I pinch my lips, refusing to let my satisfied smirk loose. Ryner saunters over to stand between us, then turns around and leans on the edge of the balcony, looking back and forth at us.

“It’s a big one, Jenkins.”

She nods, her attention on him now.

She is still deadly beautiful. That’s the thing that bothers me most. But it shouldn’t. That just means it won’t be a terrible inconvenience to shag her, which I fully plan on, before discarding her back to her motherland, this time with no affection and zero promises.

“Deets, Ryner. Give them to me.” Aurora starts playing with the hoop in her nose.

You silly, predictable girl.

“Two months in a village just outside Dublin. Tokyo, is it?” He throws me a puzzled look.

“Tolka.” I shove my balled fists into my pockets.

“I was close.” He laughs.

Sure. You only got the city, country, and continent wrong, arsehole.

“Doherty will be writing the songs, and Richards will be recording them in his home studio—the acoustic version, anyway. Kinda like an artistic workshop, old-school style. Then Richards will come back to New York in March and record it from scratch.”

What Ryner means is the singer will come back and have professionals distort his voice to sound like something that doesn’t break glass, concrete, and people’s spirits. I watch Aurora’s face transform from annoyed to terrified in a span of seconds. Her lips are still pursed.

“That means two months in Ireland, Jenkins, all costs taken care of. You’re welcome.” He winks.

“Wait.” Aurora holds up a hand. “Why do I need to stay in Ireland? I can just take pictures for a week or so and then get out of their hair.”

Ryner shakes his head. “It’s for a documentary of sorts. We need hours of material. Hundreds of pictures. Our marketing campaign is huge. We’re bleeding money out of our asses after a butchered colonoscopy exam. We need as much material as possible.”

“You can’t expect me to live in Ireland for the next couple months,” Aurora says through a tight smile.

I know what she did to make me hate her, but I wonder what I did to warrant such sour behavior. Other than being a cunt just now.

Come to think of it, that’s probably all it took.

Then, of course, there’s the matter of the boyfriend.

The rich, shiny boyfriend she said she’d never date, yet I saw her in the ballroom, clinging to his Brioni-clad arm like bad breath on a fecking alcoholic.

What disappointments we are to each other, Princess.

“I can fly in and out of Ireland,” she suggests, munching on her lower lip. “It’s no trouble, and I bet you’ll need me here, too.”