Page 5 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

mr popstar

Seren

I glance back, half annoyed, half curious. He’s still there, trailing behind me. The evening air tastes of exhaust fumes and that particular Camden mix of incense and fried onions drifting from shop doorways.

“I have no idea why you’re following me,” I mutter, not slowing, not stopping. My boots click against the wet pavement, the sound echoing off brick walls.

His laugh is low. A scrape of sound that hooks somewhere under my ribs.

I glance back again. The streetlights catch the planes of his face.

His face is... well. Deep, ridiculous burnt amber eyes. Full lips. A jawline that could cut glass and probably has.

Harrison Carter.

Filed under P for Player. For Publicity. For Please avoid at all costs.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m at a loose end.”

“So go practise,” I snap, nodding toward him. “Don’t you have a concert tomorrow?”

Another chuckle. And my stupid feet slow just a little. The scent of his aftershave—something expensive and woody—cuts through the March chill.

“Are you telling me you think I need to practise?”

“I’m saying I’m shocked your ego fits down Camden High Street.”

“I’ve played the same fifteen songs on repeat for the last ten years,” he says. “I could do them backwards with a hangover.”

We’re walking side by side now. I can feel the warmth of him, hear the soft swish of his hoodie against denim.

I find my eyes drifting. To the slope of his nose. The lashes. The faint freckles. His hair, a mess of tangled dark curls escaping from under the cap, damp from earlier rain.

My chest tightens. This is dangerous territory.

“Aren’t you worried about being seen?” I ask. My chest goes tight.

His eyes flick somewhere far off. “If I keep moving, people don’t really notice.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is. But it’s also the job.”

We’re nearly at the edge of the market. The late afternoon crowd is thinning but still nosy. Still watching. The smell of roasted chestnuts mingles with diesel fumes from passing buses.

“Do you go home often?” I have no idea where the question comes from. I stop walking. So does he.

People move around us, grumbling and bustling and alive. A woman with shopping bags tuts as she sidesteps us. A cyclist rings his bell.

My cheeks flush and I lift a gloved hand to cover the right one.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, “for ruining your very secret, very serious shopping trip.”

He smirks. One corner of his mouth tilting like he’s caught me out. “I think you owe me an apology drink. ”

My mouth falls open. Wide. Embarrassingly so.

Because there it is. The charm. That smile.

My stomach drops. Dad’s face flashes in my mind—that same practiced warmth.

“No time,” I shrug. Too fast. “I’ve got dinner.”

“Flick’s, right?” One of his brows arches in the shade of the baseball cap, and I freeze. “Simon’s taking Andrew.”

“You’re very observant.” I narrow my eyes. “For someone skulking around in a baseball cap.”

He grins, and I hate that I almost do too.

“Who are you taking?” he asks.

“I’m taking myself.” The words come out flatter than I meant.

He tilts his head. “Wow. You really are immune.”

“Oh—were you trying to charm me?” I blink. “Hang on, let me just switch off my bullshit detector.”

He laughs. Properly. The sound vibrates through my chest, and I clench my jaw against it.

My hands ball into fists inside my gloves.

“So where after Manchester?” I ask, too quick, crossing my arms.

He blinks.

Then breaks into a laugh. “Oh my God. You’re a fan.”

“No,” I snap. “I’m not.”

He grins, wide and smug. “I didn’t say we were playing Manchester.”

Shit.

My cheeks burn. “Maybe your fangirls in the shop said it.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe I heard it on the radio.”

He laughs harder. And I want to kick him.

“Right,” I snap, spinning on my heel. “Nice meeting you. Not. I’m off for the Tube. Do not follow me.”

And this time, I mean it .

His lips curl at the corners, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. Actually amused. Not camera-ready charm.

“You’re far too rude to be a groupie.”

“Oof. Harsh.” I place a hand on my chest like I’ve been wounded.

But then a blacked-out Land Rover hums to a halt beside us. The engine idles, low and expensive. His smile flickers. Fades.

“Can I offer you a lift?”

I stiffen. “No, thanks.”

His smile drops completely, shoulders deflating. For a second, he looks exhausted. The weight of something I can’t see pressing down on him.

“Please.”

Just that. One word. Quiet. Earnest.

My chest tightens.

“Why?” I fold my arms.

He shrugs. “Like I said. Loose end.”

But the charm’s back now, slipping into place.

“Find a different loose end.”

“But I like yours.”

“Listen.” I exhale hard, my breath visible in the cold air. “Sorry I was rude. Sorry about the milkshake and the unsolicited career critique. But I’m not interested. I’m not like the girls who get starry-eyed and lose their knickers because you smiled at them.”

He throws his hands up, mock-offended. “Whoa! Who said anything about knickers? I offered you a ride, not a declaration of undying lust.”

His smile returns—cheeky, knowing.

He sticks out a hand. “I’m Harry.”

“Harrison?” My voice does that embarrassing squeak thing.

“No. Just Harry.”

His hand stays there, suspended between us. The traffic rumbles past, exhaust fumes mixing with the scent of rain on concrete.

I take it, slowly. His palm is warm, calloused at the fingertips.

