“Can we talk about how I’m going to dress you for the concert?” I ask him, reaching for my black leather bag. “I’ve been talking to this amazing vintage clothing store in Dublin, and they’ve got some gorgeous things that might work.”

  I pull out my sketchbook and show him what I’ve been working on for the concert, which is like a homecoming because neither of us has spent much time in Ireland during the past two years. The outfits that I’ve put together for the various events honor his Irish heritage. Leather trousers with crios belts; fitted tweed jackets with vintage T-shirts and ripped, skinny jeans. There’s even a kilt option, which he quickly dismisses.

  “We’re Irish,” he grumbles. “We don’t do kilts.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s just this once, and it’s a special occasion!” And then, because I know it’ll push some of his buttons, I add, “I’m sure a few members of Blackthorn will wear kilts.”

  “Fuck Blackthorn,” he snarls.

  Conor often plays with a chip on his shoulder because of his boyband past. ’NTune was the perfect bubblegum pop group that teenage girls screamed over. When Conor split from the band, he was criticized, and I know how hard he’s worked to prove to people that he’s a legitimate musician with real talent. This concert is another way to show the music world the depths of his talent.

  Right before we land in Dublin, the flight attendant transforms our bed back into seats, and we buckle up. Conor reaches across the console for my hand, and I enjoy our last moments of sweet privacy. He tugs me until I’m leaning into him and wraps his other arm across me. He places a sweet kiss on top of my head, and whispers, “Things are going to change, Birdie. I promise.”

  I look up at him, confused. What exactly does he mean? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but Conor gives me a kiss that makes me forget what I was going to ask. His kiss starts slow but deepens into something more, something sensual. Like he’s sealing the promise he just made.

  When he pulls back, my cheeks are hot, and my tummy is swirling with nerves. There’s only one thing I want from Conor—honesty—and I wonder if he’s finally going to give it to me.

  Conor

  I feel like a train wreck sitting in the back of the Town Car that’s taking me to the studio for my first interview of the day. I haven’t had a proper shower in twenty-four hours, and I still smell faintly of sex. Brigid tried to get me to freshen up once we deplaned, but I was in a hurry and didn’t want to be late. I never want to keep people waiting, but now, I wish I had taken a moment to get myself together.

  My publicist sent over a list of potential questions, and I study them during the ride. Some questions are easier to answer than others. I murmur answers, rehearsing how I’m going to respond, but the questions about my personal life trip me up. I’ve worked so hard to protect my relationship with Brigid. I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that hardly anyone even knows we’re together. In fact, I’m not even sure my publicist knows we’re in a relationship.

  Since I’ve known Brigid almost my whole life, I feel protective of her. She didn’t ask to become my personal assistant; I kind of forced her into the position when I quit ’NTune. A lot of people thought I was stupid for leaving such a massively popular group, and I found myself assembling a whole new team. As a favor, Brigid helped me with my first solo show, and I refused to let her leave because she was so damn efficient.

  I never want to make her regret giving up her own plans.

  But I can’t ignore the questions about my personal life, no matter how hard I try. The paparazzi gets smarter every day, and I constantly worry that someone will catch us unsuspecting and thrust Brigid into the spotlight.

  She thinks I'm overly cautious, but I saw my mates in ’NTune get hammered by the fans over having a girlfriend. And then there’s the ugly harassment faced the girls too. I refuse to put Brigid through that because it would gut me to see her hounded by complete strangers.

  Brigid is special. She’s the one, I know it. And that’s why I’m at this fucking crossroads right now. I could go into these interviews and do what I normally do, which is brush aside the questions. Or I could be honest.

  When I arrive at the first interview, I feel relaxed. The interviewer, Matt, is just some random lad from an entertainment television news program who fumbles his way through the first few questions.

  “So will you be treating your fans to your version of ‘Danny Boy’ on St. Patrick’s Day?” he asks.

  I smile because it’s such an easy answer. “Absolutely. And it’ll mean so much more singing it in Dublin.”

