Chasing Alys: A Strangers-to-Lovers Rockstar Romance

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The walls were sweating.

Condensation dripped down the black paint, mixing with years of stale beer and bad decisions. Music pounded from every direction, a relentless assault that rattled my ribs and made my wine vibrate in its plastic cup.

Most of the crowd didn’t care. They were too busy yelling over the music, half-drunk conversations bleeding together. Others crushed against the bar, elbowing their way to watered-down drinks. A few bobbed along to the screeching from the stage, but even they winced when the mic picked up a particularly nasty reverb.

Jeans and black band tees were the uniform of the night. I’d missed the memo, not that I owned a band tee. My green blouse would have to do.

I ran a hand through my hair, pushing back the long strands sticking to my forehead. The air was thick, the heat pressing in from all sides, clinging to my skin. Sweat trickled down my spine, and I wasn’t even moving.

Some women stuck out worse than me, ignoring the unspoken uniform of band tees and jeans in favour of short dresses and stilettos. A dark, sticky dive bar didn’t seem like the place for either, but then, this wasn’t my scene. What did I know?

Personally, I preferred shoes that wouldn’t glue me to the filthy rubber floor. And I’d had the sense to keep my makeup minimal. I hated to think about the time some of these girls had spent perfecting their eyeliner, only for it to melt into black streaks before the night was through.

I pressed my spine against the pillar between the bar and the stairs, then immediately recoiled, remembering the sweat slicking the walls. Disgusting.

Still, it was the best vantage point. Emily wouldn’t be able to miss me and my red hair when she finally turned up.

If she ever did.

I checked my phone. Nothing. No message, no missed call. Just a glaring timestamp reminding me I’d been standing here for over half an hour, drinking terrible wine and enduring this.

Last night, Emily had promised a night of good music, fun distractions, and copious amounts of alcohol.

There was just one catch.

I had to go to this mini rock music festival with her in Cardiff, first.

Live music wasn’t my thing. Too many people crammed into one space, bass turned up so high my heart vibrated unnaturally. It made my skin itch, my nerves crawl. I preferred music I could dance to, where I could get lost in the rhythm. Swing, salsa, blues — anywhere I could move, let the world fade away.

But this? This was not it.

Knowing that Emily’s favourite Glasgow-based band was scheduled to play and we hadn’t hung out properly in months, I’d bitten off the immediate no that sprang to my lips and agreed. Plus I kinda felt the need to get blackout drunk.

The last eight months had been a relentless blur of work. Long days and longer nights coordinating production on Mystery Lines, a TV drama that had ruled my life. We’d wrapped yesterday, and suddenly my schedule was empty, the silence ringing louder than I expected.

Maybe that was why I’d agreed. I needed the distraction.

But if the band on stage was meant to provide it, they were failing. Miserably.

I pressed my lips together as the shirtless lead singer flailed across the stage, hair plastered to his skeletal frame. Had he lost his shirt somewhere, or was this part of the act? Either way, he looked like he needed a meal and a shower.

Reverb shrieked through the speakers. The entire crowd winced in unison.

I clenched my teeth and tipped my head back against the pillar. Then immediately jolted forward with a curse.

Right. Sweat-slicked walls.

I checked my phone again, willing Emily — or a message from her — to appear like some kind of summoning spell. Still nothing.

Foot tapping against the disgusting floor, I glared at the stage. Reverb squawked through the small space, and I winced in tandem with the rest of the crowd. Why had I caved so quickly yesterday? I should have fought harder.

You know why.

Emily and I lived together, but when Mystery Lines was in full swing, we barely saw each other. A production coordinator’s day started before dawn, and ended long after a school counselor's. If I didn’t get a rare weekend off, we existed like passing ships, snatching conversations in the kitchen.

She’d missed me. I’d missed her.

And she knew I needed a distraction.

She’d attached herself to me when we were eleven, fending off a bully with a well-aimed textbook, and had never let go since. She was the reckless one, the daredevil, the climber of trees and breaker of rules. People would tell her she wasn’t allowed to do something, and she’d defy them all.

I used to wish she approached love with the same fearless attitude.

Now? I knew better.

At twenty-six, after a string of failed relationships and heartbreaks, I’d learned that Emily’s caution in love had been wise. My own reckless heart had led me down too many dead ends.

I let out a slow breath and scanned the crowd again. My gaze snagged on a tall, blond man across the room.

Something about him itched at my memory.

He stood in a loose circle with three equally attractive men, all of them casually commanding attention. The kind of men who turned heads just by existing.

