The Evie Effect: The Laws of Love, #5

By Davina Stone

It's not every day that you get knocked off your moped by a rockstar.

 

When avant-garde artist Evie Winters finds herself contracted to do a sculpture of rock star, Byron Logan, she almost refuses. After all their first meeting was hardly auspicious; a slanging match in a London street after his limo ran her off the road. Byron clearly has issues, but Evie desperately needs the money.  And then there's the minor complication of their chemistry. Despite his outrageous behaviour, Evie finds the wolfishly attractive Byron keeps hitting her hot buttons.

Byron isn't indifferent to Evie either. She may be a pink-haired she-devil, but she happens to be a gorgeous one.  And she's not afraid to stand up to his temper tantrums. With his life in chaos and his mood swings out of control, Byron soon finds that being around Evie makes him feel a whole lot better than the pills his psychiatrist keeps doling out.

Thrown together to work on the project in Byron's stately home hideout in Cornwall, sparks fly as they continually rub each other up the wrong way. But as they spend more time together, something changes: Byron and Evie soon find out that what draws them together goes way deeper than physical attraction.

Because when you really get to know the essence of someone, there's always a chance that hate will turn to love—and that opening up about their pasts could challenge both Evie and Byron to face up to a whole lot more than they bargained for.

 

Find out if love can conquer chaos in this steamy, hilarious and at times heart wrenching fifth book in The Laws of Love series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Davina Stone
• Release date: Oct 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645006599

Davina Stone

Davina Stone writes romances about flawed but loveable characters who get it horribly wrong before they finally get it right. They also kiss a fair bit on the way to happily ever after. Davina grew up in England, before meeting her very own hero who whisked her across wild oceans to Australia. She has now lived exactly half her life in both countries which makes her a hybrid Anglo-Aussie. When not writing she can be found chasing kangaroos off her veggie patch, dodging snakes and even staring down the odd crocodile. But despite her many adventures, in her heart, she still believes that a nice cup of tea fixes most problems- and of course, that true love conquers all. Please Review This book. Reviews help authors to keep writing and help readers to find our books. If you enjoyed The Alice Equation, please consider leaving a review on Goodreads or your preferred platform. This author will be eternally grateful! Why not drop by and say hi? Want to know more about my books? Go to my website to find out what’s happening in my writing world. www.davinastone.com Want to read the story of when Alice and Aaron first met? Sign up for my newsletter and get the prequel to The Alice Equation FREE. You will also get updates and a little bit of once-a-month silliness (cute pics of koalas may be included on occasions) Connect with me on …

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Evie Winters liked taking risks.

The kind where the odds were firmly stacked in her favour. Which was why, when she launched herself on her bright pink moped around Hyde Park Corner on this sunny Tuesday in September (Tuesday being the day Evie taught sculpture at Rodin Academy of Fine Arts), she sent out a prayer to her personal goddess before diving into the throng of red London buses and black cabs.

So it was with a smile of triumph—and a thank you to her goddess—that Evie reached the other side of Hyde Park Corner, nipped in front of a swanky BMW, and zipped along the tree-lined avenue of Piccadilly. When she turned on to Half Moon Street, a quick glance over her shoulder showed the BMW was still behind her, its engine revving impatiently.

Probably some upper-class twat who thought they owned the road.

She zigzagged. The driver hooted. Evie flipped them the bird.

Things seemed to happen rather fast after that.

One minute she was riding along with her elbow bent and a triumphant middle finger waving at the sky, the next all of her seemed to be pointing towards the sky, and then… kind of not…

Until suddenly her body reconnected with the earth.

With an ominous thud.

Evie blinked. Her senses registered a kaleidoscope of things in a remarkably calm way: the sound of brakes squealing somewhere up the street, the roofs of grand stucco houses silhouetted against a sky full of puffy clouds. It was really rather pretty; she should do an art installation based on it. She’d title it An Ant’s-eye View of Mayfair.

Gradually, a sliver of logic filtered in. She supposed she should check if everything still worked. She wiggled her toes. Yep, still connected to her brain. Fingers? Yep, all good there too. There was no obvious pain, so she decided she should probably sit up and work out exactly what had happened.

As she made to do just that, a male voice instructed firmly, Don’t move.

A bespectacled face appeared above her, blotting out the sky. He was probably a bit older than her, Evie deduced, with a frown puckering his brows. Really, it’s best if you don’t move.

Just then, another head peered over his shoulder, two very green eyes narrowed under drawn together brows. Even at this angle, with his head blotting out the last little puffy cloud, she could see just how green those eyes were.

Freakin’ amazing eyes.

