And it was utterly electric.

Everything came back to him in such a rush—the amazement that a woman could be that beautiful, the shock that someone could allow a stranger to see so much honest emotion in her eyes, the way every inch of her silky hair, soft skin, and luscious curves was pure sensuality—that Ford nearly reached for the computer screen. Only the belated realization that Natasha was carefully watching him held him back.

“You were amazing that night, Ford.”

Natasha was right. That night in Seattle had been one of the best shows he’d ever played. Because for the first time ever, he’d played for more than just himself and a crowd of strangers.

He’d played for Mia.

Natasha paused playback, and before he could get his brain to work to tell her to stop, she opened another small window to the right of her screen. “I also wanted you to check out this backstage clip.”

Every muscle in Ford’s body was tense now as she clicked Play again and he guessed correctly at what he was about to see: Mia being brought backstage. From that first glimpse of her in the audience, Ford had been desperate to meet her, to touch her...to claim her as his.

If the sparks between them had been hot when he’d been on stage and she’d been in the audience, flames nearly shot from the screen as they approached each other in the windowless backstage room where he had been about to do his post-show meet-and-greet with the press.

As Ford took Mia’s hand in his in the video, Natasha paused it. “Do you remember her?”

Though they’d only had one week together, Ford hadn’t been able to stop himself from periodically checking online to see if Mia was in a serious relationship. Again and again over the years, he continued to torture himself like this, even though every time he saw a picture of her with some other guy, his heart would stop, just like it had tonight. To try to recover, he’d drink more, party harder, spend even more hours in the studio and on the road to try to forget her.

But he never could.

Because Mia Sullivan was unforgettable.

“Since this documentary is about my music and not my private life, I don’t see why it matters.”

Unlike most people, who only wanted to know how high to go when he said Jump, Natasha didn’t back off at his clear message to do just that. And even though he hadn’t yet confirmed that he remembered Mia, Natasha asked, “Have you kept in touch with her?”

“No.” The one short word from his lips was little more than an irritated growl.

Unable to remain sitting in the booth anymore, he got to his feet. Ford had never played the rock star card with Natasha before, but seeing Mia on screen so unexpectedly made every inch of him, inside and out, feel raw.

“Why the hell do you want to know this?”

“I’ve spent the past couple of months practically living in your back pocket, Ford. You’re great with your crew and fans, and I meant it when I said my intention with this film is to capture your music. Where it comes from. How it affects people. But there’s no way I could do any of that—or do it well—without learning, and showing, what’s made you who you are and why you write these songs. And I’m afraid that somewhere along the way, I’ve started to like you,” she said with a small smile. “Quite a bit more than I thought I’d ever like a rock star who has the entire world at his feet.” Natasha looked back at the screen that captured two of the most important moments of his life. “I’ve never seen this woman before. I’ve never heard you talk about her. But as soon as I saw these clips, my gut told me that she was vitally important. I’ve learned the hard way over the years to always listen to my gut—even,” she added with a slightly apologetic look, “when I know it’s going to piss off the subject of my film-in-progress.”

She slid off her reading glasses and looked at him in the way he’d always thought a sister or mother who cared about him might have if he’d been lucky enough to have either of those in his life. “I promise you, when I’m asking you about this woman, this isn’t about my film anymore. This is me talking to you as your friend.”

The shade was up on the long window behind the built-in table, and as they went a steady sixty-five miles an hour on the freeway at midnight, all Ford could see was a blur of taillights, lit-up billboards, and gas station signs. He’d spent his entire adult life with the blacktop burning up beneath the tires of his van, then bigger and bigger buses as his fame and income grew. He rented a couple of hotel suites in Los Angeles and New York City for occasional days off the road here or there, but he never thought of them as home. He’d always told himself he didn’t want or need one, that the road was his home, and that it was just the way he’d always wanted his life to be.

But he wasn’t stupid enough or young enough anymore to pretend that the day when he’d be too old to run around on a stage every night wasn’t coming. Especially considering how much a three-hour show took out of him now. What would it be like in five years at this relentless pace? In ten? Where would he go then? And who would he go there with?

He couldn’t see himself back where he’d grown up in Boston—or in New York City, Los Angeles, or London, where he did the bulk of his non-touring business. No matter how hard he tried to stop it, his brain always circled back to Seattle, where he’d spent one incredible week with the most beautiful girl in the world.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

Over the years, Ford had worked with many musicians who were recovering alcoholics. He understood that, even if an addict was sober for years, one sip was all it would take for their addiction to come raging back even stronger than it had been before, as if the years of abstinence had never happened. Now, he knew exactly what that felt like, because he couldn’t stop staring at the computer screen where Mia’s beauty and vitality drew him even more now than it had then.

“Five years.”

“Have you ever tried to get back in touch with her?”

Again, his answer was a curt, “No.”

He’d done everything but that. He’d worked like hell to try to forget, to try to bury what he’d felt for her. He’d moved from one woman to another, one city to another, one stage to another. But, God, just thinking about having Mia back in his arms sent long-simmering yearnings and cravings rushing through him.

“Why haven’t you?”

How could he explain how good it had been with Mia...and then how badly it had ended? Especially since, even if he could put words to it, he knew he shouldn’t tell Natasha anything more. Not when he’d already told—and shown—her too much. Because if she decided to break her promise to him and go public with any of this, his grave was already dug. Deep.