Page 7 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

loser flu

Seren

The steam curls upward from some delicate domestic disaster. I blow at it, lazy and deliberate, fanning it across the kitchen. A pathetic little symphony of pasta and avoidance.

“Then what happened?” The phone wedges between my shoulder and ear, precarious, and slips just as I stir the penne. I catch it before it ends up boiling with the pasta.

“Oh, Ser.” Flick sighs, dreamy and dramatic. “It was amazing. Like honestly, amazing. Like I could have died.”

“If you say ‘like’ one more time, I might have to make it happen.”

She ignores me, obviously. “You should have come. Simon cried. Full-on tears. During that ballad they do. What’s it called again?”

I reach down to the cupboard beneath the island, pull out a jar of pasta sauce and thunk the lid against the marble. “No idea. Is it called ‘We Are So Shit’?”

“So you don’t want to know if we saw him?”

The jar splats into the saucepan; the sound is grossly satisfying. “Nope. I’m just glad you had fun.”

“Mm. ”

“Mm what?” I stab at the sauce with the wooden spoon.

“Mm... how come we went out for my birthday and you didn’t mention that Harrison Carter had been in your shop. Or that you baptised him in strawberry milkshake?”

My stomach clenches so sharply it feels like punishment. “So you did talk to him.”

“Thought you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not.”

Liar.

We slip into silence. I keep cooking. Violently. Taking my emotional issues out on carbohydrates. She eventually speaks again, suspicious. “Why does it sound like you’re murdering someone?”

“I’m making pasta and sauce.”

“No roast with the old man and Kimba?”

I shiver and glance toward the bottle of bleach by the sink. A little melodramatic, maybe, but the thought of Dad and his wife-from-hell makes me wish for memory erasure. Industrial strength.

“Don’t call her that.”

“Better than calling her Mum.”

Flick laughs, wicked and amused. “How’d you get out of Sunday Institution, or whatever he’s calling it these days?”

“They’ve gone to Munich. Some music festival.”

“In March?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Whatever.” Translation: thank God they’re gone and nowhere near me.

“Want me to come over?”

I look at the pot of pasta, now slightly massacred, then at my open laptop. Still glowing. Still taunting. Still showing the same bloody image I’ve been staring at on loop.

His face. That cocky boyish grin. The one that shouldn’t do anything to me. But does.

It’s borderline filthy now, the way I’ve been internet stalking him; a quiet obsession with a man I don’t even like .

I didn’t go to the gig. Couldn’t. But YouTube was right there. And the milkshake came cold. Which felt weirdly thoughtful. And confusing.

I Googled ‘Elementary Live Wembley’. Actually typed it out. With my own fingers; into my own laptop. Loser flu—horrid and humiliating.

The bell rings. Sharp. Echoing from the hall.

“Bollocks. Uncle Vinny probably forgot they’re out.”

“Ugh. He’ll be drunk and want a singsong.”

“See you tomorrow. Make mine an extra strong latte.”

“I always do on Mondays.”

I go to hang up, but loser flu wins. I pause. Let myself dip just once.

“Was it good, then?”

“Aha. I knew it.” Flick is practically smug. “It was very good. Even by your icy, snobby standards. And let me tell you...”

The doorbell goes again. Too long; too hard. Whoever it is can see me. My shadow’s right there on the glass.

“Oh, fuck it. Make sure no one else speaks to Double Shot Latte man before I get there.”

“I’ll beat them off with baguettes, don’t worry. Oh, Seren?”

“Yeah?”

“He was fucking fit. All damp and sexy from the post-show shower. Mate, even your ovaries wouldn’t have survived it.”

I hang up, drop the phone onto the counter, and stalk toward the door, voice raised. “Vinny, they aren’t home. Fuck off.”

The bell goes again. This time with more insistence. Whoever it is, they’re not leaving.

“Do you mi—” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat, swallowed whole.

Because there he is. Harrison Carter. Leaning against the wall of my building, all lazy confidence. Back pressed against the cream stucco; shoulder resting against the drainpipe. He belongs there. The whole world exists just to be leant on by him.

For a second, he looks biblical. A fallen god in a navy coat and builder boots.

