It Must Be Your Love (The Sullivans #11)(2)

“This recording is from five years ago. You were playing a small club in Seattle as a preview for your first major label release, so there were plenty of cameras filming the gig. I found some better quality clips, but I thought this was one of the most interesting, and I’d like to know what you think of it.”

Five years ago?

Seattle?

Ford’s grip tightened on the new water bottle he’d been about to open as she clicked Play.

Holy hell, there she was.

The cameraman had zoomed in on Ford walking out on stage to play his first song before panning back from the stage to an audience that was going crazy. His fans danced, sang along, and hollered out praise, but one woman stood out from among all of them.

In her little silver dress, with blond hair falling over her shoulders and an expression of pure sensual pleasure on her face as she let his music wash over her, the cameraman clearly couldn’t pull his lens away from the woman.

Ford hadn’t been able to drag his gaze away from her, either. When the camera zoomed out to frame both Ford and the crowd, the moment when he and Mia Sullivan first looked into each other’s eyes for the first time was caught on film.

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.