Emma Hartgrave was never supposed to fall for her bandmate—especially not him.
Liam Teller is moody, brilliant, and maddening. All sharp edges and stolen glances.
​
On stage, they're electric. In the studio, unstoppable.
Offstage? A slow-motion heartbreak waiting to happen.
One impulsive kiss leads to one unforgettable night—and a friends-to-lovers romance that follows them from Coachella to late-night tour buses,
from cramped flights to press conferences that ask all the wrong questions.
As fame surges and pressure mounts, Emma and Liam must decide:
Protect the dream they've built,
or risk everything for a love that could tear it all apart.
From the chaos of tour life and sold-out shows
to whispered promises under city lights,
this is a story about timing, ambition, and the love you can’t walk away from—no matter how hard you try.
Coming November 25, 2025
Chapter 10: The Beast You Couldn’t Tame
Emma
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​
“Okay,” Wade began, his voice even as he looked around the room, “the label’s really happy with the album.”
He paused.
“But… they’ve got some notes. One of them is asking for another song.”
We were sitting in the live room of the studio, still buzzing from laying down one of the final tracks—Static. The energy was electric, but Wade’s tone cooled it fast.
“Another song?” Liam echoed, his jaw tightening already.
“They’re suggesting more tracks?” Max asked, sounding cautiously optimistic. “That seems… positive?”
“It is,” Andy said. “And it isn’t.”
The way he said it made my stomach tighten. Something about his tone set me on edge.
“What do they want?” I asked.
“They’re asking for something a bit more… provocative.”
Ah.
Fuck.
“Provocative?” I repeated, already annoyed. “As in lust-filled, sexy, radio-friendly heat?”
Wade and Andy both looked at me and gave a small nod.
“Yeah.”
I shook my head. Of course.
“I thought Light the Match covered that,” Dan offered, casually. “I mean, it’s literally about lighting a fire. Could be a euphemism for sexy times.”
“It’s absolutely not,” Liam said, exasperated.
“We have Electric Lovers?” Salima chimed in. “That one’s literally about being tangled up in sheets.”
“Wild Night, Broken Dreams?” Susie signed. “It’s basically ‘will we or won’t we go home together?’ That’s not provocative enough?”
“They’re all sultry,” Wade said, “but they lean rock. They’ve got grit. The label wants something more... polished. Think Whole Lotta Love vibes—but the Tatum Reeves cover version.”
“They want something more overt,” Andy explained. “Still you guys, still HGT. But with some pop shine. Something to bring out the sensuality that’s already threaded through the record—just make it unmistakable.”
He paused. Then added, “They think it’ll round out the album. And let’s be honest—pop appeal is massive. You hook them with a sultry, crossover track, you hit the numbers they’re looking for.”
Liam exhaled sharply, jaw clenched. “I know what they’re asking for,” he muttered. “We’re not doing that. The album’s done.”
I jumped in before that wall went up completely, putting a hand on Liam’s arm to let him know I was not picking a fight. “Let’s just… talk it through a bit before we slam a door in the face of the Titans.”
I turned to Wade and Andy. “Are they thinking this would be a single?”
“Yeah,” Andy said, nodding. “That’s the intention.”
“So we’re talking full promo, images, video?”
They exchanged a quick glance and nodded again.
Right. So they were planning to use a bit of sex appeal to launch us. I’d suspected this was coming. I was prepared for it.
I just wasn’t sure if the rest of the band was.
“So… they’re thinking sexy outfits? Suggestive choreography? That kind of thing?” I asked, easing the others into it.
“Exactly,” Wade confirmed. “Emma, it’ll centre on you, though. The rest of the band will need to lean into it too. Especially Liam. Visual cohesion. Marketing impact.”
Liam made a face.
Salima raised an eyebrow. “So what you’re really saying is—they’re hinting at the marketing strategy.”
“Ah,” Dan said, suddenly catching on. “So we’re gonna be what—like full-on sex symbols now?”
He immediately started doing some ridiculous body roll, gripping his shirt like he was on a runway.
“Yes, that seems to be the case,” Wade said. “If you want, we can talk about it more.”
“I think we should so that as a band, first,” Salima added, sitting forward. “Full transparency. No holds barred. All of it. Then we’ll come back and let you know comfort levels.”
“Agreed,” I said.
The guys groaned in unison.