I mentally slap myself back into the reality where his music is crap and I don’t care what his face looks like.

His tawny gaze glides across my face, indifferent. Lazy. He radiates could-not-care-less energy.

“So. Serendipity.”

I snap to attention. Full feline. Narrowed eyes; upper lip curled in warning.

“Harrison Carter. Did my note not make it clear enough?”

He pushes off the wall slowly, fluidly, the bricks releasing him reluctantly. “I know who you are.”

Heat flickers in my chest. The housecat bares its teeth.

“And?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

“I’m intrigued.”

“Go be intrigued somewhere else. There’s a zoo near Regent’s Park. Or try the National Gallery if you’re feeling cultural.”

I move to close the door. He steps in. Palm against the wood.

The touch hums. Electricity through grain; right into my bones.

“Serendipity Rogers. Daughter of Damon Rogers, the man who practically invented British pop, and Faith Jones.”

My stomach does a full somersault and drops, landing somewhere near my ankles. The mention of Mum tastes bitter in my mouth.

“I’m not interested in your world. I can’t help you. I can’t open doors; I can’t get you meetings. I have nothing to offer you, Harrison. ”

His face changes. Subtly. A pause drags out. His shadow stretches across my hallway, reaching the honey oak floorboards. Already halfway into my house.

Why is he here? Why does he look that good?

Baseball cap pulled low. Chunky knit hugging his chest under that navy jacket; dark jeans and boots that say he didn’t Uber here. Absolute bastard.

His gaze drops. Lands on my chest where Guns N’ Roses is stretched across a faded tee. Circling my tits in faded glory.

“I’m not here for your dad.” His voice softens. Not by much; but enough to slice differently.

“No? Because I learned early that’s usually all anyone wants. My surname comes with expectations. And those expectations always rot everything.”

His lips—those maddening, plump lips—twitch again.

“I’m not just anyone, sugar.”

My eyebrow arches with surgical precision. “Right. Call me sugar again, and I’ll show you exactly how sweet I’m not.”

He exhales. Shoulders fall as though he’s been holding the world up all day. “Can I come in?”

“What? No. I’m not a fan, Harrison. I’m not going to swoon. In case Friday didn’t drive that point home.”

He smiles, and it’s reckless. Bright. Dangerous.

“I got the memo. Loud and clear.”

A puzzle piece clicks in my brain. Slips into place with soft dread.

“You enjoy that I didn’t care.”

His grin is all teeth now. He doesn’t deny it.

I replay everything I said to him. Cringe just a little. And panic. A lot.

“I thought you were flying out to work on your new album.”

He stiffens slightly. The smile fades. “What if I was?”

“This isn’t LA. And it’s definitely not a recording studio. ”

His hands curl slightly. That flicker of shadow crosses his face again. “I’m aware. Are you going to let me in?”

I hesitate. Shake my head. “No.”

“Really?”

His expression actually cracks open. It makes him look younger; softer, more ruinable. I hate that I notice.

“You see, the thing is, Harrison...” I pause on his name, saying it slowly, testing how it feels.

His gaze scans my face. I think he’s listening now. Properly.

“The moment people find out who I am, they want to use me. Even if they don’t know it at first. It starts as harmless. Then it morphs. A casual ‘Could you’ slips out. Then another; and another. Until eventually, they forget why they started.”

He says nothing. Just watches me.

And I know this road. I’ve walked it before; I know exactly how it ends. “I hate to tell you, but there’s nothing I need.”

“That’s what you think now. At first, I’ll just be Seren. But give it time. I’ll turn into Seren with connections; Seren with access. Seren and an opportunity.”

I should shut the door. Should walk back to the kitchen; should pretend this never happened. But then his hand lifts and drifts along my arm. Just fingertips. Just air. Still, it leaves sparks skittering across my skin. My body betrays me with a shiver I pretend isn’t real.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” His voice rough and strange. “But I got to the airport, and I knew the one thing I couldn’t do was get on that plane.”

There’s a tremble to the words. They’ve been scraped up from somewhere deep; they shake through me in a way that feels... not safe.

