As I step out of the darkness and through my front door, I'm greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of roast meat and vegetables. Clattering comes from the kitchen. I peek around the corner and find Aaron bent over, retrieving something from the oven.

Despite the annoyance I'd felt at Harry checking out my rear earlier, I can't help but stare at Aaron's muscular behind framed by dark jeans, as well as the fitted shirt that's rolled up his forearms, revealing the tattoos on his left arm. I spy an old-style bi-plane in black ink. There's some script, but I can never make out the words and numbers.

"Hi," I say.

His eyes dart to where I'm hovering in the doorway. He looks far too masculine for someone wearing pink oven mitts and holding a roasting pan. "Hi."

"You cooked."

"I did."

I glance over the kitchen, amazed at how orderly everything has become under the influence of Agent Randall. Other than the chopping board and a few utensils, the kitchen counter is uncharacteristically bare.

I begin to skirt around the counter when a chair obscures the way. Then I bump into a highly polished dining table, which is well and truly beyond what my pay-cheque could afford. A second sleek chair sits beside the piano and heater. I don't believe it! He's managed to squish in a table and chairs! Another sign that he's making himself at home.

Maybe this could work—be housemates. (Just don't sleep with him.) I mentally slap myself for the ridiculous thought.

We eat in compatible silence, metal music playing the background, and I've devoured his cooking in minutes. Minutes later, we are warming up for the demo and my hands are already shaking. We decide to record one of his songs and one of mine, then see which one plays back better. But no matter how many times I warm up, how many notes I sing, my voice feels choked up with emotion. Jeremy is back in my thoughts, thanks to my song choice.

I run to the bathroom for the millionth time. The nerves have not been kind to me today. I take a quick shower to freshen up and add some color to my lips and cheeks. When I arrive back at the sofa Aaron eyes me strangely.

"You alright?"

"A bit queasy, actually," I say, rubbing my tummy.

"Performance jitters or Nathaniel's doing?"

"Both," I admit.

"Let's try and have a good time with it, hey?"

"A good time?" I smile. My mind slips into all kinds of scenarios involving Aaron and this sofa, and not a guitar in sight.

"You've got this look in your eyes..."

Can he seriously tell what I'm thinking? "Look?" I say. "What look?"

He smirks and shakes his head.

I blush and smile and pray that I melt into the sofa at any second, because I'm a glass window to this man!

My mood calms slightly once we begin my song, 'Running Low.' Aaron strums as I beat my thumb against the body of the guitar and sing: "Don't open up, don't call. You've done this too many times before. No more, I won't let you in."

He sings: "I'm outside in the night. I'm waiting..." His voices rises for the lead up to the chorus: "Through the window, I can see you."

"I'm running now, I'm running now," I sing. "I'm running low. I'm running low."

"I will find you," he sings below me in bold steps.

My voice goes husky, but I push it out, "I can't run anymore. I can only slam the door.... But it's not enough. You will always find me," my voice drops low, then raises as he sings, "I will always find you."

Aaron strums as I play a fast and sorrowful solo above him that I'd written for violin, then we end on a dying chord. I close my eyes and breathe, relieved that the demo didn't require the second verse. The words are still burning in my heart, and I swear that Jeremy is haunting me from his cell.

Aaron runs over to his new video recorder and turns it off, downloads it onto his laptop, edits, then crops the start and end. Our demo is done. He takes his spot on the sofa and leans into me. As we play back our demo I wish I'd taken the time to dress up a bit. My black hair is in a messy ponytail, and I'm wearing all black—black boots, black jeans, black sweater. Other than my pale face and bright blue eyes you can barely make out my body—I'm that dark on the screen.

Meanwhile, Aaron seems to take up the whole video. His fine form is on display in his navy shirt. His hair dangles over his jaw, and his attention is mostly fixed on the guitar or me. He rarely looks at the camera, and when he does he smolders with his surly gaze and gritty voice that resonates through the room and my body simultaneously. It's almost a physical presence, a dark shape playing out my life in words.

"Last night I thought it would be kind of edgy having a stalker song for our demo," he says, "but given what you've told me today, I don't know if this one's a good idea."

"Weirdly, it helps," I admit.

"If it helps..." He nods, then smiles a fraction. "So that's our demo, then?"

"Yep."

"Let's throw it on the site. We've got an hour until deadline."