“We need to have it,” Susie signed with a firm nod.
“Yes, I agree,” Liam said, sighing. “I’m just not exactly thrilled about it.”
“Innit a bit late in the game to be having this discussion?” Max muttered.
“It is,” I admitted.
“But as they say—better late than never,” Andy scratched the back his head, and then smoothed his grey hair.
That’s when he walked in.
Henry Mac.
The entire control room froze like the King himself had just arrived. Sound techs, engineers—everybody stilled.
He had a cigar clamped between his teeth, green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, a white pinstriped suit tailored within an inch of its life—no socks, just loafers, like he owned the place. His reddish-blond beard curled at the edges, hair long, shot through with gray. He was tall. Broad. Commanding in that way that made the air feel thinner just because he’d decided to exist in it.
And his eyes—smoky hazel, sharp enough to gut you.
He leveled them on me.
A look. A smirk. He took the cigar from his mouth. Held it in his fingers like a pool cue.
I looked anywhere but directly at him, afraid to even so much as breathe.
Liam’s jaw set hard, brows furrowed as he locked eyes with me. I could feel the tension radiating off him like static.
Dan shot up straight from his stool. Max’s drumstick froze midair. Sal swallowed like she was trying to get past a stone in her throat. Susie didn’t move at all. A statue.
Nobody said a word.
It was like watching a shark cut across a reef.
“Henry,” Wade said, voice sharp, trying to take control. “I told you we could handle the briefing notes.”
Henry didn’t even glance at him. “I know what you said, Barker. And I don’t really care.”
He slipped the cigar back into his mouth and swaggered forward, cocky as hell, planting himself dead centre in front of the control booth glass. His reflection stared us down in the live room, his presence filling the space like smoke.
“So you’re the Hartgrave Tellers, huh?” he said finally, pulling the cigar out and rolling it between his fingers. His smirk deepened. “The new kids on the roster. Greg’s latest pet project.”
Pet project?
Fuck you—sir. Disrespectfully.
My eyes darted sideways. The others looked back at me and I looked at Liam. No one dared speak.
So I shrugged, swallowed the nerves clawing at my throat, and just as I was about to force words out, Liam squared off.
“Yeah,” he said. “Less kids and pets, more… you know, actual fucking musicians.”
Henry smirked—wicked, menacing.
“We’ll see,” he drawled.
Silence. A beat too long.
I tried like hell not to shift in my seat.
As Liam and Henry had a staring contest.
“The briefing notes came from me,” he finally said, looking over Wades noted. Then he leaned back, cigar rolling between his fingers. “I see what the label’s doing here. You’re all—beautiful.”
His gaze landed on me. Stayed there. Lingered.
“Young. Hot. Available?”
None of us dignified that with an answer.
“Henry,” Andy cut in, his tone sharp, brows drawn tight.
“Oh, please.” Henry waved him off with a lazy flick of his hand. “Don’t start clutching your pearls, Somerset.”
He turned back to Wade and Andy, ignoring us like we weren’t even in the room.
“Fans eat this shit up. Parasocial relationships. It’s marketing gold. And just look at them.” He gestured over his back toward us like we were products on a shelf. “They’re young. Fuckable. Even if they couldn’t play, they’d sell. They’re oozing sex appeal—in spades. Especially Emma.”
His eyes cut back to me over his shoulder, and I went cold.
“Friggin’ knockout, and you know it. That voice? Solid fucking gold. Almost unfair it comes in that package.”
Beside me, Liam’s hand tightened around his guitar, knuckles white. He looked like he might snap the neck clean off. Henry caught it. Of course he did. And that wicked little curl of a smile spread across his lips like he was savouring the reaction.
“Henry,” Wade warned.
“Yeah, maybe back off a little,” Paul added, crossing his arms. “Last thing they need is you piling pressure on top of what’s already there. Let them finish their album.”
“Paul, just work the knobs,” Henry said dismissively. Then, to Wade and Andy: “If we’re talking strategy—you’ve got a good one. Every girl wants to be Emma, riding dreamy Liam while he plays guitar. And every guy? They want to be Liam, having a girl like Emma rubbing up against him while she blows the roof off with that voice and that body of hers.”
And with that comment I had him clocked. A boundary-pusher. The kind who prodded and provoked until people snapped—while he sat back, perfectly calm, feeding off the control. Probably got off on it.