  When I auditioned for a talent show as a young teenaged boy, I sang “Danny Boy” because it was my granddad’s favorite song, and everyone loved the way I performed it. It’s what landed me a spot in ’NTune. I performed it at every concert until it became almost like a schtick. It was one of the reasons why I left the band. The song is so special to me, and I didn’t want to feel forced to sing it every night.

  During my first few solo performances, I didn’t sing it until Brigid asked me about it. “Why don’t you sing it anymore? You make it sound so lovely.”

  “It just didn’t feel special anymore,” I replied with a shrug.

  “Will you sing it for me tonight?” she asked.

  That was the moment “Danny Boy” returned to my set list because every night, I searched for Brigid out in the audience and sang it to her.

  I continue my answer, “My parents will be in the audience as will my gran. They love that song, and I’ve really missed home.”

  The banter between Matt and I continues, and then he gets bold. “You’re notoriously private, but recently, some photos have surfaced.” He holds up a few photographs, and I’m caught off guard. What is he talking about? Photographs of what? “I don’t know if you’ve seen them, but you’ve been spotted with the same girl over and over. Do you want to tell us who she is?”

  My fingers tremble as I take the photographs and shuffle through them. The girl is definitely Brigid, but luckily, she’s a few paces behind me, and there’s no contact. I can totally brush this off.

  “That’s no one.” The words roll easily off my tongue because I’m a practiced liar. So much for honesty. “She’s one of those super groupies, you know? The kind with too much money and time.”

  “Really? So this isn’t the two of you together at the airport in Seoul?” Matt holds up another picture of Brigid and me in the airport. She’s still a few paces back because that’s what she’s accustomed to doing. Come on, you arse, I scold myself. Just fess up!

  I grin uncomfortably. “It’s just a coincidence, mate. We might have flown the same airline but so did hundreds of other people.” I decide that it’s time to end this interview. No more questions about my private life because that means digging myself into a deeper hole. “Is that all? I really have to get going.”

  The interviewer looks down at his notes. “Yeah. Thanks for the time, Conor.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I finish the interview with some photographs and autographs before heading out to the waiting Town Car that will take me to my next interview. I spend the entire ride praying to St. Jude because if Brigid watched the interview, then I’m a lost cause.

  Brigid

  My mouth hangs open as I stand in the middle of the dressing room. That interview was absolutely disgusting, and my heart is pretty much in pieces. This was his chance! This was Conor’s chance to finally be honest about our relationship. And he blew it.

  The pictures caught him off guard, and he immediately stiffened. Then he ended the interview and fled. Like a fucking criminal.

  And the radio interview after is just as horrible. Every time he denies our relationship or brushes me aside as a groupie, the cracks in my heart grow.

  When I leave the arena to head to the vintage shop, there’s a small gathering of paparazzi. I pay them no mind because Blackthorn is currently rehearsing, and no doubt, the grouping of cameramen and reporters are waiting for them.

  “Hey, isn’t that the girl?” I hear someone in the crowd say.

  “No, he said she was a groupie,” someone answers. “What would she be doing at the arena?”

  “Members of his band,” a third person responds with a sickening laugh.

  I want to stop and scream at them, but I don’t because I love Conor. I’d never do anything to hurt him. But hearing the comments the gathering of photographers start to make about how many groupies they’ve seen do the walk of shame churns my stomach.

  Conor arranged for a Town Car to drive me around town, and it’s easy to spot. I slip inside the back seat, sinking into the plush leather and unexpectedly, tears begin flowing. No more, I promise myself. No more being Conor Byrne’s dirty little secret.

  No matter how hurt I feel, I still have a job to do, though, and I score some amazing finds at the vintage shop. When I return to Conor’s dressing room at the arena, I begin pulling items from the bags, place them on hangers, and hang them on a chrome clothing rack. He’s going to love the vintage concert T-shirts the most.

