Wreck the Halls

Beat Dawkins was perfectly perfect.

And he’d taken her into consideration.

He’d thought of her.

This whole Steel Birds reunion idea would never fly—the feelings of betrayal between their mothers ran deeper than the Atlantic Ocean—but the fact that Beat had said her name out loud to this woman basically ensured another fourteen years of infatuation. Sad, sad girl.

“You mentioned money,” Melody said offhandedly, mostly so it wouldn’t seem her entire interest was Beat-related. “How much? Just out of curiosity.”

“I’ll tell you at the meeting.” She smiled slyly. “It’s a lot, Melody. Perhaps even by the standards of a famous rock star’s daughter.”

A lot of money. Even to her.

Despite her trepidation, Melody couldn’t help but wonder . . . was it enough cash to make her financially independent? She’d been born into comfort. A nice town house, wonderful nannies, any material item she wanted, which had mainly turned out to be books and acne medication. Her mother’s love and attention remained out of reach, however. Always had—and it was beginning to feel as though it always would.

Melody’s brownstone apartment was paid in full. She had an annual allowance. Lately, though, accepting her mother’s generosity didn’t feel right. Or good. Not when they lacked the healthy mother-daughter relationship she would gladly take instead.

Could this be her chance to stand on her own two feet?

No. Facilitating a reunion? There had to be an easier way.

“At least take the meeting,” Danielle said, smiling like the cat who’d caught the canary.

The woman had her and she knew it.

To be in the same room with Beat Dawkins again . . .

She wasn’t strong enough to pass up the chance.

Melody shifted in her boots and tried not to sound too eager. “What time?”





Chapter Three





December 11



As Melody Gallard walked into the office, Beat was reminded why he’d never called. The feeling that swept through him was so fierce, he launched to his feet at the sight of her without thinking, hastily buttoning his suit jacket. Wow. He’d always wondered if his memory was playing tricks on him, but no. That same urge to protect her that he’d experienced at sixteen was still alive and kicking inside of him at thirty.

Beat swallowed hard and mentally shook himself, stealing a few seconds to look at her, this girl who had grown up in roughly the same conditions as him. She’d been hounded, asked questions, lived with outrageous expectations on her shoulders. Unlike Beat, she’d been scorned for not being what the press considered perfect. During puberty. He could still remember the time a photo of Melody dealing with an acne outbreak had gotten shared six thousand times on Twitter. Brutally unfair.

If the press only knew about his nocturnal activities. He should be thanking his lucky stars that the blackmailer didn’t know, either, or he’d never get out from under his thumb.

Funny how the weight placed on his shoulders by the threat to his family seemed so light at the moment. In the same way it happened fourteen years earlier, something clicked into place as soon as Beat and Melody were breathing the same air. It was almost alarming, this invisible net that cast itself around them, dragging them into their own world that no one else would understand.

The woman was beautiful as hell. Had been fourteen years ago and still was, in a softer, more polished way. But she hid that beauty well. Underneath a wool skirt, huge-ass sweater, and thick-rimmed glasses. If he undressed her, if he tugged her long, golden-brown hair out of that bun, she would be the kind of hot that men noticed a hundred yards away.

He found himself grateful for the loose-fitting clothes. Why?

It wasn’t as if Beat could or would be taking them off her. No, he had certain . . . tastes that ensured he kept his sex life private. He catered to them with willing parties behind closed doors, then he got the hell back to reality. The two aspects of his life never intersected. In deference to his mother’s fame, he’d been raised to be fiercely private, and his life experiences along the way had only hammered home how important it was to trust himself—and himself only.

Bottom line, Melody’s clothes and how they looked on her body were exactly none of his business. He’d brought her here today to formally ask her if he could open a giant can of worms. While he didn’t yet have the full details of the project, the possibility that a reality show could affect Melody negatively bothered Beat enough that he hadn’t slept last night. Somewhere around three a.m., he’d given up and gone to the gym.

Even now, he had the urge to carry her back to the elevator, apologize profusely, and send her on her way. Back to Brooklyn where she lived a normal life, as far outside of the spotlight as was possible, given their last names.

Instead, Beat could indirectly drag her into something she definitely wanted to avoid. Attention. Because no matter how many angles from which he viewed the situation, he couldn’t figure out a way for Applause and Danielle to accomplish the reunion without Melody’s name coming up at some point.

It just wasn’t possible.

“Mel,” he said gruffly, his smile feeling heavy.

“Hey,” she responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

And he hadn’t planned on hugging her, but as soon as that single, husky word was out of her mouth, he couldn’t stop himself from crossing the office and wrapping his arms around her. His eyelids drooped involuntarily, because she fit against him as well as he remembered. Like she was meant to be there all along. A star-crossed best friend.

Melody dropped her giant purse onto the floor and hugged him back—and that made him feel more important than any press coverage or birthday party in his honor. It was instantaneous. Honest. How had he missed her like this when their acquaintance had been so brief? It made no sense, but there it was. His reaction to her at sixteen hadn’t made a lot of sense, either. It just was.

“Thanks for coming,” he said into her hair. She smelled of gingerbread and wind.

“You’re welcome.” Her amused reply was muffled by his shoulder. “Someone has to try and talk you out of this.”

His smile turned lighter. He squeezed her. Just a little more.

“Miss Gallard,” said Danielle gently from behind her desk. “I’m so glad you could make it. I hope the subway commute wasn’t too much of a hassle on a Monday morning.”

“Um . . . it was fine, all mystery substances considered.” Slowly, Beat and Melody disconnected from each other, and she seemed to realize for the first time that she’d dropped her purse, the skin of her cheeks pinkening slightly as she stooped down to retrieve it. “It wouldn’t be a New York commute without at least one unidentified substance congealing on the seat beside me.”