He turned back to us, smirking.
“Are you two screwing?”
He pointed between us.
“Jesus Christ, Henry,” Andy muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve crossed about a dozen HR violations in five minutes.”
I narrowed my gaze at Henry. Liam was a live wire beside me, close to breaking. He wasn’t answering—and I knew why. Because if he did, it’d be to tell Henry Mac to fuck all the way off.
So I said it for both of us.
“You can’t ask us that,” I snapped, clipped and furious.
“No, he can not,” Wade cut in firmly. “And it’s none of your business if anyone in this band is dating anyone.”
“No one said dating, Barker,” Henry said smiling like the devil who knew he already owned the room.
“If you keep heading down this road, Henry, we’re calling Trudy in here.”
“Calm down, Barker.” Henry smirked, cigar rolling between his fingers. “We’re just talking.”
“More like assaulting,” Sal muttered.
Henry’s smile widened. “Bigger, badder women have tried.” His tone dripped arrogance. “Want me to call Trudy for you? She’s terrified of me. And she should be. So should you. You don’t have the kind of pull to go toe-to-toe with me. Trust me.”
Wade leaned forward, voice like steel. “We have a contract, Henry. It outlines penalties for breakups, scandals, and all the shit you label boys need to keep your assets intact. They know the stakes. Lay off them.”
Henry raised his brows, unfazed. “Fine. But you all know why those clauses exist, don’t you? Because co-ed bands rarely work, never mind last. Too many hormones. Too many egos. Too much sex, lust, and rock and roll in one group.”
“We’ve been through all that,” Wade shot back. “This is about the music. And they keep knocking it out of the park.”
Henry tilted his head, humming, unconvinced. “Maybe. But I’d still put money on this little boy-girl-band experiment of yours breaking up after one tour.”
Wade rolled his eyes.
“And if you want arenas sold out? If you want to outpace the greats?” Henry pressed. “Fleetwood? Good fucking luck—they’re still charting. Legendary bands don’t happen anymore. Not really. You want to win? Sell Emma. Make her the icon. Stick the band behind her. Then sell the fantasy: the magnetic hot girl up front, three rugged British bad boys on guitar, bass, and drums, and two sultry dream-girls on strings and keys. That’s your ticket.”
Fuck off. No.
That wasn’t what we were building. That wasn’t who we were.
I’d always feared this—that once we got under a label, they’d try to twist us into something we weren’t. We’d avoided it during signing, no talk of “branding” me as some marketable commodity. But now here was Henry Mac, legendary producer, solid gold hit-maker, laying it out like gospel. The man with Edward’s ear. Greg’s. The board’s. All of them.
I hated him for it. Wanted to kill him with a look.
My gaze flicked sideways. Liam’s jaw was clenched so tight the muscle ticked. His eyes were narrowed slits, knuckles white around his guitar neck. His whole body trembled, rage vibrating through him.
He was fuming.
“Thanks for the input, Henry,” Paul said dryly, rolling his eyes as Henry finally made for the door.
“Best of luck,” Henry tossed over his shoulder, not bothering to look back.
The door shut. Silence thickened. Then—collectively—we all exhaled.
“Bloody hell,” Max muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “That man is the devil incarnate.”
“Congratulations,” Wade said grimly. “You just met the illustrious Henry Mac.”
Liam didn’t say a word. He just sat there, simmering—silent fury radiating off him, a storm barely contained beneath his skin.
I glanced at him, slid a hand onto his shoulder. He softened under my touch—but only slightly. The tension in him was still iron, coiled tight.
“I think I’ve changed my mind about working with him. Like ever. Hard no,” Sal muttered, arms crossed.
Dan shook his head, incredulous. “How does he get away with half the bollocks that comes out of his mouth? It’s mental. He’s like a bloody sociopath with no filter.”
Andy exhaled, slow. “He’s a titan, alright. In every sense of the word. That’s why. Men like him don’t answer to anyone. Just… keep your heads down. Do your jobs. And never, ever go to one of his parties.” He jabbed a finger toward us for emphasis. “No matter who invites you.”
My stomach dropped. Jesus. That bad, huh?
We all nodded, silent, uneasy.
“I think I need a scalding hot shower after that little interaction,” Susie finally signed, grimacing.
I nodded. Because—yeah.
