Page 31 of The Sound Between Us

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.”