The four of them were chiselled, over six feet tall, and gave off an air of unaffected calm in the face of so much attention. I could understand why they pulled focus; they were the epitome of cool and confident.

Women stole glances, some bolder than others, but no one dared approach. A bubble of empty space surrounded them, their presence alone keeping the crowd at bay.

But unlike his friends, Blondie wasn’t caught up in conversation. He was watching me.

His gaze locked onto mine, unwavering, steady.

The bass thumped.

My pulse jumped.

Last night. The Old Ballroom.

The stairs.

I’d seen him walking toward me as I left swing dance last night, his hair pulled back, his sharp features more restrained.

He looked different now. Messier, looser. A little dangerous, with waves of golden hair framing his face, falling to his shoulders with effortless grace, the kind most women would kill for.

He raised a bottle to his lips, and my gaze dipped, taking in the way his plain white t-shirt clung to his lean, muscled frame. His black jeans sat just right on his hips, outlining thighs that probably belonged to a runner or a swimmer.

If I’d met him last year, I might’ve taken that as an invitation.

But I wasn’t that girl anymore.

Still, I couldn’t stop staring.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

My face burned. Why did I remember him? I was usually terrible with faces, and our interaction had only lasted a matter of seconds.

A tall, thin guy covered in tattoos nudged him, smirking. His lips moved, and the pair laughed. He gave him a shove towards me, and my stomach dropped. Looking was one thing, but being approached in this dive bar was not on my agenda. I didn’t care how he made my pulse race; I was done with men.

I tore my eyes away and unlocked my phone to check messages, social media — anything to distract me. When my eyes tipped up again, drawn to him by some cruel magnetic force, he was grinning at me from across the room.

Heat suffused my body, and I willed it away.

I longed for the familiar comfort of a dance floor, where I could lose myself in the rhythm and forget about attractive strangers. The thumping bass here was a far cry from the swing beats I’d enjoyed just last night, but even that memory couldn’t snuff out the unwanted sparks this man ignited.

All of my attempts to let people in had backfired. I was tired of trying, of getting my heart broken. And I was sick of men taking advantage and treating me like their plaything. After my last mishap, it was becoming clear that true happiness would not include a man. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to, anyway.

A nice house with Emily close by would do me fine.

Speaking of… I checked my phone again. It revealed no more clues than the strangers surrounding me. It wasn’t like her to ditch me without at least a text, and Emily hadn’t been online in four hours. My fingers hovered over the keyboard while I chewed my lip in indecision. She hadn’t seen my last ten messages either.

Fuck it. Another text couldn’t hurt.

Alys

Where are you? Gig’s started and the wine sucks. HURRY UP! Xxx

I stared at the screen for a moment, as if sheer force of will could make those three little dots appear.

Nothing.

You’ve either been stood up, or your friends are late, someone shouted above me. Air tickled my ear. The sound startled me enough that I added my own foul wine to the sticky cocktail coating the old rubber floor.

My head snapped up. The guy from across the room grinned down at me, his crystal-blue eyes captivating.

Up close, he was even more distracting. He had one of those faces that made you stare longer than you should. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a nose just imperfect enough to rule him out of godhood and make him interesting.

And he was big.

Broad shoulders, long limbs, the kind of presence that made the already too-small bar feel even more suffocating.

I met his gaze, acutely aware of how he dwarfed my five-foot-four frame, even with my three-inch boots.

None of the above? He leaned towards me to be heard over the caterwauling filtering through the amps. His trim body blocked out the stage, and I couldn’t find it in me to be mad about it.

My lungs filled with his smouldering, spicy scent, and it was like my body had forgotten all the reasons I’d sworn off men. Or maybe it just remembered how good a strong arm felt during a dip. If I weren’t a trained dancer, my knees might have buckled. What the utter hell?

Eyes narrowed, I considered his open, patient face. There were two kinds of attractive men: the ones who were oblivious to their power, and the ones who knew.

This guy knew he was good-looking.

I hated that kind of man. His slightly crooked smile jump-started my pulse, and my grip on common sense slipped. My friend’s late.

Very late.

Remind me to thank her, he shouted.

Heat crept up my neck.

I should have turned away, cut this off before it started. I wasn’t interested. Not in whatever game he was playing, not in flirty strangers with lazy smiles and sharp eyes.

But hate these men or not, my body couldn’t ignore their charm.