But not a nice expression at all. Positively unfriendly to be honest.

What the fuck was she doing? Green Eyes addressed his companion as if she didn’t actually exist.

The guy with the glasses made a gentle shushing noise, to which Green Eyes growled, Quit the shush-shush, Monty, she was zigzagging all over the road. And now I’m going to be late for my bloody appointment.

She might be hurt, Monty said in the tone of someone who was trying to work out all possible solutions to a messy situation.

I’m fine, Evie protested, her voice muffled inside her helmet. She waved both her arms to prove it. Look, they still work. She guessed she should be thankful for that, considering they were her livelihood. Gingerly, she propped herself up on her elbows, then winced. Okay, so that hurt a bit. Her left shoulder had definitely taken the brunt of her fall. What happened?

I’m really not sure, Monty said. Possibly you hit a pothole.

She could see Green Eyes scowling over his shoulder. See? She’s fine. He motioned at her like she was detritus. Go get her motorbike out of the gutter, for Christ’s sake, and let’s get the fuck out of here.

Monty, still crouched by her side, said in a placatory tone, Byron, we’ve just witnessed an accident. This young lady may be hurt. We can’t flee the scene.

Green Eyes, aka Byron, raked a hand through his shaggy mane of dark hair and sucked in his cheeks, which were sharp and angled. Even in her post-hit-the-tarmac state, Evie could appreciate good bone structure when she saw it. But he was a rude bastard, that was for sure, and now that her faculties were returning to normal, she was filled with indignation at his tone.

She shot upright and tugged off her helmet, all the better to give him an earful without looking like a Teletubby.

When she shook out her hair—bright purple today—she noticed with a frisson of satisfaction that his green eyes widened slightly in surprise.

Your friend Monty is right. If you leave now, it’s a hit and run. She stood up and rotated her shoulder, which responded with a slug of sharp pain. Other than that, she felt remarkably fine. Monty reached out a hand with a worried look. She waved him off and shoved her helmet under her other arm, staring down her adversary.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Green Eyes stalked towards her. He was rangy, long-legged, and enticingly menacing in a way that made her pulse race. Or perhaps that was just adrenaline from being tossed through the air.

Are you trying to frame me? he growled, eyes mere slits now.

What are you talking about?

Byron, no, Monty admonished, still in that soothing tone, though Evie detected a hint of rising alarm behind the calm.

Don’t be so fucking naïve, Monty, she probably recognised the number plate. This whole thing’s just one big set-up.

A wave of seismic rage rose up Evie’s throat. You are seriously whacko. Normally she’d never say that to anyone. She was very sensitive about labelling people—past experience and all—but right now, they were truly the only words that fit.

Byron’s lips curled into a sneer. You know who I am, don’t you?

Evie stuck out her jaw. "Yeah, I know who you are. You’re the fucking moron who was driving up my fucking arse." If he was going to F bomb all over the joint, she could damn well outdo him.

Technically that was me, Monty interjected, worrying at his lower lip. I was driving.

A lean hand shot out, stopping him. Don’t admit fault, Monty. He turned back to Evie. You want some sort of payout, is that it? Okay, you’ll get a payout. Byron dragged a wallet out of the back pocket of his black jeans. Go and check out her bike, Monty, and we’ll work out the damage.

Evie blinked, mesmerised by the angle of his cheekbones and jaw and struck by a sudden urge to run her fingers over their contours. Perhaps she was concussed after all.

Monty looked apprehensively at Byron, who was now pulling great wads of fifty-pound notes from his wallet. "We should really call the police, not, erm, try to settle this in your usual way."

Byron shot him another nasty look. She’s managing to mouth off perfectly well, so clearly she’s fine. We settle this here and now. No way am I going to miss my appointment and wait two fucking hours because Latham doesn’t believe in preferential treatment.

Are you for real? was all Evie could muster, finding herself right out of sass. She must have taken a blow to the head.

The obnoxious man had the cheek to smirk, the pull of his lips revealing a glint of white teeth. Oh, I’ll give it to you, you’re very good at acting innocent.

Evie snorted. One thing no-one had ever accused her of was innocence.

Here, take it, and get lost. He waved a wad of notes in front of her face.

Evie stepped back, affronted. I don’t want your stupid money, you stupid git.

Git! Did you just call me a git?

You forgot the ‘stupid’ prefix.

He was staring at her now like she’d grown two heads. Both of them bright purple. Take the money, he growled. And no talking to the press. Get it?

Evie snorted again. You are delusional.

Take the fucking money.

Go fuck yourself.

Green Eyes looked like he might throttle her.