“Seren.” I pause. “Why Harry?”

“Harry’s my actual name. Harrison’s the stage show.”

I shake my head. “Stop. You’re giving me too many exclusives—I could sell this entire convo to a tabloid.”

His eyes settle on mine. “I’ve never been a great judge of character,” he says. “But you... I’m not worried.”

“Foolish.”

“Definitely.”

He darts a look past me. The watchers. The phones. The world pressing in.

“I’m Serendipity,” I say suddenly. “And I live in Belgravia. Is that a problem?”

His smile spreads slow and warm.

So we get in the Land Rover. Basically because I’m an idiot.

“Nice ride,” I murmur, sinking into leather that smells like old money and long-forgotten lies. My childhood creeps up in the scent; hints of my mother’s perfume, the silk of her coat sleeve, the echo of my father’s absence.

“So, Belgravia?”

I nod, eyes on the window. The driver hums along to the radio, earpiece in. Either genuinely oblivious or very convincingly pretending.

“Nice postcode for a woman who works in a record shop.”

The way he says woman makes my skin flush in places it shouldn’t.

“It’s complicated.”

He nods. Doesn’t push.

“So,” I say, because apparently I can’t sit in awkward silence, “what is after Manchester? ”

That glint flashes in his eyes again—a slow, dangerous grin forming. “Superfan moment.”

He winks. I ignore the way my stomach dips.

“We’re heading back to the States there’s studio time booked for the next album before we hit the Asia leg.”

“Got it written already?” I turn slightly toward him - and instantly regret it. We’re too close now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint scruff along his jaw. “The album, I mean.”

He looks older this close. Softer. Realer.

“Uh, no.” He watches his hands. “I should probably... do that.”

“You could try a new direction,” I offer, trying to sound casual while my pulse picks up like an idiot. “A sound that could actually be pressed to vinyl.”

“If that’s what you think I need?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

His gaze sharpens. Locks on. “You know a lot for someone who alphabetises album sleeves.”

I glance away. Can’t answer. The truth’s too tangled, too fragile.

He watches me. I can feel it like heat.

“Mm.” His eyes don’t leave me. “Interesting.”

I turn my head again, despite myself. “I’m not.”

His smile softens. “So... you don’t just hate me, but also Hailey Rogers.”

I bark a laugh that’s half horror, half hysteria. “Jesus. You were eavesdropping.”

“I’m just observant,” he says, smug. “I’ve met her. And Felix.”

I squirm. Visibly. My legs fold tighter, my fingers knot in my lap. I want to get out of this car now. “How awful for you.”

For a brief moment he stares out of the window, shadows dancing along his face .

“Was it that traumatic? I bet it was.” I almost poke him in the ribs, but that probably counts as unnecessary physical interaction, so I slide my fingers under the edge of my leg.

He turns back, blinking honey warm brown irises at me. His smile when he blinds it in my direction is enigmatic. “Not particularly memorable, to be honest.”

“What’s the address?” the driver cuts in, mercifully slicing through the tension.

“Eaton Square, please,” I say, voice brittle.

We drive in silence. I count the turns until we pull up by the black railings.

“Nice,” Harrison murmurs, low.

“Yeah. I guess.”

He watches me, thoughtful. I don’t owe him anything. Except maybe dry clothes. But the words come anyway.

“My mum died. Two years ago.” I swallow. “I wasn’t living at home, not really. Except at the end. And after... well, my dad got this thing about guilt. He hadn’t been around a huge amount. He’s been trying to make up for it ever since.”

I nod toward the house like it explains everything.

He stares out the window. “My mum feels guilty and sends a belated birthday card.”

Our eyes meet.

“I’d rather the card,” I say. “At least that feels honest.”

He chuckles, and it’s not mocking. “You’re saying that to a millionaire pop star.”

Our smiles match. For once. And it’s sort of sickening.

“Don’t you feel too old to be a pop star?”

“I’ll let you know when I turn thirty.”

He won’t. We both know that. We won’t see each other again. And it stings.

I reach for the handle. “Thanks for the ri?—”

But then he lifts a hand. Fingers threading lightly through a strand of my hair.

It’s the softest touch. Barely there. And still - it floors me. “ I made a really stupid New Year’s resolution,” he says, voice a breath.

My throat tightens. “That’s nice.”

“Otherwise... I think I’d be asking if I could kiss you.”

The breath leaves my body like I’ve been punched. “Whoa,” I echo. “Who said anything about kissing?”

He grins.

I grin.

Which is alarming.

“So if I did ask, you’d say no?”

“Damn right.” My voice is shaky. “Do you always ask?”

His eyes warm. “I think for you... I would.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t say dumb shit. Like ask me anyway.

“Nice to meet you, Harrison Carter.”

“Nice to meet you, Serendipity.”

He says my name like he’s tasted it. And it makes him smile. A real one. Slow. Soft.

I step out of the car and head to the door. Try to keep my spine straight. Try not to smile like an idiot.

I fail.

And that’s how I know I’m in trouble.

Because I want to see him again.

And wanting things, wanting people , is how you get destroyed.

I should know.

I learned it from the best.