Chapter 11: The Start, The Rise, The Crash
Emma
​
After we wrapped in the studio, we grabbed takeout and headed back to the guys’ loft. They’d decided to keep the apartment through the album release and tour. Susie and I were fully moved into our new place across town, but the Silver Lake apartment was still band HQ.
The second I sat down, the words tore out of me. “That was so messed up?”
Liam shook his head, silent. He cracked open a beer, took a long swig. Uncharacteristically quiet.
“Henry Mac is a menace,” Susie signed flatly.
“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.
Salima came in last, dropping a bottle of whiskey onto the coffee table like it was an offering.
“What’s this for?” Max asked, brow arched.
“Drowning our sorrows after being verbally assaulted by a menace in Prada,” she said breezily. “Also—lubrication. For our sex symbol chat.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dan grinned, snagging the bottle. “Do we really need to have that chat? Because I’m pretty sure Henry Mac spelled it all out for us—in no uncertain terms.”
“Yeah. Young and fuckable,” Liam muttered, jaw tight.
I grimaced.
Susie snickered, signing, “Liam, I was certain you were gonna bash your guitar over his head.”
“It would’ve been a crime to ruin such a beautiful guitar on the face of such an ugly person.” Liam’s voice was low, simmering. “So I didn’t. But I was bloody close.”
He stared at nothing, storm brewing behind his eyes. I knew exactly what he was picturing—Henry’s smug face obliterated by a Gibson. Honestly? Same.
“I can’t believe he said all that shit out loud. Has to break every HR rule in existence,” Max said, throwing his arms wide.
“It does,” I said flatly. “But welcome to show business. He’s got a laundry list of hits, built careers—big ones. And he knows it. That’s why he thinks he can say and do whatever the fuck he wants. He’s a pusher. He’ll poke at every nerve you’ve got just to get under your skin, to get control of your emotions. The trick is not to let him. That’s how he wins.”
Dan grimaced. “You sound like you’ve got a wealth of experience there, Emma.”
Susie’s eyes flicked to me. I caught it and returned a wary one of my own. Not tonight. I wasn’t opening that door. Alexi could stay buried in my backlogs where he belonged. Liam knew. Susie knew. That was enough—for now.
I reached over, stole Liam’s beer from his hand, and took a long sip. He let me.
“Bloody bollocks,” Liam’s voice cut sharp, bitter.
“Yeah,” I said, handing the bottle back. “It is. But again—welcome to show business. And this conversation is going to keep coming up. We can’t pretend it doesn’t exist, or act sheepish about our appeal.”
“Pfft. Speak for yourself, Hartgrave. I am never sheepish about the gloriousness of this beautiful face—as the hotter Teller brother.” Dan ran a finger down his cheek like a bloody model.
“I’m not even arguing,” Liam muttered darkly.
We pelted Dan with napkins, bamboo forks—anything we could get our hands on.
“Oh my God, Junior Teller,” Sal groaned. “You’re fucking incorrigible.”
“Emma’s right. “Dan is not,” Susie signed, deadpan.
Then added, more serious: “But we can’t pretend it’s only about the music anymore.”
Sal clapped her hands. “Take a shot for that truth bomb, Susie Q. Actually—everyone should.” She poured, and one by one, we tossed them back.
“I’m gonna need another one,” Liam muttered, storm still simmering in his voice.
Sal refilled his glass without a word.
“Yes, as Henry so nicely put it—we have marketable appeal,” Dan said, striking another exaggerated pose. “So I say we roll with it. Play it to our advantage without getting taken advantage of.”
“That’s the ideal,” I said. “But it’s easy for you to say, Junior Teller.”
“You’re a white male,” Sal reminded him, flat.
“Yes, I am Caucasian, true,” Dan said solemnly, hand to his chest. “And I have always used any privilege society bestows upon me to shield and protect my friends.”
“God, you’re impossible,” Sal groaned.
“We’re not even touching the other issues that come with this kind of attention,” Susie signed, serious again. “Like fetishization.”
“Valid,” Sal said, nodding.
“Right, and if we go this route,” Max added, “it’s a slippery slope.”
“So,” I said, bracing myself. “Comfort levels. Let’s discuss.”
I exhaled. “I’m okay with some sexy marketing—tighter dresses, choreography—if it’s balanced. But I don’t ever want us to do what Henry suggested. Me positioned like some solo act with you guys as my backup? No. Absolutely not.”
