Page 21 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

Harrison using her for publicity, she’s using him for relevance

That last one hits hardest.

“Seren? What’s wrong?”

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

Another text from Flick: Simon’s fielding calls at the shop. Someone offered ￡10k for “insider details about your relationship with Harrison Carter.” I told them to fuck off. Also, they found your mum’s grave. There are flowers and photographers there too.

Harrison reads over my shoulder. His face goes from confusion to something that looks like guilt mixed with weary resignation.

“Christ, they’re not holding back.” He actually laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Though I have to say, ‘fading star’ is kinder than usual. Last month they called me ‘the poor man’s Ed Sheeran with daddy issues and a messiah complex.’ ”

I look at him, startled by his casual tone.

“Oh, that’s nothing. There was a whole think piece in The Guardian about how my accent gets posher during interviews, clearly compensating for my ‘council estate roots and nouveau riche pretensions.’” He grins, but there’s something brittle around his eyes.

“They spent three paragraphs analyzing my kitchen renovation as evidence of my ‘desperate climb away from his working-class origins.’”

“They wrote about your kitchen?”

“Apparently having marble countertops when you grew up eating beans on toast is a betrayal of the authentic working-class narrative they’ve assigned me.

” His laugh is sharp, defensive. “The funny thing is, Mum would have loved those countertops. She used to say the only thing she wanted in life was a kitchen where she didn’t have to worry about the laminate peeling. But they don’t write about that part.”

“How often do you see her?”

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. “Not as often as I think I’d like.”

“What does that mean?”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring down at his coffee. “With my first royalty cheque I bought her the house with the marble kitchen tops.” His voice gets smaller, more vulnerable. “But I always got the impression she loved them more than she loved me.”

The words hit me. I can see it so clearly, young Harrison desperate to prove his love through expensive gifts, only to watch his mother fall in love with the house instead of understanding the gesture behind it.

I almost lean forward. Almost reach for him, almost let my hand cover his where it rests on the counter. Almost offer the kind of comfort I’ve never been good at giving.

Almost.

Instead, I curl my fingers around my mug and let the moment pass .

My phone buzzes again. Unknown numbers, one after another.

“Turn it off.”

I’m already declining the calls, but they keep coming.

“Seren, turn it off. It will get worse before it gets better.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this exact thing happened to me two years ago. Different scandal, same feeding frenzy.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “Except mine involved a married actress and a very public divorce. The headlines were creative, I’ll give them that. ‘Home-wrecker Harrison’ was probably my favourite.”

Something twists in my gut at the mention of another woman. Another person he might have loved, might have lost himself in, might have been willing to destroy his reputation for.

“Did you love her?”

He stares at me, his gaze clear and unflinching. “For a time, maybe.”

The honesty hits harder than I expected. No deflection, no pretty lie to make me feel better. Just the truth, simple and devastating.

“You’re taking this very well.”

“Practice.” He shrugs. “The first time they tore me apart in print, I didn’t leave my flat for three weeks.

Had groceries delivered, ignored my management, the whole dramatic hermit routine.

” He pauses. “Then I realised they’re going to write whatever story sells papers, whether I hide or not. Might as well live my life.”

I power down the phone with shaking hands.

“I can’t go back. Not yet.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple?—”

“It is, though.” Harrison’s arms come around me, and for once I don’t pull away. “One week. Give it one week for the circus to move on to the next shiny disaster. ”

I nod against his chest, breathing in that clean, warm scent that’s becoming dangerously familiar.

“Give yourself one week before you decide anything. One week to figure out what you want to do, where you want to go. Whether you want to give them the satisfaction of seeing you run.”

“What’s in it for you?”

His smile is rueful. “Maybe I’m tired of being alone with my terrible guitar playing. And maybe...” He hesitates. “Maybe I know what it feels to have the whole world watching you fail.”

I study his face, cataloguing the exhaustion around his eyes, the way his jaw tightens when he mentions the actress, the careful way he’s holding me.

“I pay my own way. Whatever your assistant buys, I reimburse.”

“Deal. But you’re getting the friends and family rate.”

“Which is?”

“Free.”

One week. Seven days to figure out how to face the music I’ve made of my life. Seven days to decide if I’m brave enough to stop running.

“One week.”

“One week.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what I need.