The Only Song (Only You)

EPILOGUE

XANDER’S POV

W hen it comes to proposals, I thought my proposal for my ex-wife topped the cake. Fireworks. Rooftop bar. Four-carat diamond.

Now, I realize it was just for the photos.

That, and as I traipse down the driveway to Jaxon, my best friend and fraternity brother, with his sickeningly sweet version of a proposal, I realize that mine was never even real .

There were no sweet kisses, no dancing in dark rooms, or making love like music in my marriage.

We barely kissed. She danced exclusively at night clubs. She fucked other men.

I don’t know how I never saw until recently that Vivian and I never loved each other the way Sadie and Jaxon do. And I know I’ll never love someone like that again.

It’s with that thought stuck on repeat that I forget I’m holding a violin case and knock over the A-frame sign that reads Harmony by the Sea presented by Bluewater Music Academy .

“Shit.” I promptly prop it back up as music students continue to filter through Jaxon’s front door. As I straighten, Jaxon stares at me, amused, from his front doorstep.

“Can you try and not ruin my wife’s present before I give it to her?”

I scowl. “She’s not your wife yet.”

“Well, she won’t be if you fuck up the case that her ring and her gift are in.”

I close the space between us, dutifully handing over his “ring box” that I’ve been hiding for the past month.

“I can’t believe you bought her a fifty-thousand dollar violin,” I comment. I don’t mean it to come out sour, but the bitterness of my divorce seems to have left an aftertaste and every word comes out a little tough.

Jaxon shrugs it off, likely too excited or too nervous to deal with my mood swings. He just hits me with a pleased smile and says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, “I love her. She deserves it.”

She deserves it .

I’m pretty sure those were my same thoughts when I served my ex-wife with divorce papers .

I shake my head. Fourteen years together. Vivian and I were together for fourteen years. Four years in college. Eight years after that. Then, two years married.

How many guys did my ex-wife fuck behind my back over fourteen fucking years?

I should’ve known. But I was too blindsided. Life with Vivian was easy, but after seeing what Sadie and Jax went through, love is never easy. It’s about finding someone you’ll want to go through all the hurt with.

Someone worth fighting for.

Yeah, and that’s never going to fucking happen for me. I can’t trust another woman again and being here only reminds me of how my heart was shattered into pieces. I need a reprieve before I return for Jaxon’s proposal, and I have just the thing planned. So, I turn to leave, but Jaxon’s voice stops me mid-step.

“You’re not going to stay for the recital?” he asks. Guilt hits me in my chest. It’s the first event of their new music school, a year after its opening. In the background, I can hear Sadie beginning her introduction, proudly announcing how five of their students have gotten music scholarships in Ivy League colleges and at least eight are part of renowned youth orchestras.

I swallow the lump in my throat as I shake my head. I can’t even bear to look at him. I know I’ve let my friends down a lot lately, and tonight happens to be the night things might change for me. At least, I hope it will.

“I can’t,” I bite out .

“But the proposal?—”

My gaze whips to his in an instant as I stare—or glare—in his direction. “I’m not missing it. I’ll be there.”

The words come out intense. These days I seem to have two modes: mad or madder.

“Xander—”

“I promise I’ll be there, Jax. Just let me…” I sigh as I wipe a palm down my face and stare one of my oldest and truest friends in the eye. I know he sees the hurt even through all his healing.

When he lost his career, he had Sadie to fall on.

When I lost my marriage… I had him and Max, but it wasn’t enough. I still felt hollow and alone.

“I’m going to a Brazilian jiu-jitsu academy to train...” I trail off as my throat dries from the admission. Jaxon’s brows knit with concern. “Train for my anger.”

Understanding dawns on his face and he doesn’t say another word. His hand claps me on my shoulder as he nods, and the knot in my chest for leaving my best friend doesn’t ease until I’m on a jiu-jitsu mat for the first time.

Because the wind gets knocked right out of me. Again. And again. And again.

My feet slip on the vinyl surface. The mat is nowhere near cushiony or soft. And every time I push to stand up, I feel like I get bruises all over my knees.

It’s the most humbling experience of my life yet.

Especially when the reason I’m on the floor and getting my ass handed to me is from a petite girl, at least five years younger, half my size with dark brown hair and gorgeous green eyes who does nothing but sweep me off my feet. Literally, not figuratively.

Her laugh rings in the air, melodious and sweet. She’s not laughing at me. She’s just in her element. A brown belt is slung around her waist with four white stripes on the black tab wrapped over a fitting black gi uniform that hides strong muscle and thick curves. Curves and muscle I feel every time I get a grip on her, only for her to rip it free instantly. It stings my fingers and makes my teeth grind.

I scowl. She smiles.

Maybe it was my angry tone from when I came in demanding prices and a trial session. Maybe that’s why she’s going this hard on me. Or maybe I’m just being a pussy right now and getting tossed around by a girl. A girl who didn’t flinch when she saw me, even as I towered over her. She sized me up and slapped my hand to begin training.

And now I want more.

More of whatever this feeling is that she stirs in me that has me fighting to get up, rather than lying low in my depression and letting anger consume me like it has for months. I’m tossed and pinned and slammed into the mat and every time I lose, I want to get up. I want to fight back. I want to see those green eyes sparkle.

This martial art sure tests me, but I can’t shake the feeling that this girl I’m training with might spark something in me, too.

She looks like an angel. One who trains as if she were in hell.

And she might just be my salvation.

When the final bell rings, I stumble out in a voice foreign to my own ears, “Who are you?”

Her pretty pink lips pull into a smile, accentuating her rosy freckled cheeks and emerald green eyes.

And God help me, she’s flawless.

She extends a hand out, like she’s going to help me up, and I slip mine into it just as she speaks: “I’m Lily.”

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