Everyone shook their heads immediately, unified.
“Yeah, but Emma—” Liam’s voice cut through, sharp, leaving no room for argument. “If you do the sex-symbol thing, we all do it. Even if it’s just to keep you from taking the brunt of that attention. You’re more than some bloody frontwoman taking hits for us. You mean more than that to us.”
“Here, here,” Sal said, raising her shot.
Max, Dan, and Susie all followed.
“Thanks, guys,” I said, a little sheepish but warmed all the same.
Liam’s tone softened then, steady and thoughtful. “I just don’t want us judged solely by how we look. Yeah, we’re attractive. I’m not denying it—even for myself. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to use every tool we’ve got to cut through the noise. But we’re also bloody talented. We’ve worked our arses off for this. I don’t want to rest on charm and cheekbones when we’re a damn good band—when these songs matter as much as they do. It’s our blood, sweat, and tears in this album. That should stand for more than tight dresses and shirtless Coachella moments.”
“Yes. What he said.” Max raised a finger, then immediately reached for another shot. Liam mirrored him.
“Agree,” I said quickly.
“So maybe we pull them in with the sexy vibes,” I added, “but they stay for the music. For the real stuff.”
“I’m all for that,” Dan said from the couch, one leg propped, glass dangling like it held all the answers.
“So what does that actually look like?” Susie signed. “Sexy photos? Provocative music videos? Where’s the line? What are our deal breakers?”
“Good questions,” Dan said, looking up thoughtfully. “I’m willing to do anything shy of showing my family jewels. And…maybe anal.”
I burst out laughing.
“Too far, Junior Teller,” Susie signed, deadpan.
“I just don’t want that depicted in any photo shoot or music video,” Dan said with zero shame.
“Bloody Christ, Dan.” Liam pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What?” Dan blinked innocently.
“This is a serious conversation. And you go and ruin it,” Liam muttered, shaking his head.
“Okay,” I said, chuckling. “Well, Junior Teller’s line is appalling but not surprising. Everyone else? Are we all in agreement that the ideal is to look professional and look good? We all work out, and we all care about presentation. So, sure—willing to show some skin, but not everything. And nothing that borders on suggesting lewd acts.”
“Yes. That,” Salima said, pointing at me.
“I’d like it noted that just because I work out doesn’t mean I’m obsessed with my aesthetics,” Liam grumbled. “I don’t think that’s all that matters—how hot I am, or we are,” he pressed, still brooding.
“Teller,” I said gently. “No one said that.”
But he was narrowing his gaze at nothing, jaw tight, still fuming. Henry had gotten under his skin, and we all knew it. That was the point.
“Henry’s an asshole, Liam,” I said flatly. “Don’t let his ‘young and fuckable’ bullshit live rent-free in your head.”
“Here, here,” Sal added, lifting her glass.
Susie nodded emphatically.
“And no one in this room thinks you have less depth just because you’ve got a pretty aesthetic,” I said, softer now.
Liam’s eyes flicked to mine. “Thanks, Hartgrave.”
I smirked. “Always.”
“So.” I leaned forward. “Are we writing this sultry pop song, or do we draw the line here? Push back against Henry and the Titans from the start?”
The room exhaled as one.
“I vote we push back,” Liam said firmly.
Dan and Max groaned in perfect unison.
Chapter 12: It’s The Fight, It’s The Fall, It’s The Tears In My Eyes
Emma
The next morning, Liam and I were having breakfast—coffees in hand, plates scraped clean. I was trying to convince him to write this track. He wanted to push back and I wanted to write the damn thing. This wasn’t the hill to die on.
We had all tried to convince him last night but he was being immovable.
“Liam this is literally the first bloody thing They’ve pushed back on and you wanna push back. Did you hear the speech about Trudy?”
“This isn’t the first thing they’ve asked for,” Liam retorted. “The break up clauses, the scandal penalties. They ask a bloody lot from us right out the fucking gate.”
“Again, Teller—welcome to show business.”
“Emma, you were a dancer—and in like, what, three bands?” Liam threw his hands out, exasperated.
“Several,” I corrected. “Couple as a backup singer, one as rhythm guitar, two as lead. Do you know how many times a man walked into rehearsal and asked if I was screwing the frontman?”
“All of them except ours,” Susie signed dryly.
“Ew,” Sal muttered.
