Page 21 of The Sound Between Us

“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.