Page 20 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

earl grey or breakfast?

Seren

Where the fuck am I?

The thought hits me before I’m fully conscious, followed immediately by the sensory assault of unfamiliar luxury.

High thread count sheets wrap around my legs.

Blackout curtains filter the morning light into something soft and unnaturally calm.

There’s a particular quality to the silence, not London’s constant urban hum, but the insulated quiet that comes from being high above everything, cushioned by distance and money.

Memory crashes back.

The awards ceremony. The piano. My public meltdown in front of eight hundred industry vultures. Dad’s drunken performance and my spectacular response.

I’m in Harrison Carter’s guest room.

Christ.

I sit up slowly, taking inventory of the damage. My black dress from last night lies crumpled on the floor, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, LA sprawls below me. An alien landscape of palm trees and swimming pools that looks nothing like the grey comfort of London.

The mortification is immediate and thorough. I needed rescue. Actually needed it, like some Victorian heroine swooning into the arms of the nearest available man. Except instead of smelling salts, I got a ride in a luxury car and a night in a house where I don’t belong.

How do you face someone who watched you fall apart completely?

I pad to the window, bare feet silent on carpet softer than anything I’ve ever owned.

LA stretches endlessly in every direction, all sunshine and possibility and absolutely nothing familiar.

I’m trapped five thousand miles from home with no exit strategy and only one person between me and complete destitution.

A soft knock interrupts my spiral into self-pity.

“Seren? I’ve left some things outside your door.”

I wait until his footsteps retreat before opening the door. Folded neatly on the chair is a t-shirt, obviously his, soft from years of wear, with “Elementary World Tour 2019” in faded letters across the chest.

Very funny, Harrison.

I hold it up, noting how it would swallow me whole. The cotton is impossibly soft, worn thin in places, and it smells of him. Clean and warm with that hint of expensive cologne that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

The intimacy of wearing his clothes hits me. Too much playing house, too much like we’re more than two people who collided in spectacular fashion.

But it’s either this or the dress, and I can’t bear to put that back on. It feels contaminated by every camera flash, every whispered comment, every moment I lost control.

The t-shirt falls to mid-thigh, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror. All pale legs and messy hair, looking exactly what I am: a woman who’s lost control of her entire life.

Maybe I could just leave. Walk to LAX in designer heels and a tour t-shirt.

Reality check: I don’t even have money for a cab .

I can hear movement downstairs. The soft clink of dishes, running water, the domestic sounds of someone who actually lives here instead of just existing in hotel rooms. There’s no avoiding this confrontation, and the longer I hide up here, the more pathetic I become.

Time to face the music.

I find him in the living room, barefoot in faded jeans with his hair still messy from sleep. He’s got an acoustic guitar across his lap, feet up on the coffee table, picking out what sounds vaguely like a melody if you’re being generous about it.

Morning light streams through those ridiculous windows, hitting him perfectly. Of course he looks perfect. Of course even his casual doesn’t look casual.

“You sound as though you’ve never had a lesson.”

He looks up with a grin that’s half relief, half amusement. “We can’t all be genetic musical maestros.”

I roll my eyes and perch on the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt if this gets weird. “Nice shirt. Very subtle.”

“I live to amuse.” He sets the guitar aside. “Coffee?”

“I don’t suppose you have tea?”

“I’m not a savage, Seren.” There’s warmth in his voice I wasn’t expecting. “Earl Grey or English Breakfast?”

“You actually have proper tea?”

“I have proper everything. One of the advantages of having money and no taste, you can afford to buy the expensive version of things you don’t understand.”

I follow him into the kitchen, noting the way he moves through the space with easy familiarity. The coffee machine is some Italian monstrosity that probably costs more than my car, and there’s a kettle. An actual electric kettle, not some stovetop American nonsense.

“Milk?”

“Obviously. ”

“Sugar?”

“Two.”

“Wait a minute.” He pauses, hand on his hip, eyebrow raised. “Thought you lived in a sugar-free house?”

I bite back what could be considered an almost smile. “Maybe I lied.”

His brown gaze rests on mine, and there’s something searching there, trying to figure out which version of me is real. “Hm.”

He warms the pot, measures tea leaves from a tin that looks expensive and probably is. The domesticity makes my chest tight in a way I don’t want to examine.