  I admire a tawny leather jacket with amazing fringe accents that I found for myself when I hear Conor’s voice in the hallway.

  I freeze. Somehow, I managed to avoid thinking about the disastrous interviews and the horrid things the paparazzi said when I walked past them. Now, it’s all coming back in one big, ugly wave, and if I let him in here, two things are going to happen. First, I’m going to yell. Then I’m going to cry. I rush forward and flip the lock on the door, hoping to give myself a few minutes to compose myself before I face him.

  The door handle jiggles, and I freeze. Then there’s a knock. “Brigid,” Conor asks cautiously. “Brigid, are you in there?”

  I clamp my mouth shut because I want to tell him everything. I want him to know how hurt I felt when he called me a “groupie” and how sick I was hearing those photographers make disgusting comments.

  “Hey lads, do you know if my personal assistant, Brigid, is here?” I hear Conor ask.

  “The hot redhead? Yeah, she’s around,” one of them answers.

  “Thanks.” Conor’s voice is tight. He can be an extremely jealous and possessive prick. The handle shakes again, and the knocking is firmer. “Brigid, are you in there?”

  “Go away, Conor!”

  “Birdie! Open the door, Birdie!” The handle moves again, and I can hear Conor stomping around the corridor out of the dressing room.

  His use of my nickname only makes things worse. My father calls me Birdie, and Conor picked up the habit. He frequently switches between Birdie and sweetheart, and normally, they make me swoon a little. Now it just makes my heart ache.

  “No!” I screech. My hurt is slowly dissolving into frustration because dammit! I deserve better! Conor’s had two years of my life, and I’ve given him my heart. So why can’t he just leave me the fuck alone?

  The doorknob shimmies and shakes, and Conor knocks again. “Just open the door so we can talk.”

  “I wouldn’t open the door if you were Jesus Christ himself!”

  There’s a slow, rhythmic sound against the door, and I picture Conor banging his head against it. “Brigid, sweetheart, please open the door.”

  For a moment, Conor fools me, and I take one step forward, reaching my hand out. I’m moments away from conceding. Ready to forgive him. And then I remember how he reduced me to nothing more than a silly girl with an infatuation. A groupie.

  The sweet-talking bastard!

  “Brigid, sweetheart?” Conor’s voice is lower, but I can hear the hope in his voice.

  I scream with frustration, “Go away!” There’s no way he’s getting in this dressing room just to make excuses.

  Conor pounds on the door again. “Dammit, Brigid! Open the fucking door.”

  “Why don’t you go and find one of your groupies!” I couldn’t help myself.

  “Just tell me what you want, Brigid. Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.” The desperation in his voice calls out to me. It’s so hard for me to refuse him, especially when what I want is finally within reach.

  I shuffle slowly to the door, flip the lock, and open it a crack. Conor is leaning against the doorframe, eyes closed and face full of frustration and regret. He’s so undeniably handsome, but right now, my hurt and anger allow me to see him differently.

  Conor Byrne is more than just the man I am in love with; he’s also a coward.

  “You’ll give me anything?” I ask quietly.

  His eyes pop open, revealing the arctic blue eyes that make my knees weak. His mouth tips up into a sad, lopsided smile. “Name it.”

  “I don’t want to be your dirty secret anymore,” I tell him plainly even though deep inside I’m a nervous wreck because I feel like I’m asking for the impossible.

  “Birdie,” Conor says, and I know that tone because I’ve known this man for most of my life. It’s the tone he uses when he’s trying to back out of something.

  “Stupid Birdie,” I say bitterly. “If you didn’t have the balls to say that you have a girlfriend in your interview today, why would you do it now?” I turn my back, grab my black leather bag from the nearby sofa, and face Conor. “I quit.”

  With my head down, I brush past him, but he manages to grab me by the arm. I stop and look down at my scuffed boots.

  “You know how it is,” Conor whispers.