And somehow, I see it. Just for a second. Beneath the polish and PR; beneath the swagger and sex appeal. That small, exhausted boy he’s hiding in the folds of his fame .

I’ll regret this. I know it deep in the bone.

“You’d better come in, superstar.”

His smile flashes. All relief and white teeth. “You had me worried there. Thought my charm meter was broken.”

I lift a warning finger. “Careful. I’ve got pepper spray somewhere in here.”

“Relax. I told you, I’m on a New Year’s resolution. No flings; no scandals. No women.”

I recoil slightly. “You must have been a right piece of work to need that kind of detox.”

He only grins. Bastard. Good thing my bullshit radar is sharp enough to take down a plane.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’ve made me burn the pasta.”

I run back to the kitchen, hoping it might be salvageable. Spoiler alert—it’s not. Behind me, I hear his bag drop with a soft thud as he follows.

I clatter pans and hiss curses. I can feel him moving around my flat, a presence that pricks at my skin even when I’m not looking. His shadow slides against the wall.

“Are you nosing through my stuff?”

He pokes his head through the door, all innocence. “It’s very white in here. Don’t you get a headache?”

“It was this way when I moved in.” I dump the entire saucepan of crispy penne into the sink.

“When was that?”

“Two years ago.”

“Oh yeah. When your mum passed.”

My stomach clenches. Hard. My heart throws itself against my ribs with a thud that feels both hollow and brutal. The buzzing in my ears starts again.

“So you’re the daughter of not one music legend, but two.”

He leans against the wall. I don’t think he can function upright without support.

“Mum gave all that up. For me. ”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. “Your dad didn’t.”

“No. But then, Mum didn’t need to. I never asked that of her.” That memory of her on a bathroom floor slides into my head with sharpened edges.

His mouth tightens. “Some mothers don’t wait to be asked. That’s kind of the job.”

There’s a dark edge in his voice. A bitter undercurrent that curls around the conversation. But then he shakes it off and steps properly into the living space.

“This is nice. Needs colour. But nice.”

He stops. Looks at the MacBook.

Oh God.

My stomach flips. The screen hasn’t gone to sleep.

No. No. No.

I lunge, but he’s faster. Longer legs; longer reach.

He holds the laptop up between two fingers as though it’s contagious. “I’m sensing a little groupie behaviour here.”

“Don’t drop that. I can’t afford a new one.”

He frowns, amused. “You live in Belgravia. Laptops aren’t exactly rare commodities.”

I exhale. “I work in a vintage record shop that pays minimum wage. This flat? Guilt trip from my dad. That’s all.”

“But your dad is Damon Rogers.”

I stare at him. “So? My mum left him when I was six. We lived normal.”

He watches me carefully. “No. I don’t buy that.”

“Why? Would it kill your fantasy if I wasn’t posh and rich?”

“What? You do know I grew up on a council estate, right?” He waves the laptop and my open YouTube tab around.

Heat crawls up my neck. “I was so angry when she died. Mum. I gave all the money I had to the hospice. Every penny.”

His eyes widen. His expression shifts .

“Yeah. Then I realised I had no way to pay rent; no backup. Dad showed up while she was sick. Guilt in human form. He decided he loved her again, just in time to be too late. And I became his project.”

My mouth twists. “Pretty sure he regrets it now.”

Harrison’s gaze flicks to the baby grand by the wall. “You play.”

“Used to.”

“May I?”

His tone changes. Quiet; almost reverent.

“Sure. It’s collecting dust.”

I turn away, back to the wreckage of dinner. “You know, I don’t know what to do for food now. That was my last pack of spaghetti. You turning up has been a complete logistical disaster.”

He doesn’t respond. Just moves toward the piano. A second later, the sound begins—faint, haunting, almost not real.

His fingers drift across the keys. He’s playing skin, not ivory.

I freeze.

The song is “Trust.” My mother’s song.

And it hits. Right in the chest.

Tears sting before I can stop them. My shoulders rise to my ears and then collapse back down. They’re carrying the weight of it all.

He plays her song with meaning; with understanding. And I know he doesn’t.

He can’t.

But he plays anyway.

And I stand there, silent and bitter and split open just a little wider.

Because I don’t trust him. Not one bit.