Here’s your bike. While the two of them had been posturing, Monty, she realised, had gone and retrieved her moped from where it had landed in the gutter. And please Byron, leave the girl alone. She clearly doesn’t know who—

Suddenly Evie’s ears were assailed by a piercing squeal, or to be more precise, a cacophony of squeals. Byron’s brows shot up as his gaze lanced past her and a look of horror crossed his face.

There were screams of, It’s Byron Logan! Oh my god, Tess, look. It is. It really is!

Byron, Byron, BY-RON! The squeals reached a crescendo as Evie turned to see a bunch of girls in private school uniforms thundering down the street towards them.

With another string of expletives, Byron literally threw the money at her, turned on his heels and sprinted towards the black BMW. Monty backed away, spluttering, Really sorry about all this, please take the money, then he too sprinted for the car.

The BMW’s doors slammed shut as the group of girls pounded past in their heavy school shoes like a herd of baby elephants. And then the engine revved and the car set off with half a dozen teenage girls in hot pursuit.

And that’s when Evie saw the number plate.

PM 1.

She burst out laughing. Prime Minister, this guy certainly was not. But who the hell was he? There was something about his face that was familiar. Probably some minor celebrity with an ego bigger than Mount Everest, she decided with a shudder.

Shaking her head, she glanced down at her feet to see fifty-pound notes scattered around her Doc Martens. The car had disappeared, and the girls were now making their way back towards her, giggling almost hysterically.

Hey, you know you were talking to Byron Logan? one of them stated, clearly the ringleader, her eyes wide with awe. What about?

Byron Logan. Evie knew the name. He knocked me off my moped. She bent down and picked up a handful of notes. And then tried to pay me to keep quiet.

Oh, no way! The ringleader’s mouth was a big O.

He could knock me off anytime, squealed another.

When the titters and squawks died down, Evie asked, So who is he anyway?

That started them off again.

You don’t know who Byron Logan is?

Just the lead singer of The Pie Monkeys.

Like, durhhh, do you live under a rock or something?

Evie shrugged. She couldn’t care less what a bunch of Sloane Ranger kids in green blazers thought of her.

Probably, yeah.

But it was suddenly falling into place. Of course she’d heard of The Pie Monkeys. They’d never really been her thing—too pop culture for her tastes—but they were a phenomenon. A band with a repertoire of chart-topping songs, and a lead singer with a face like a… like an angelic demon, and a voice that took you from heaven to hell and back. How did those exact words suddenly spring to mind? She could even recall a picture of Byron Logan sprawled in a red leather wing chair with that sulky devil look on his handsome face. Must have been in the Sunday Times mag or something. Her brain always did this. Threw out random shit.

The girls were staring down at the scattered money. Byron gave you all that?

Threw it at me. Evie bent and picked up several notes. Want some?

You are kidding?

Sure. Go on, I don’t want it.

OMG, to think Byron’s hands touched this.

OMG, I’m going to tongue kiss it.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Evie rolled her eyes. For the record, he’s just a rude bastard.

I don’t care. He’s Byron Logan and I will marry him and have his babies if he asks me.

With a grunt of disgust, Evie left them to it and inspected her moped. Her shoulder twinged as she took hold of the handlebars, but only mildly. Guess she had hours of sculpting and pole dancing to thank for that.

Hey, she called back to the girls, who were now rubbing the notes over their cheeks and—eeww—over their blazered breasts amid raucous giggles. They stopped long enough to gawk at her. Word of advice: don’t worship celebrities. They’re just a bunch of screwed-up arses. And with that, she swung her leg over the chassis, turned the key and grinned with relief as her faithful little moped chugged into life without a single grumble.

How would you know? Ringleader girl gave her a squinty eyed look.

Oh, believe me, sweetheart, I know. And with that, Evie plonked her helmet on her head and zipped off down the street.

Byron was dying.

This time he really was.

Because he sure as fuck couldn’t breathe.

He yanked at the neck of his T-shirt, his chest so goddamn tight it felt like it might explode. Gasping for air, he slumped back on the seat and fisted a hand repeatedly into his solar plexus.

You okay? Monty flicked a glance over his shoulder. Byron tried to answer, but nothing came out. Monty’s eyebrows pulled tight above his glasses. Fat lot of use Monty’s servile sympathy was when you were dying.

What Byron needed was decisive action.

But then—Christ—the kiss of life from Monty? Not the way he’d choose to go.

No, he croaked finally. I’m—

Panic attack? Shall I stop the car?

No. Byron flailed a hand, gulping air into his drum-tight lungs. Just get me to Latham’s rooms. Fast.