I’d dated a lot over the years — setups, online matches, one-night stands, unwise attempts at relationships — but none of them had made the room fade or my throat close up with nerves. Not one of them had captivated me with a smile or made my heart race with the caress of their gaze. Somehow this one cut through the disinterest.

So, this is going to sound crazy, but you seem really familiar, he said.

His voice curled around me, low and gruff, like he knew exactly how it would land. Relief eased my nerves. At least I wasn’t the only one who remembered.

We passed each other on the stairs last night at the Old Ballroom.

We did. His shoulders relaxed, his easy smile returning. But I don’t think that’s it.

I frowned, searching his face. There was no way I’d forget him. That kind of effortless confidence? That kind of face? Not a chance.

Then he grinned. "You were on the set of the Mystery Lines show this summer, right?"

I blinked. Yeah.

I’d been on it since May.

He raised the bottle to his lips, grinning. I thought so.

I sifted through my memories of the summer. If he’d been on my set, I would have noticed.

My mate, Shaun Martin, was in it. You’re the woman who told the crew off for being callous idiots.

I groaned, covering my face. "You saw that?"

Hard to miss. Warm, calloused fingers gently pried my hand away from my eyes. The touch was brief, barely there, but it left a lingering heat on my skin. Don’t be embarrassed. It was brilliant. They all just stood there while the chaperone struggled with that little girl, and you stepped in like it was nothing.

My stomach tightened. I could still see her tear-streaked face.

She was going blue in the face, I muttered, shifting under his gaze. Someone had to do something before she passed out.

And that someone was you?

No one else had the sense to do it, so yeah, it had to be me. My throat hurt from shouting, but I didn’t want to stop talking to him.

He rocked back on his heels, considering mw. I left set pretty fast after that. How did they take it?

My production manager found it funny. The rest tiptoed around me for a few days.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest and I focused on the swirl of my wine, suddenly very aware of how intently he studied me.

It was brave, he said, voice firm.

I peeked at him from beneath my lashes. His eyes travelled across my face, seeming to absorb every detail.

You think so?

He nodded. Hundred percent.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. Did Shaun Martin really see?

Blondie stared at my lips, frowning as he tried to decipher my question.

Shaun Martin was the leading man of the series and kind of a big deal, even if he had started out as if he was trying to tank his career. At the beginning of production for Mystery Lines, he’d tried to get plenty of people fired. He hadn’t been successful, and thankfully he’d gotten over whatever had been making him act out. But I’d still disrupted the set, even if I was defending a helpless girl. Someone like him hated wasting time, and he could definitely talk a producer into giving him anything he wanted the next time around, including not hiring a brazen production coordinator.

The frown cleared and Blondie’s eyes were appraising when they jumped back to mine. He thought it was impressive too, but his assistant was also quite the firecracker.

You met Mona?

He nodded. A couple of times now. Do you know her well?

A little. I shrugged. I hired her.

He hummed in approval. When she was trying to get out from under Shaun, you mean?

I didn’t know they were involved at the time, but I guess so.

Our production secretary quit without notice two months in. She’d been missed, and the production team had struggled to absorb her tasks. For a couple of weeks, we floundered trying to keep on top of the last-minute transport and accommodation changes for the entire cast and crew, as well as prepare the sides for the next day. When Mona accepted my offer to jump ship and join production, I snapped her up without much thought.

I don’t think Shaun was thrilled about it, though, I added, watching him carefully.

He smirked. No. He wasn’t.

I tilted my head. "You know a lot about what happened on set for someone who left pretty fast."

His lips quirked. I pay attention.

Of course he did.

I should have turned away. Should have excused myself. Should have gone looking for Emily.

Did you find out why she was crying? he asked, bringing me back to the present.

I frowned at the sudden question. My mind raced, trying to figure out how it applied to Mona. I’d never seen her cry.

What?

The girl. His blue eyes locked onto mine, intense and unreadable. Did you find out why she was upset?

The genuine interest in his gaze both intrigued and terrified me. Men rarely cared about my job. They asked perfunctory questions about meeting famous people, but their eyes always glazed over when I tried to go deeper.

She missed her mother. She’d died a couple of months before, and it was her first acting gig without her. A pang hit me in the chest. I tried to force that memory out of my mind by raising the awful wine to my mouth and focusing on the acidic liquid searing my taste buds. It didn’t help.

Our only child actress had thrown a fit because no one had danced her around the space or read lines with her.

Like her mother did.

And never would again.

His amusement faded. Poor kid. Admiration filled his tone when he added: I’ve never seen someone soothe a kid so fast. Good work.

