can I at least get your autograph?”
“I’ll even bring my camera so Kit can take a picture of us,” Roderick offers with a wink, fully aware he’s pouring gasoline on her excitement.
Lola looks like she might pass out. “Oh my God, that would be so cool.”
Then his gaze cuts to the door. One glance. That’s all. But it’s enough to make my entire body go hot and restless. I know that look.
“Can we go?” he asks, voice low and smooth—like velvet pulled taut—filled with everything we’re not saying.
“You’re going with him?”
“It’s just lunch. Catching up with an old friend,” I toss over my shoulder like it’s nothing. Like I’m not practically vibrating inside.
But this? This isn’t lunch.
This is a slow burn beneath my skin. This is anticipation curling through me like smoke. This is the unmistakable hum that exists in the liminal space between reminiscing and fucking against the wall of his hotel room with no apology.
Because the way he’s looking at me?
It’s not friendly.
It’s not casual.
It’s devouring.
Calm down, Kit. It’s just a meal. You have plans to meet someone else soon, remember? Someone who might actually be good for you. Someone who hasn’t wrecked you and rebuilt you and haunted your music for more than a decade.
Sure. But when is that going to happen?
DeadStrings might live in Seattle. Or Portland.
Or . . . what if it is Seattle? He could be anyone—maybe even one of our regulars.
A guy who lingers in the jazz aisle too long, always looking for an original press or a bootleg recording.
Perhaps he’s the one who asked if we had a vinyl copy of Rumours even though it was playing on the turntable right in front of him.
Should I ask him if he prefers CDs over vinyl? That’s a dealbreaker. I need someone who believes vinyl is sacred. That it outlives us all.
“You okay there?” Roderick asks.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking myself out of the spiral. “Just wondering where we’re going.”
“There’s this restaurant nearby,” he says.
We walk silently for a beat, our steps side by side but never quite touching. Not physically, anyway. But my whole body is aware of him—his scent, his nearness, the memory of his hands.
The grill is tucked away on a side street, understated from the outside but charming as hell inside. Like The Ivy in L.A., but less flashy. Warm wood, rich colors, no patio—just cozy booths and a giant chalkboard wall announcing COOKING CLASSES STARTING MONDAY.
“Everyone wants to teach people how to cook these days, huh?” I nod toward the board as we step inside.
“What?” he asks.
I nod toward the chalkboard. “The sign.”
“Oh. Yeah. I registered.”
I blink, surprised. “You did?”
He grins. “Yeah. Food’s good here. Figured I should at least learn the basics. I’m practicing the art of learning the mundane stuff, remember?”
God help me. Even when he says mundane, it sounds dirty. He could do filthy things while boiling water, for example.
“You know what’s funny?” I slide into the booth. “A friend is doing the same thing and dragging his brother along while he’s at it.”
“I mean that’s the way to do it. If you’re going to take on a new venture, do it with someone you can torture.” He smirks. “Like Julian.”
That makes me laugh. Because picturing Julian in a cooking class with Roderick is so absurd, it could cause a cosmic imbalance. Like setting fire to the syllabus just for fun.
“It’d be the beginning of Armageddon,” I mutter.
“Exactly.”
The waitress appears, hands us menus, fills our glasses, asks if we’re ready to order. I don’t tell her that we just got the menus. Roderick just asks for a few minutes.
“How’s Julian doing?” I ask while browsing my menu.
“He’s better,” Roderick says. “Living with Rhodes isn’t easy. We hang out now and then. It’s . . . we’ve got more in common than we thought. Mostly we love to hate on our big brother. He’s too fucking annoying when he’s trying to impart wisdom.”
“I’m glad,” I say honestly. “Cleo’s been a little absent. I’m barely getting any updates about Julian’s recovery or anything, really. I’d be concerned, but I think she’s dating again.”
He groans. “I fucking hope she’s not.”
That catches me.
“Because . . .?” I narrow my eyes. “What do you know that makes you worry about her? Is it her poor choice in men?”
“The guys she attracts . . .” He nods. “Like moth-to-a-lighter-fluid bad.”
“She calls them daddy issues.” I sip my water, watching him carefully. “Your dad never paid much attention to her.”
His lips press into a flat line. There’s something about the way he goes quiet. A little too quiet. Like there’s a thought hovering behind his eyes he doesn’t want to say out loud.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Roderick Wilder.” I shift toward him, trying to sound firm and demanding. “What are you hiding from me?”
His shoulders drop. Not in defeat, but in admission.
“We learned a few things after Julian’s accident,” he says softly. “It’s her story to tell, Kit. I can’t . . . I’m sorry.”
“And since then she’s dating some loser?”
“Or two . . .” He trails off, gaze lowering to the table like maybe it’s easier to lie to his water glass. “I don’t know. But I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“You want to share the bad feeling?”
“Nope,” he says, then turns toward me, his gaze catching mine again. “I’m hoping that she’s not interested in my former bandmate—or sleeping with my sponsor. Let’s talk about something else, Kit. You said you wanted to get reacquainted, right?”
I’m now intrigued about what he said. Is she dating Barret? Or sleeping with . . . who is his sponsor? It doesn’t matter. I follow his lead. The conversation shifts. Lightens.
He talks about starting a nonprofit. He’s not sure if he’ll do it with Eddie or Julian. He’s taking classes, trying to learn how to be useful in the world again and build something that matters not only to those around him but also to him.
Music bleeds through every word even if he’s not the frontman anymore. It’s in his hands when he gestures. In his voice, when he talks about helping kids get access to instruments, or helping others like him with their recovery.
He’s still every bit the artist—just one learning how to live without self-destruction as his muse.
Then it’s my turn.
I tell him about Barrett and the album we’re producing for a new artist. About how being a music producer feels like breathing—natural, necessary. About how I’m practicing cello daily again. That I want to audition for the Philharmonic someday.
“I probably won’t make it,” I say with a shrug. “But I want to try. It’s something my father used to call frivolous. Said my talent shouldn’t be wasted like that. Which makes me want it more.”
Roderick leans in, his eyes warm. “He was an asshole.”
I swallow hard.
“I’m working with a therapist now,” I say quietly. “Unpacking the trauma. The shit from childhood. The grief. Everything I shoved into songs and silence.”
“You lost a lot,” he says. And then he reaches for my hand.
Warm fingers, rough calluses. A squeeze that isn’t casual. Not when his thumb brushes mine in slow, lazy strokes that set every nerve in my body on edge.
“I tried my best to help,” he says. “To protect you.”
“And that’s one of the reasons I loved you so much,” I whisper. “You protected me. You loved me in ways no one else ever has.”
“I did,” he says, voice caught between guilt and hunger. “Until—”
“My father fucked everything up,” I cut him off before he can say what I already know. “But I hope you realize . . . you were a victim too.”
He nods. His jaw tightens. His hand doesn’t let go of mine.
“I’m working on accepting that,” he says slowly, his voice thick. “Being a victim. But also understanding that I don’t have to live there. I don’t have to make every choice from pain. I’m allowed to move forward without dragging the worst parts of my past with me.”
And fuck if that doesn’t undo me.
Because he’s not just trying—he’s growing. Changing. Rebuilding.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m still part of the blueprint.
I stare at our hands and wonder what this is, if this is something we can salvage or if maybe we’re just doing this out of habit. Habits are hard to break even when you haven’t done it in more than a decade.
Thankfully, the waitress comes back. I pull my hand away, and we order. It’s best if we keep this friendly. If I don’t read too much into it, because if not, one of us will end up hurt. I don’t want that for either of us.