Right away.

Only it wouldn’t be right away, because there was no way Monty could cover the distance between Mayfair and Harley Street right away, unless they were in the Tardis, or they drove so fast they’d risk another incident like the last one… with… who exactly? The mouthy purple-haired demon-woman who’d started this whole thing by flicking them the bird, causing Byron to lose it and order Monty to just overtake. Which, of course, was why they were now in this stupid predicament.

With a groan, Byron ground the heels of both palms into his forehead.

He was so sick of dodging fans and trolls and media. Friend or foe, he couldn’t give a shit. He just wanted to be left alone. But hell, she’d proven superhuman, that one. Lying flat on her back one minute, bouncing upright the next. And worse, pretending she hadn’t got a clue who he was. He wasn’t fooled, he’d seen the glint of recognition in her eyes.

Violet eyes. Like her freakin’ hair. Everything about her spelled trouble.

She’d probably spotted his car going around Hyde Park Corner. He needed to remove that personalised number plate, it belonged to another era—one where being famous didn’t scare the flying crap out of him.

Byron’s chest spasmed again. Heart attack. Definitely.

Sprawling across the back seat, he gave himself up to the inevitable. After all, would it be so bad?

He hated his life. Had for the past eighteen months, if he was brutally honest. Since that day when… when… He could see them all now, a crowd of eager upturned faces, their disbelief, then horror… the band playing the same chord over and over, like the sinking of the freakin’ Titanic. All eyes on him, his mind a blank slate and no words coming out of his parched lips. He pressed his fists into his eyeballs, trying desperately to erase the flashback, and lay back, gasping and staring at the roof.

It seemed like hours before the car drew up outside 24 Harley Street and Monty was opening the door and trying to help him out. But even in his fear-paralysed state, Byron shook him off, just in case there were cameras, or someone with a snappy little iPhone. With difficulty, he forced his feet to move, his legs to carry him up the steps of the grand old building. Somehow, he made it into reception and threw himself down in a chair as Monty spoke in an urgent, hushed tone to the receptionist.

Vaguely, he registered Monty sitting down next to him. It’s alright, you’re in next.

The pounding in Byron’s chest slowed a milli-beat. Just enough for him to take a gulp of air.

If he was going to die, it was probably best if it happened in the privacy of Latham’s consulting room. Patient confidentiality and all that. At least he hadn’t collapsed on the steps with the whole world watching. Or worse, in front of that purple-haired she-devil. The thought set his heart off at a gallop all over again.

Byron clutched at his chest.

Byron. The gravelly voice of Dr John Latham cut through his thoughts. Come on in.

CHAPTER 2

O kay, strip off. Let me take a look.

Only moments before, Evie had stomped into the kitchen and announced she’d narrowly cheated death, was probably mortally wounded and would never sculpt again.

Of course, none of it was true, but she was still seething about the exchange with Green Eyes and needed to vent.

Felix had been sitting in his overalls contemplating his herb pots through the open back door. Now, in his usual calm fashion, he watched as she stripped off her jacket, then her T-shirt. Wearing only her red lacy bra, she presented him her shoulder.

See?

Oh, yeah that’s a corker, he observed. Fully purple already. Lift your arm up.

Evie did.

Okay, now rotate it.

Ouch. Evie winced. That hurts.

Full range of motion though, that’s a good sign.

The rumours are true then, I am made of kryptonite. Evie turned to face Felix, the only one of her two best friends still living in their Islington flat. Felicity had run away to Australia with the love of her life, and you honestly couldn’t count Digby the cat as a friend. Just a feline freeloader with an obnoxiously self-centred temperament.

You sure are. You’d have to be to haul those great hunks of rock around. Felix grinned through his golden beard. How did it happen?

Cider first, then I’ll tell you. Evie had always had a thing about cider. She used to like it sweet, but she’d transitioned in recent years to dry and crisp.

Felix handed her a can, then went back to the freezer and brought out a bag of peas, which he proceeded to place gently on her shoulder blade. There you go. Now fill me in.

Eek, that’s cold! Okay, but you won’t believe this. It’s completely whacky.

Try me.

I was on my way home, and this black BMW was revving up my arse, and it either clipped my wheel trying to pass me or I was too busy giving it the bird, but either way, I fell off and who should get out of the car but Byron Logan.

Felix’s brows shot up. Of The Pie Monkeys? You’re kidding.

I kid you not. And I didn’t even recognise him, at least not at first. Actually, it wasn’t him who ran me over, it was his chauffeur— seemed like a decent guy, very apologetic. Not so Byron. A complete and utter tosser. Evie gave an emphatic nod as she snapped the ring pull on her can and slurped the froth. I told him in no uncertain terms that he was a complete tosser.