Before we know it, we are engrossed in the Original Star website, which is going crazy with hits. Aaron is in control of the mouse, and its little arrow hovers over the 'Submit demo' button. We both share a look, and I see a rare moment of nerves pass through his eyes. "Press the submit button, Aaron!" I say, throwing my hands up. He nods, then takes his sweet time before giving the button a tap. I laugh, whacking him on the arm. I go quiet the second I see, "Congratulations on entering Original Star. Good Luck!" on the screen. It's done. Now we wait.

Aghh! I don't know what to do with myself now the hype is over.

Aaron glances over at me and I swear he's feeling the same thing. He springs out of the chair and puts the kettle on. Needing the warmth, I accept the mug of tea. As I only own two mugs, he has given me the Mozart mug, which I hold tightly, my freezing hands winning the battle over the memory of my parents' gift.

We place the laptop on the coffee table and stare at the website with bloodshot eyes. There are only minutes and seconds left as the countdown ticks away to the deadline. At midnight, the thousand odd demos will become accessible to the voting public, heard and seen by millions of people. They will judge, post comments, and vote. I'm even worried that our band name might come under scrutiny, a last-minute decision inspired by our fake romance this afternoon.

Ardent Strangers—I repeat our new name in my mind, letting it grow on me. Aaron thought it had a dark mysterious feel, like how we first met—how we were thrown together almost serendipitously under tragic circumstances. (The same could be said for Nathaniel and me, although I never mention that fact.)

Annoyingly, Aaron seems fine, sipping his tea.

"Nervous?" I ask him, wondering if he actually is.

"A little," he says, eyes glued to the screen. "You?"

"Totally."

He grunts and sips his tea.

I take his distraction as a moment to get something off my chest. "Can I tell you something?" I take his next grunt for a yes, then begin to ramble, "I can't stop thinking about the other night with Nathaniel. When the ambulance workers arrived he'd had this outburst, explaining how he'd had just attended his friend's funeral. He never told me." I stare down at my tea, thinking back to the time I'd stood on the sidewalk and watched my parents' crushed car, how Nathaniel couldn't completely confide in me. "I was like the worst person to stop and help him. I mean, I'd been talking about attending a silly wedding. I feel like I let him down."

Aaron blinks tiredly but grabs the guitar beside him. "You didn't." He strums the start of our demo.

"Did you know his friend by any chance?"

Worst thing to say! Aaron has gone still, his gaze set darkly on the guitar. I'm close to leaping from the chair and locking myself in the bathroom. "I..." I breathe. "I'm sorry."

Aaron stands quietly, places the guitar against the sofa and walks to the unlit kitchen, the light from the living area casting it in shadows. He looks out the window, rinses his cup, then turns and hurls the hearts and flowers mug at the floor. Porcelain shatters in a loud explosion.

I sit there, stunned, and sip my tea. Damn. I've just sipped out of my parents' Mozart mug for the first time ever. Strangely, it seems almost insignificant compared to the sight of Aaron bent over the sink, clutching it with both hands. The man is in bare feet, surrounded by broken porcelain. And after the Jeremy attacks, I'm a little freaked out by men breaking things. Having no idea whether to flee or go to him, I find myself sneaking across the room and grabbing the broom before he bleeds everywhere. I hope I haven't misread Aaron's character completely.

The sound of bristles sweeping up porcelain seems too loud, but I continue to sweep around him until I've collected every last fragment. I'm sweeping it into the trash when he clears his throat, and says gruffly, "His name was Damien. Nathaniel's joint business partner and co-founder. My brother."

Brother? I clutch the broom for support, staring at the straining muscles along Aaron's back. He is so quiet, so still. Did you know him, by any chance?! Why, oh why, did I say that?! Aaron's been dealing with so much, yet he's the one looking out for everyone—including me. Sure, Nathaniel might have lost a friend, but Aaron lost a brother.

I step closer to Aaron, strong and imposing Aaron, and my heart aches for him. Fingers shaking, I lay my hand on his back, deciding whether to say I'm sorry. He's so tense, I can barely stand it. I have this compulsion to hug him, hold him, because I doubt he's let anyone near him since his brother died. He'd continued working. I guess he'd been distracting himself the way I had after my parents died. Three days later I'd returned to the café, mostly to get out of the house and away from the sympathy flowers, to forget for a while.