“I should probably try and get back to the UK.”

He shrugs, not looking up from the tea ritual. “Or you could stay.”

“Stay?”

“Well, at least for brunch.”

“How very LA of you.”

The tea is perfect. Proper strength, the right amount of milk, served in a mug clearly chosen for function over form. I wrap my hands around it and inhale the familiar comfort of bergamot and home.

“There’s this place in Malibu. Does proper full English if you’re homesick.”

“I’m not homesick. I’m just... displaced.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

I study his face over the rim of my mug. He’s being careful with me, keeping his distance, not pushing, treating me as though I might shatter if he says the wrong thing.

“I can’t just hide in the Hills indefinitely.”

“Why not? I do it all the time.”

“You have a reason to be here. I’m just... running away.”

“Nothing wrong with a strategic retreat.” He takes a sip of his coffee, black, of course. “My assistant can get you whatever you need. Phone, clothes, whatever. ”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why? Because you’re proud? Or because you don’t trust me?”

The question lands harder than it should. “People don’t just... help. There’s always a price.”

“What if there isn’t one?”

I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “There’s always a price, Harrison. Maybe you don’t see it immediately, but it’s there. Written in small print on the back of every kindness.”

He’s quiet for a moment, studying me with those amber eyes. “Who hurt you that way?”

“Everyone.” The word slips out raw, unfiltered. “Dad, Kimba. Every industry person who ever showed interest in my ‘talent.’ Everyone who ever made me feel as though I mattered and then presented the bill.”

“I’m not presenting a bill.”

“Not yet.”

He sets down his coffee and steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can smell his soap, see the gold flecks in his irises, feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

“This house has been empty for two years. It’s nice having someone to cook for.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice is soft, intimate in a way that makes my pulse skip.

“I know you make terrible coffee but perfect tea. I know you can write songs that make people weep and you’re too scared of your own talent to let anyone hear them.

I know you’ve been taking care of yourself for so long you’ve forgotten what it feels to let someone else try. ”

The words hit, each one finding its mark with devastating accuracy.

“Stop.”

“I know you’re scared to go back to London because they’ll be waiting. Cameras, questions, your father’s damage control?—”

“Stop.” I hold my hand up, but he’s already too close, already saying things that cut too deep.

“So don’t go back. Not yet.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with possibility and danger. He’s close enough that I can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, count his eyelashes, notice the way his lips part slightly when he’s concentrating.

I should step back. Should put distance between us.

Instead, I find myself leaning closer.

“This isn’t real, you know. This domestic thing we’re doing.”

“What if it could be?” His hand lifts toward my face, fingers almost touching my cheek before stopping just short. “What if we stopped pretending this is temporary?”

“It can’t.” I step back, the spell breaking. “You know it can’t.”

The moment shatters. We’re both breathing too hard, standing in his kitchen as though we’re about to either fight or fuck, and I’m not sure which would be more dangerous.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, saving us from whatever stupid thing I was about to do next.

A text from Flick: Don’t come home yet. Situation outside.

“What is it?”

I swipe open the message thread. Flick’s sent a string of photos that make my blood run cold:

The first shows the entrance to Vespa Records swarmed by photographers.

The second is a close-up of my front door. A note shoved through the letterbox, probably from a journalist offering money for my story.

The third makes my legs give out. A Twitter thread with over 30,000 retweets. A grainy video of me at the piano, text overlays: “Daddy Issues: The Musical” and “When nepotism goes wrong.”

The fourth photo makes my stomach drop completely. Harrison’s hand on my back as we leave the venue, his face turned toward mine with obvious concern. The caption reads: “New Romance or Damage Control? Harrison Carter Rescues Industry Meltdown.”

But it’s the fifth screenshot that destroys me. A compilation of headlines:

“Who Needs Who More: A Fading Star or the Obsolete Daughter of a Has-Been?”

“Carter’s Latest Charity Case: From Pop Princess to Nepo Baby Babysitter”

“Is This Harrison’s Midlife Crisis or Seren’s Cry for Relevance?”

The comments underneath are a mix of sympathy and absolute savagery:

Finally a Rogers with actual talent

Attention seeking runs in the family

She looks ready to have a breakdown just like her mum