I nodded.
Liam exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, Em. None of that should’ve happened. But I still don’t think we should add another song to the album. Especially not some throwaway lusty track. You literally kicked my arse over Dream Girl, and now Henry Mac asks for a smutty song and suddenly you’re fine with it?”
“No,” I said flatly. “But we have to pick our battles. Henry Mac came in, said some offside shit, and left. We just need to move on and do our thing.”
“Agreed,” Dan said immediately.
“Seconded,” Max added.
“Sal?” Liam pushed.
“I might be with Liam on this one.” She folded her arms. “Honestly? I’m surprised you’re not, Emma.”
“Same,” Susie signed, shooting me a look. She was with Liam, too.
Maybe I was surprised at myself too. But I also knew one thing Liam didn’t yet—we could make the song good. Not just some half-arsed throwaway track. With what was between us, we could make it sing.
“So it’s a split vote,” I said.
Max leaned forward, mischief in his eyes. “Then Emma should lead the charge. She’s the one who has to make the moves—” He gestured with both hands at my chest.
“Max,” Liam warned, voice sharp as a blade.
“Right, right,” Max backpedaled with a smirk. “What I meant was: your body, your choice, Emma.”
“I appreciate that, Max.”
“It’s a song,” Liam snapped.
“Yeah but Emma will have to use her body to sell it,” Max countered.
Liam’s jaw flexed, but he nodded once. “Yeah fair point, mate.”
“So she should set the line,” Max went on. “You let us know what you’re okay with, Em, and if you’re not—we back your play. Always. We follow your lead. And for God’s sake, drag Liam’s grumpy arse with you—he’s a Bev who refuses to use his powers.”
“Well said, mate.” Dan raised his shot glass. “Except Liam’s not the Bev. I’m the Bev. He’s the Chaz.”
We pelted him with napkins. Obviously.
Liam shook his head.
And then breakfast.
Liam was still sulking, glaring into his coffee like it had insulted him personally.
“I hate being told what to write about,” Liam muttered, glaring into his coffee like it had offended him.
I smirked. “I’m aware. Trust me.”
“Then why are you siding with the label? You know it’s bollocks.” He leveled me with a look, sharp and questioning.
I did know. And I knew why he was spiraling—Henry Mac, the label, the whole bloody circus reducing us to marketable sex appeal. When we’d poured our souls into this record—blood, sweat, long nights, fights, rewrites—only to have some prick in tinted glasses reduce us to pretty faces. I hated it too. Always had. But I was used to pushing through. Liam wasn’t.
The thing was, I believed we could meet the brief without losing ourselves. He didn’t.
And the truth? I loved a lust-filled track. Always had. Whole Lotta Love was one of my favorites for that reason alone—every moan, every gritty riff, every unhinged solo dripping with raw need. It was sex and art and sound, tangled together until it became something transcendent.
We could do that. We could make something like that. Not just sex—but chemistry. Obsession. Longing. Something real.
And if I was being honest, I wanted to make it with him. Maybe that was reckless. Maybe I was ignoring Henry and the label and chasing what I wanted. Reaching toward the flame just to see how good the burn might feel.
“I get it,” I said gently. “But it doesn’t have to be their version, Liam. We make it ours.”
He didn’t look convinced. I kept going.
“Sex and rock and roll have always gone hand in hand. Stranglehold. Black Magic Woman. Ramble On. Robert Plant literally sings, ‘squeeze my lemons till the juice runs down my leg’ in Travelling Riverside Blues. ‘Gonna give you every inch of my love’—Whole Lotta Love. AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long—‘she told me to come but I was already there.’ Welcome to the Jungle—‘suck down, suck down.’ Do you want me to keep going?”
“No, that’s enough,” Liam muttered.
“Pour Some Sugar on Me? Aerosmith’s Pink? I swear I genuinely masturbated to that track the first time I heard it.”
Liam choked on his coffee. “Hartgrave!”
“What?” I held my arms out innocently. “I’ve got a whole playlist if you need it.”
“I know,” he coughed, snatching a napkin. “I know that sex and rock and roll are sometimes mutually exclusive.”
“Most always,” I pointed out.
“Fine. Most always,” he let out a breath. “That doesn’t mean you can just throw your wanking soundtrack at me like that.”
I smirked wickedly.
Because God… I wanted that thread to snap.