"Evangeline," he says, his voice a warning that I should back away fast. "Unless you want me to lay you down on that counter behind us and have my way with you, get your hand off me, because honestly that's all the sympathy I can deal with right now."

Breathless, I stare at my hand between his heaving shoulder blades. "I..." What am I meant to say to that? (I should take my hand off him.) My hand remains right where it is. "I know you only said that to push me away, to shock me. I get it. But you can talk to—"

"You don't think I'm serious?" He turns, my hand ending up on his chest.

"You're serious?" I whisper. "You want that?"
Could I do that? I've never had a one-night stand. My hormones must be wreaking havoc on my unconscious because I imagine his kiss.

"Don't tempt me."

I'm completely frozen, nervous. I need to know I can get past my fears of Jeremy, that not all men are jerks. Aaron might be angry, but it's not directed at me. He's been protecting me since we met. Jeremy had never done that once. This is different. Aaron is different. I keep telling myself until I realize it's true.

I reach up and run my finger along his lips. He raises a brow, then wastes no time in pulling my body flush against his and claiming my mouth. I feel it all: nerves, fear, lust, music, all wrapped in a tight bundle. He presses against me, and I'm distantly aware of my hands sliding up his chest. His kiss intensifies, and I moan into his mouth.

"Do that again," he murmurs.

"Make me," I whisper against his lips.

He grunts, then kisses me tenderly. Even as he walks me backwards and parts the dishes on the counter, I can't keep my mouth from his. He swiftly lifts me up onto its surface. His large hands grasp my rear, then slide up to the hem of my sweater, pulling it off. Seeing my black lace bra, his gaze darkens further, and as his hands skim my body I can't resist leaning into his touch.

"Christ, Evangeline. I don't want to hurt you," he says.

"You won't." I hope. "Hurt me physically or emotionally?"

"Both." "I trust you." I think? No, I do.

Aaron eyes me sternly. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes." His hands slide up my legs. "How long since...?"

"Seven months." I look away. "I haven't trusted anyone—"

"Hey, I didn't know. We can stop—"

"Until now."

A pained expression crosses his face. "I can't give you a relationship now. You understand that, right?"

"I don't want to jeopardize the music or the housemate thing either, but this is one night."

"It's not that. I'm not in a good place right now." The ache in his voice is horrible. He buries his head in my neck, and murmurs, "Damn, I want you." Then his hands slide from my legs and he stumbles back as if he's woken up from a bad dream.

"Aaron," I plead, sure he's about to flee into his room.

Aaron walks out of the kitchen, gripping his hair. He stops by the sofa, then mumbles something.

I hug my chest, feeling the cool air sweep my skin. I'm partially naked—rejected. He storms back to the counter. "Tell me no."

I hold the challenge in his eyes, determined not to say a thing. He stands back and rips off my boots. I gasp as he grabs my hips and slides my leggings off in one clean sweep. I've never felt more aware of my body than when his eyes rake over me and fill with heat. Aaron's hand trails over my breasts and down to my belly. I rise up onto my elbows to watch his fingers slip lower, shocked at how I come alive at his touch. My elbows give out and I collapse onto the countertop, watching him, wanting him.

Aaron kicks his jeans and briefs to the floor and I see his impressive form. I'm kind of startled. How is this possibly going to work between us? My gaze travels up to his face. He grunts distractedly. "Don't overthink it, Eve."

He's right, of course. My smile turns to a gasp as he settles between my legs and he consumes me for the first time. Honestly, I'm scared to move.

He reaches down and rubs his thumb soothingly against my jaw. "You okay?"

I nod a little too rapidly. "Go."

As he moves us slowly back and forth, we both moan softly. He repeats the action with the same excruciating control, and I think I'm becoming addicted to the feeling. His dark gaze roams over my face and to the bounce of my body, and I lose track of how long we keep up this intense pace. Writhing, I reach for the edge of the counter, sending who knows what crashing to the floor.

A light sweat glistens over his face and neck, and his shirt is gone in seconds. There's a small scar above his right nipple—a bullet wound? I try not to slow at the sight of it, but there are two similar wounds on his lower ribcage, a long scar passing beneath them.

This man is scarred in too many ways. I'm starting to understand why he needs to leave it all behind and have this dream of music, no matter how transient it may be. As we move together in sync, I want that dream for him, and as part of our duo I might even be able to give it to him. Aaron's mouth seeks out mine and we never break the kiss until our bodies are tangled and we are gasping each other's names.