  “Yeah, I do,” I bite back. “But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

  I pull my arm free and head down the long hallway. I can’t look back because if I do, I’ll go to him, and all the fight that I have deep inside will disappear.

  Conor

  “You really are an arsehole.” The gravelly voice belongs to Sean Black, and he is the last person I want to see right now.

  “Fuck off,” I growl and step into my dressing room. The Black brothers hate me; in fact, they didn’t even want me to open for them, but the concert’s promoter Janie Locke is a ball-buster and what she says goes.

  “You’re not going to get out of this one, pretty boy.” I guess Sean didn’t take the hint because he’s standing in the doorway.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “This concert is my business, and you’re putting it in jeopardy. I don’t need you cocking it all up because you don’t have balls big enough to tell that girl you love her. In public!”

  I narrow my eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The fuck I don’t,” he spits out. “I’ve been in this business longer than you have. I know a coward when I see one.”

  My hands clench into fists, and I resist the urge to level Sean Black. “I’m not a coward,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Really? Then what’s your fucking plan?”

  I spin on my heel because I don’t have a fucking clue. The woman I’m in love with stormed past me, and I’m not sure if she’s ever coming back. My eyes land on my guitar. It’s a 1968 Fender Telecaster with a pink paisley design. My granddad bought it for me when ’NTune first formed, and I’ve used it to write most of my songs. A melody has been haunting me for days, but the words have eluded me.

  My head turns to meet Sean. “Help me write a song.” I walk over to the guitar, pick it up from the stand, and sling the strap over my body. “I have a melody.” I play him what I’ve been humming and strumming for days.

  Sean snickers. “That’s your big plan? To write her a song?”

  “It’s what she wants,” I say softly. “She doesn’t want to hide anymore.”

  There’s only one way that my Birdie will forgive me, and that’s if I do something big and bold. And nothing’s bigger than a concert on St. Patrick’s Day in the Dublin Arena.

  I concentrate on the melody, thinking about Brigid. Without her, I feel out of tune. There’s only been a handful of weeks when we’ve been separated since our relationship began, and every time she was gone, I was a moody bastard and totally out of sorts. But when she returned, it was like sunshine after a long, cold winter. My heart beat louder because she was near.

  Sean picks up an acoustic guitar that was in a stand next to my Fender. He easily picks up the melody that I’ve been playing. “Tell me about her,” he says.

  “I’ve known her my whole life.” I sort of sing the words and make them fit my tune. “Someday, she’ll probably be my wife.”

  Sean raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Go on.”

  We continue this way until I set my guitar aside and write down the lyrics. Sean continues to strum out the melody, and we play it twice through to make sure it works. It’s the cheesiest, sappiest song I’ve ever written, but if I have any hope of winning my girl back, this is the only way.

  When I head back to the hotel at the end of the night, I expect to find our room empty. Instead, Brigid is there, sitting on the couch in the suite’s living room with her suitcases packed.

  “Are you really going to quit?” I ask her plainly.

  “I don’t know. I need a few days to think,” she answers sharply.

  “Please don’t go.” My voice is low but thick with desperation.

  From the couch, Brigid looks up at me with her big green eyes. Her normal riot of red curls hangs limply around her shoulders. She’s finally given up. “I’m sorry, Conor.”

  Brigid stands up and grabs the handle of her suitcase. As she brushes past me, I reach out and stop her. My hand slips around her waist, and I pull her closer. She lets go of the suitcase and places a steadying hand on my arm. My head bends, and my lips cover hers in a desperate kiss. Everything that I can’t yet tell her is in that kiss. My need for her. My love for her. My lips repeat the unspoken words over and over until I can feel those temporary walls she’s put up begin to crumble.

  But I make a mistake. I’m too eager to earn her forgiveness.

  “Birdie,” I rasp out, dragging my lips away from hers. “Sweetheart, don’t leave.”

  Brigid’s eyes pop open, and she pushes away from me. “Things have to change, Conor,” she says, her voice trembling.

 

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