Heat spread up my neck and into my cheeks.

Hey, don’t be embarrassed. It took guts. He raised his drink to his lips without breaking eye contact. There were loads of people there whose job it was to look after the kid, right?

Yes, but I went about it wrong. I should have spoken to the director and had him step in.

But I hadn’t really been thinking. I’d heard her cry and reacted.

Your way was far more badass. He smiled. My lips curved in response. I’m sorry for staring. I guess your face stuck with me after that.

I nodded, but my gaze drifted to the stairs, hoping to find Emily pushing through the crowd. No such luck.

So much for escaping this conversation before it got under my skin.

The sound engineer stood near the stage, arms crossed, glaring at the shirtless mess still swinging the mic stand. Any second now, someone was going to get brained by it.

There was screamo, and then there was this ear-destroying monstrosity. Do you like this kind of music? My persistent companion tapped my arm with his cold plastic bottle, drawing my attention back to him. Goosebumps broke out, raising the hairs on my skin.

How can you call this noise music? Some people like it.

But not you? I held my breath, hopeful I’d at last found some reason to push him away.

Definitely not me. I like my music to have understandable lyrics.

That has lyrics?

He chuckled. They say it does. I have my doubts.

I glanced over his shoulder at his friends. They were engrossed in a heated argument, gesturing wildly, their faces animated and invested.

What’s that about? I nodded towards them.

Jared probably said something just to wind them up. He shrugged. That’s normal. I’m far more interested in you.

I laughed. Smooth.

He ran his free hand through his hair, grinning boyishly at me. Not really.

My laugh came easily this time, slipping past my defenses.

He grinned. I’d rather not get dragged into whatever they’re arguing about. Would you mind if I kept hanging out with you?

The answer should have been no. I wasn’t interested in taking this brief flirtation further. I definitely didn’t want to lead anyone on.

Yet I smiled and nodded.

Relief flashed across his face before his confidence slid back into place. If you could have dinner with only two of your favourite artists, who would you pick?

That’s random.

His eyes wandered across my face, taking in my surprise. You don’t like small talk. I figured I’d skip it.

I studied him. You first.

Easy. Freddie Mercury and Prince.

Of course he had the perfect answer.

Your turn.

I shook my head. You don’t want to know the answer.

Fair warning. If you say Matthew Tuck from Bullet for My Valentine, I’m going to call you a hypocrite. His eyes sparkled, and a ridiculous thrill swept through me. I’d heard of Bullet for My Valentine. They were a Welsh band from a couple towns over, but I had no idea what they sounded like.

Okay. You still don’t want to hear my answer.

Now I need to know. He stepped closer and his face lit up. It can’t be that bad. You don’t look like the sort to love teeny-bopper music.

I laughed too, basking in his attention despite myself. I’d probably invite Halsey and the Ward Thomas sisters.

He pointed at me. That’s three.

I can’t exactly split up the Ward Thomas sisters.

Then you need to pick just them.

Or I could pick someone else.

He gestured for me to do so.

Tanc Sade.

He frowned, focusing on a point beyond me. He’s not a musician.

He played one.

Yes, but he’s not a real musician. He smirked, shaking his head. You’re terrible at this game.

I did warn you.

He laughed, the sound rushing around me in a rare break in the music and drawing an uncontrollable smile from me.

CHAPTER TWO

Y ou here for someone in particular? His lips almost brushed my ear to be heard over the music. The heat of his breath tickled my skin, and I stiffened. He leaned back, his expectant eyes fixed on me.

I took a sip of wine to cover it and regretted it. Wincing, I lowered the cup.

My blond shadow gestured to the cup, silently asking for a taste. I handed it over without hesitation. Let him suffer.

He took a tentative sip.

I bit my lip and waited.

His face screwed up like he’d bitten into a lemon. He washed it down with his own drink. Bloody hell.

Told you.

So? You didn’t answer my question.

I blinked, momentarily thrown.

Are you here for someone in particular?

Right. That.

I smirked, shifting onto my tiptoes to be heard over the music. My friend loves this band called Rhiannon.

His gaze dipped to my mouth, brows knitting in concentration as he tried to decipher my words through the pulsing bass. But not you?

I’m not the ‘fixate on a band’ type. Emily’s played me a song or two. They’re alright. Unlike this lot. I nodded towards the singer, who was now trying to choke himself Bat-Out-of-Hell-style on stage. One wrong step and he’d strangle himself. It was a worrying sight.