Like a guitar string tuned too tight. One wrong note — and it would all unravel.
“Oh come on, Teller. Don’t be a prude. Talk dirty rock tracks with me.”
“Not a prude,” he shot back defensively, wiping his mouth. “Trust me. I just—”
He trailed off, tossing the napkin onto his plate.
“Just what?” I teased, raising a brow.
He exhaled, finally giving in. “This is a slippery slope, Emma. Us.”
“Us the band? Or us us?” I gestured between us.
“You know what I bloody mean.”
His voice was low. Frayed at the edges.
“It’s all one big mess in my head. Lusty tracks. The label pushing us.
And then… us.”
He looked at me — raw, unguarded.
“I don’t want what’s between us being packaged and sold like a commodity. That’s what this feels like.”
“Fair,” I said softly.
He ran a hand over his jaw, eyes darkening. “And I don’t want you—specifically you—flaunting your arse all over the place for them. People objectifying you while I have to watch. Everyone staring at your chest instead of hearing your voice. Instead of seeing you. Because the look’s only one part of what makes you—” His throat worked, words catching. “—what makes you incredible, really.”
I stilled. Swallowed. The smile on my face turned real—and then faltered. “Well… thanks, Teller. That means a lot.”
“But Liam—” I lifted a brow. “We can’t pretend that’s not gonna happen because it already does.”
His gaze sharpened. “I know that. But your artistry matters, Emma. That’s the point.”
“I don’t disagree,” I said carefully.
“Then why are you pushing for this?”
“I’m not pushing.” I shifted in the booth, meeting his eyes. “I’m just… not willing to fight not to write this song. There’s a difference. And I’m sure as hell not going to downplay my looks—dress frumpy, skip makeup, or not do my hair—just because creepy men can’t handle themselves.”
I leaned back, exhaling. “Look, the reality is I’m always judged by the outside first. I know it and I am aware of it and I know how to handle myself. Guys hit on me walking down the street, when I’m grabbing coffee, when I’m just existing. They don’t care who I am. They see great tits, glossy lips, a nice ass—maybe a guitar—and think they’ve got me figured out. People are usually shocked when I can actually sing.”
Liam’s jaw clenched. “That’s—,”
“What? Shitty? Yeah.” I shrugged. “I deal with it. And I move on.”
“Well. I just wanted you to know—I don’t see you that way. Not just that way,” Liam said meeting my gaze. “And I ideally no one else would either.”
“That’s sweet, Teller,” I said softly. “But unfortunately, that’s not how the world works. Especially not this industry—as Mr. Mac so kindly reminded us.”
His eyes burned into mine. “Then we have to be careful. If we’re going to play the sex-symbol card in the marketing, it has to stay honest. It has to stay yours. And if anything—anything—makes you uncomfortable, or feel used, or unsafe… I want you to tell me. You wanted to take Henry Mac to task yesterday? I’d have backed you. Implicitly.”
“I really appreciate that,” I said. “But I can handle more than Henry can dish out.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“True.”
“It also doesn’t make me feel any better that you’ve been dealing with it all on your own. You don’t have to—at least not anymore,” he added, voice steady, certain. “Not while I’m around. Which—just so we’re clear—I plan to be.”
God. The way he said that—protective, grounded, like a vow—it sent a ripple through me, straight to the parts already burning for him.
“Okay. Thank you, Liam,” I managed, forcing casual into my tone while battling every filthy fantasy flashing through my brain. “Now let’s get back to the song.”
“This bloody song,” he said quietly.
Silence stretched between us. His eyes didn’t waver.
“I think we can nail it, Liam. Make something that stands with the best of those songs I listed earlier.”
I didn’t add the truth—I needed to pour all this wild, electric energy between us into something lyrical before it burned me alive.
“We’re not selling out. We’re compromising—but in a way that’s still us.”
His mouth curved, resigned but firm. “Fine. Let’s do it—our way.”
The smile spread across my face before I could stop it.
“You’re so incorrigible, Emma. I swear you’ll be the death of me. And wipe that bloody smile off your face, Hartgrave,” Liam muttered.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” He shot me a look, one brow arched.
“We’re gonna write a smutty little HGT track,” I sing-songed, wiggling in a ridiculous little dance in the booth.
He shook his head, brows furrowed in mock disapproval.
God, those eyebrows.
Dangerous. Criminal, even.