I can imagine. Felix gently adjusted the bag of frozen peas against the throbbing patch on her shoulder.

Evie flinched.

Too much?

No, it feels good—thanks. Felix was her rock, more brother to her than her own brother. Though with Evie’s dysfunctional family, she guessed that wasn’t exactly a compliment.

I assume you got his insurance details, in case this turns out to be more than a bruise?

No chance, he went completely psycho at me. Evie sighed. Then this bunch of private-school girls recognised him and tried to mob him and he literally ran, like a scared rabbit. To be honest, he’d looked more wolf than rabbit, and he’d moved rather spectacularly on those long denim-clad legs. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Felix that. I got his number plate, though. She sipped her cider. PM1. Like, how naff is that?

Pretty naff. But at least it means you can trace him.

Evie sniffed. I wouldn’t demean myself like that. Besides, he accused me of setting the whole thing up, reckons I’d followed him and deliberately hurled myself on the ground in an act of extortion. And then the stupid idiot proceeded to throw all this money at me.

Like, he literally threw money at you?

Yep, literally. About a thousand quid, I reckon, in fifty-pound notes.

That is weird. Felix’s voice behind her was thoughtful. But you know, it kind of figures. Rumour is he’s got problems.

Really? What sort of problems?

Mental health problems.

You know that for a fact?

No, I don’t. It’s just, he hasn’t recorded anything since that concert. And their rumoured tour never happens.

Evie took over the bag of peas and Felix sat down. One of the young guys in the group is a mad fan of their music, Felix said, referring to the weekly men’s support group he ran. So I’ve kind of followed what happened after Byron Logan lost it at his last concert. We discussed it in a session recently—it’s good for the guys to realise that mental health problems can happen to anyone.

Oh. Evie frowned, icy water trickling between her fingers and down her back. I don’t follow celeb gossip, you know that. She gave a little shiver, and not from the icy peas. Even so, meeting the lead singer of The Pie Monkeys in such bizarre circumstances had tickled her curiosity. So, um—what’s supposed to have happened to him then?

Felix leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his beer before answering. He was halfway through ‘Tame Me’, you know that one right? Evie nodded. Tame Me was angry and angsty and the only one of The Pie Monkeys’ songs she liked. She sometimes played it at full volume when she was trying to get herself out of a creative slump.

Felix continued. And he went mute. Just stood there, looking stunned in front of the crowd, and then yanked off his guitar and ran off stage. They said he had gastro. Don’t think gastro lasts a year and a half.

Remembering the wild look in those green eyes, Evie felt her outrage soften slightly… But no. She was not going to feel empathy for Byron Logan or revise her tosser assessment. That guy could afford all the therapy and all the medications and all the mindfulness retreats in Thailand or wherever to put his head back together. No excuses. Sure, she had infinite sympathy for people suffering mental health issues, but she also knew you had to be willing to do the work if you wanted to overcome them.

Obviously, Byron Logan hadn’t bothered. He probably felt it was everyone else’s fault. Look at the way he’d blamed her today for the whole incident. Hell, she knew all about that. She had an estranged mother built out of the very same mould.

So, did you take the money? Felix asked.

Evie gave him an offended look. Of course I didn’t.

What if your bike’s damaged, or you need physio…

I don’t take tainted money, you know that, Flea. Funny how Felix, six foot four and built like a bear, had wound up with the nickname Flea, but there you were. Strange things happened when you went through rehab together.

Besides, she added, the last I saw, a group of five teenage girls were rubbing it all over their pubescent breasts.

Felix burst into his big rumbly laugh. Byron Logan is known for setting off hormonal hysteria. Sounds like he hasn’t lost his touch.

Evie sniffed. Totally wasted on me. Okay, that might be a little white lie. So, d’you reckon I’m okay for pole dancing tonight?

Felix shook his head. Give it a miss I’d say.

Her shoulders sagged. Really? Pole dancing with the girls was the highlight of Evie’s week.

Yeah, rest it. You’re left-handed too, so you know, with your work, just be cautious. For once. Felix’s eyebrows waggled, and beneath them the golden eyes that almost matched his beard held a mix of humour and concern. The truth was, Felix was always looking out for her. That time he’d taken her to hospital after she broke her ankle, drunk as a skunk on the summer solstice house boat party on the Thames; the New Year’s Eve she’d thought skinny dipping in the fountain at Trafalgar Square was a good idea and Felix had—thankfully—dissuaded her.

Evie grimaced. Bugger.

Felix