“Thanks.” Robbie stood next to me and looked up into the damp night sky. “But technically it’s Ian’s. He moved to the country with Nina and their little one a while back. He’s supposed to be putting it on the market but I got hold of the key. I kinda like it and I’m thinking about buying it.” He curled his arm around my waist and pulled me until my hip rested on the hard outer edge of his thigh. “Perhaps you could let me know what you think. Whether or not I should buy it.”
“That’s not for me to decide. It’s up to you.”
“We’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged and urged me toward the rotating brass doors.“Come on, let’s get out of this rain.”
We rode the elevator in silence and as I watched the numbers ping up, my heart fluttered at the memory of his words. He missed me. He couldn’t go on living without finding out if I missed him too.
I’d missed him too and we were clearly still good together, like really good together. But could I be so masochistic as to let Robbie into my heart again? Really? Could I? He would break me, take out my soul and spin it around until I didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. It had taken me six months to stop crying at the mere mention of his name last time. I couldn’t go through it again. I should never have let it go this far. I should have put those damn tickets and pass straight in the bin and not given them another thought.
And I really shouldn’t have kissed him.
We stepped out of the elevator. Robbie produced a key and opened a door with a large number six hanging on the white wood. “In you go,” he said, pushing it with the flat of his palm.
I stepped into the dark apartment and waited as Robbie bolted the door behind us.
“This way,” he said, flicking on a dim light and walking into the living room.
The London skyline twinkled through a vast expanse of windows. The raindrops streaking down the glass multiplied the soft orange lights like a spectacular kaleidoscope. “Wow,” I said. “Great view.”
“Yeah, it’s cool isn’t it?” He walked to a door and pulled it open. “Make yourself at home, I’m gonna take a quick shower. All that dancin’ around on stage makes a guy sweaty.” He flashed a cheeky grin my way.
“Okay,” I said nonchalantly, as if rock stars complained to me all the time about getting hot and sweaty on stage.
I walked past a low L-shaped couch to the dark windows that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. I looked down at the road below. Cars and taxis whizzed along, making the most of the lighter traffic. I couldn’t hear them: the road noise didn’t penetrate the glass.
A shower clicked on and I spotted a short corridor to my right. The wall was covered in photos and platinum discs. Stepping up, I peered at a large glossy image of Robbie’s ecstatic face as he held up a silver award. His bandmates were around him, their arms thrown over one another’s shoulders, all equally gleeful. I touched the frame. I had so many photos of him ranging from him in his football outfit, sweaty and muddy, to looking smart in his first suit and with a radiant smile. I shook my head to rid the image of him as a reckless teenager. That wasn’t who he was anymore. He was Robbie Harding, lead singer of the Manic Machines. Photos of him were adored by thousands of fans now, blown up into life-size posters and spread across magazine covers and teenage girls’ bedrooms.
Peachy light from the room Robbie had disappeared into spilled onto the wooden living room floor. Like a moth I was drawn to it and stepped inside. It was a bedroom. But a bedroom like none other I’d ever seen. The soft light bounced around the walls and ceiling, all of which were completely covered by mirrors—huge, smooth, seamless mirrors that were just the tiniest bit smoky. Even the door to what I presumed was the en-suite—since it was open a crack and I could hear water splashing—was mirrored.
I blew out a breath and walked farther in, creating a never-ending image of myself in all four walls. The bed was enormous, bigger than a king or queen and capable of accommodating several people. It was covered in a silky silver duvet and a huge pile of pillows was stacked against the mirrored headboard. The bedside table was mirrored, as was a large chest of drawers, although these weren’t smoky. I ran my finger over the corner of a gray cushion on the bed, the crushed velvet soft beneath my fingertips.
“Ian’s a kinky bugger,” Robbie said from behind me.
I spun and my chest got tight and achy. Robbie stood before me in nothing but a white towel hanging low on his lean hips, his reflection stretching out behind him. I forced my gaze upward over his flat stomach and the thin line of dark hair that trailed from below his navel right up to his chest. I recalled perfectly what his skin felt like beneath my palms—on my mouth, in my mouth.
“Yeah, I guess,” I managed, settling my gaze on his face—so much safer than the outlines of his delectable torso that sparkled all around me.
His eyes twinkled as though he could read my mind, as if he knew I was remembering how I used to jump him in the shower, get down on my knees and show him just how dirty I could get with my mouth.
“I wrote you this one too,” he said, moving toward the tall dresser. “Last year.”
I studied the way he walked, confident and self-assured. He’d always moved with purpose, didn’t waste energy, but now it was even more noticeable. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was more mature or if it was his off-the-scale success that made him that way.
He plucked a remote from the top drawer and aimed it at a small black box hanging in the corner of the room. The intro to a beating tune rang out and he turned to me and grinned. I noticed how the light refracting around the room shone on his dark hair and picked out strands the color of hazelnut.
If you’re searching for love, scouting for the one
All you gotta do is look right next door
Yeah, yeah, yeah
All you gotta do is look right next door
’Cause she’s there, always been there