He huffed a quiet laugh. Bit dramatic.

A little.

I’m Ryan, by the way. He offered me his hand, and smart or not, I took it. His rough fingers scraped against my skin, and I shivered as every nerve in my body kick-started at the brief contact.

Alys.

The corner of his mouth lifted. I know.

My smile slipped a little. I pulled my hand back and pressed my palm tight against my side. Whether to end the sensation or prolong it, I wasn’t sure.

How?

I asked Shaun months ago. He paused, then winced. Shit. That sounds bad, doesn’t it?

My lips twitched at his wide-eyed distress. How do you think it sounds?

Like creepy stalker shit. Which— he raised both hands in mock surrender —is not what it was.

I’m not worried. I crossed my arms and considered him, my eyes dragging up and down his body critically. You don’t look like you’d know how to stalk a woman.

Definitely not. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, the picture of innocence.

And Mona would have ratted you out by now. I swear she’s part detective or something.

He huffed a laugh. You’d be right about that.

I know. I got her on the track to her dream job. She owes me.

Duly noted. Ryan shook his head, his smirk deepening as he took another sip of his drink. Well, Alys, I hope you’ll let me prove my innocence. Maybe give me your honest feedback over a drink after the show?

Are you a superfan or something?

They may be friends of mine. His captivating eyes gleamed with secrets.

Ah. That explained it. So, it’s personal. That makes honest feedback a little difficult.

Why’s that?

Because any comments would end up being lies or partial truths, and that’s no way to— I clamped my lips shut as my brain caught up with my runaway mouth.

That’s no way to start a relationship, I’d been about to say to a stranger. I didn’t even want a relationship.

Bloody hell. What was wrong with me?

No way to what? Ryan asked, smirking as though he knew exactly where my head had gone.

I waved a hand dismissively. So, where are you from?

He tilted his head, amused but letting me change the subject. Ponty, but I live in Glasgow. I went for uni and never found a compelling reason to come home.

His words reminded me that Emily would never miss this gig. My gaze strayed to the stairs again, scanning the faces of each newcomer. In the fifteen years we’d been best friends, she’d never backed out of plans without warning. There had to be something wrong. Something serious enough to keep her from Rhiannon’s first gig in Wales.

Serious like an accident. Ears ringing, I took out my phone and hit dial. I had the device raised to my ear before my brain could remind me that I could only just about hear myself think. Ryan had almost kissed my ear to be heard while shouting. That image made my toes curl, and you can bet I’d be tucking it away to analyse later.

Straining to hear the telltale sound of the phone ringing, I took a step towards the stairs, trying to escape the noise.

Where are you going? Ryan called, keeping pace with me. The easy smile had fallen from his lips and he frowned down at me.

I’m sorry. I’m worried about my friend.

I only knew the call had connected to voicemail because the screen said so. Any dial tone was lost to the painful reverb of the guitar.

Where the hell are you, Em?

I hung up and slid the phone into the pocket of my jeans. My heart beat faster as more images of the terrible things that could’ve happened to Emily played in my head. I needed to find her.

Now.

With a hair’s width of space between our bodies, I raised on my tiptoes. Heeled boots or not, there was still some distance between us. My hands gripped Ryan’s shoulders to steady myself. Thanks for chatting to me, but I need to go, I shouted, hoping that my voice would carry over the latest onslaught of screaming.

You’ll miss the best act if you go now, he said with conviction. A hand landed on my hip as he closed the minute gap between us. My breasts pressed against his hard chest and his eyes held mine, searching. His head dipped towards me. My breath caught and my brain forgot why it was a bad idea to be this close to such a potent man.

One kiss wouldn’t hurt, right?

Our noses touched, and the small puff of his breath on my face jolted me from the moment. The fog parted and logic sat clear before me, mocking my momentary lapse in judgement.

A break from men meant a break. No kissing strangers in a bar just because I found them oddly captivating.

I have to go. Sorry.

I stepped back, and his hands fell away. His mouth hung open in shock — not used to women saying no to him, no doubt. With a parting wave, I made a beeline for the exit.

Wait!

The music cut out at the worst possible moment, amplifying his voice.

Heads turned. Some people glanced my way. Others did a double take at him, whispering excitedly to their friends.

Weird.

My spine straightened. Nothing made me more hyper-aware of every minor flaw, imagined or otherwise, than being watched.

Back ballerina-straight and head high, I ignored the weight of their stares. I kept moving toward the stairs and the freedom of Albany