Page 75 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

He seems a bit startled by my response. I think he’s going to say something. Until he shakes his head and turns to leave.

“Why don’t you put out more songs like this?” I blurt out.

He halts. “Songs like what?

I may not be a fan of Kane Wilder as a person, but I can’t deny that I’m a fan of his music. I mean his real music.

The words are out of my mouth before I can close it. “Songs that sound like the real you.”

He stares at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Meaning?”

I tilt my head as I analyze him. The moon’s glow highlights the side of his jaw, the sharp curve even more prominent like this.

God, this boy fascinates me.

Artistically.

He fascinates me artistically.

“Meaning your other songs don’t have a soul. This one does.”

My comment irritates him. “No offense, but you don’t know shit about what makes a good song.”

Maybe he’s right.

But it doesn’t stop me from saying, “I know I haven’t heard you sing with this much passion in years.”

My words seem to flip a switch in his brain because he responds by taking slow, intentional footsteps toward me.

He doesn’t stop until his scent tickles my nostrils and he’s so close to me I can feel my heart pumping adrenaline into my bloodstream.

His cocky smirk irritates me. “So, you’re a fan? Is that what you’re saying?”

Of course he’d rather take a jab at me for having listened to his music than consider I might be right.

“My roommate’s a fan,” I correct him. “She thinks your songs are the best thing since sliced bread.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“Honestly? No.”

I think I see pain flash in his eyes.

Maybe that was a little harsh.

His other songs aren’t terrible. People obviously like them, or he wouldn’t be this successful, but I just know they’re nothing compared to the amazing tracks he’d come out with if his label let him express himself as an artist.

“I like ‘I’m Still Yours,’ but the rest just… don’t do it for me.”

I expect him to get mad after that last comment, but he doesn’t, walking back to the lounger to pick up his guitar.

“Tell me about it,” he mutters.

Intrigued, I follow him, intending to keep the questions coming, but my voice leaves me when I get a good look at the guitar in his hand.

It’s no secret that Kane is loaded.

He’s been working nonstop for the past five years, and he’s so famous most people’s grandmas know who he is—that’s how you know someone’s made it.